Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Warhammer Fantasy: Heart of Darkness [P3: CLOSED]

The barrage of arrowheads whistled through the air like birds of prey on their killing swoop, launched overhead by marksmen that took refuge beside the alleyways, from the balconies of portside offices -- from anywhere that offered them a killing shot. They peppered the brigands with impunity while their infantry comrades charged for the killing blow, steel sabres wrung from their scabbards, held high toward the horizon like scepters at a pagan congregation. There were ten men in total crossing the pier. Their footfalls beat the wooden bridge fiercely, like men possessed, they were driven by a seething purpose, perhaps honour, duty, or even vengeance for the guards that had been slain this day. While the most magnificent, unnamed creator conveyed the souls of those men to Paradise, men that still breathed would dispatch the souls of these monsters to the pits of Hell.

They charged without apprehension, like the flagellants of Sigmar, as they brought forth a synchronised roar of purpose.

But the howl of Anglermaw's revolver was just a little louder, and more poignant. Dwarven copper tore through lamellar like thin fabric, and one of the fanatics tripped and tumbled into the sea, his body glimmering like treasure while he floated in the water. None of the survivors were dismayed, however. Anglermaw thought to take aim again, but the onslaught of fletched arrows denied him the chance, buzzing on their downward trail as they dug into the boat like feathered quills. Anglermaw squealed, abandoning his next shot while he dashed for the mast, a trail of fletches following his scamper while he barged the crew aside for sanctuary.

Mokte stood firm from within his drape, perhaps even oblivious to the danger he was in. His rock hard skin was a natural ward of armour in of itself, the flurry of arrows simply lacking the stopping power to penetrate his immense frame. Arrowheads sharp enough to puncture through a man's ribcage were as pinpricks, and he pulled the sharpened tips from his skin with the most bare effort. The Saurus was a warrior more suited to slaying the lurid denizens of chaos, a fact that made him scoff at the conceit of these foolhardy men-spawn. Four men encircled him, their scowls from beneath their veils rife with disdain like a wasp's eternal glare. He felt almost belittled by their lack of fear. With a well practiced sleight of hand, he unsheathed his clubsword, parrying their blows upon the obsinite shards. He forced them back with the sheer might of his mass, and his enemies tumbled like ragdolls.

"Are ya both comin' or not?!" Anglermaw shouted over the deluge of whistling arrowheads, disturbing Mokte from striking the killing blow. With his archaic weapon, he could've tore all four foes like chaff, but he acquiesced and rallied to the mast. Their skulls would have made quaint trophies, but he could not stir the heartache of being a known murderer. He heard more footfalls in the distance as he ambled to the vessel, his defeated foes gathering themselves in a confused stupor.

Mokte's challenge to the armed men on the pier was expected of the bestial warrior. His flared fangs and bellows got a moment of hesitation from the men but they pushed on. Striking away at him only to be smacked aside like toys. Blades brought several cuts but nothing to slow or even be noticed by the Saurus. Arrows flew past him and into the mast. Sending splinters of wood from the impact. One pierced the sail as Fal turned the rudders to catch a sudden breeze. The boat began to move.
"Mokte! Aboard now!" He cried out. The boat pulled back as the Saurus moved. Having done away with the soldiers he moved while they were confused. Rushing to the boat from the pier. Narrowly making it on the boat shook and nearly capsized. Another arrow pierced the sail and if it weren't for a the motion of the Saurus's impact an arrow would have hit Fal in the neck. Though luckily it narrowly missed and flicked off the railing to land in the sea. One man tried to run to them but as the boat pulled away from the port the man stopped.

Another volley of arrows came for them but the trio remained low. Avoiding the incoming projectiles and hearing curses in the locals tongue. As their boat broke over the ever larger waves they made it into the sea. Pushing along with the sail they were leaving Al Haikk. As the light of day quickly began to fade the shocking contrast of darkness took hold. The port was alive with many boats coming in. From big galleons in the distance to smaller fishing vessels like their own returning with their catches. Fal panted heavily as the adrenaline of the battle faded. He looked over to his companions as they sailed off. No sign of pursuit. Likely only due to the time of day. Few sane men travelled the notorious Pirate Coast at night. It was a good twenty minutes before Fal spoke.
"I've had worse farewell parties." Fal says laughing to himself. The sea air waving a cool breeze off the ocean as Mannslieb rises above in full glow. The smaller form of Morrslieb following behind it like a malignant ghost.

With the fellows on board, and the rope that bound them to the pier cut, it was a matter of time before the gang were off on their way, the perpetual flare of the desert sun obfuscating their vessel like a valley to a divine realm. Anglermaw raised a middle finger in defiance of his would-be captors, untranslated obscenities and whistling arrowheads masked the shrill cackle from his beak.

"No rug for you-you, coffee-swilling bastards!" He taunted, but his stupor was cut short when a rouge arrow narrowly caught the left side of his face, dying his black fur and whiskers the hue of burgundry. Queekish natterings spilled from his incisors, all of which Mokte assumed were curses in Anglermaw's native tongue. The red saurus peered stoically to the endless horizon, ignorant to the deluge. Mokte had only heard Anglermaw chitter in his native tongue sporadically; he only spoke the Queekish tongue in curses.

"You'll live." Mokte murmured to the Skaven. "You somehow always do."

"S'cuse me for not 'aving steel for skin!" Anglermaw spat back in frustration, rubbing at the wound by his snout. The mark was paper thin in depth, but hurt like a wasp's sting nevertheless. "I wish arrows would ping off'a my chest too, but no, I just end up dead." He said as he meandered across the mast for any piece of cloth or linen he could scavenge to ease the flow of blood trickling across his whiskers.

"Serves you right for celebrating so early." Mokte returned unapologetically. "What makes you think the enemy haven't their own great canoes?"

"Canoes..?" Anglermaw asked. Then, as he wrapped a roll of stained cloth over his beak, he remembered that Mokte was a barbarian, and probably didn't know a galleon from a Brettonian cog.
"Nevermind-mind." The Sea-Rat began, shaking his snout. "Don't matter, they ain't going to follow us. These Arabic lot, they're afraid of the Mortis; they're not on.. good terms with the dead."

Mokte raised a scaled brow in curiousity, the foreign quarter of Al-Haikk slowly disappearing on the golden cowl of the sun, soon there would be nothing of that place but an aquatic void. "Tell me, what do mean you by 'the dead?'" He asked, approaching toward Anglermaw.

Anglermaw chuckled as he cut the last roll of fabric with his machete, narrowly giving himself another wound to worry about. "I'll tell you everything soon, but I've been up since last morning. I'm going to bed, don't care if I gotta sleep in rat scat either."

Without another word, Anglermaw sauntered into the ship's interior. For Mokte, the whistles of arrowheads were soon replaced by the motion of foam upon wood. He was visibly intrigued by what Anglermaw meant, maybe when the skaven had slept properly, he would not speak in a riddle.

The familiar luminescence of warpstone chandeliers, dangling upon dessicated arms above the council chamber was a sight that An-Tcki always held paradoxial sentiments for, rapping his claws impatiently on the stoney surface of his lectern. In his own time, he admired the cavern, he'd gaze at the macabre trinkets of Clan Vodun in adoration, at the shrunken heads that dangled by their matted dreadlocks, candlewax dribbling from their gums like saliva. He'd imagine himself sat proudly upon the high priest's throne, yet another necrotic effigy fashioned from the bones and leather of albino man-things, ignorantly blessed with the power to weather the winds of magic. It's dais decorated with human spines, their cords still resonating with latent magic even after the ritual execution of their former owners.

He craved that throne, seduced by the power within it's marrow that purred like a supplicated beast.

The current High Priest, N'dak, no longer sat in that tall seat. He lurched like a dying slave within it's last throes of life. An-Tcki mused at this, grinding his teeth at the thought, for that vehement old rodent should've been tossed to the grave valleys years ago. His patched, emaciated body scraping upon the faces wove upon the fabric of his seat, still very much alive, still very much locked within their last moments of perpetual terror. That was the magic that Clan Vodun had mastered; the magic not simply of death, but undeath. The voluminous tarping of battered linen hung above N'Dak's throne, bearing the icons of the deceased, displayed the Clan's pride in this aptitude.

An-Tcki's peers leered behind their jagged lecturns within the horseshoe chamber, like dimunitive pests congregating within the jaws of a fossilized titan. The Necromancer held little love for any of his supposed associates, the feeling most likely mutual. His false smile only seemed to sour their venomous glares, especially that of the burly Muditch -- The Boneshaper, replete under a second skin fashioned from human bone and flesh, that he believed would give him power over death. An-Tcki loathed Muditch the most, for he had his own ambitions for Clan Vodun's future, and it's spire of power; the Heart of Darkness.

There were a further eleven high nobles encircling the chamber, but these were N'dak's sycophants, and were beneath An-Tcki's attention.

The congregation was not annual, there had not been such a gathering like this in three years. Whatever the mummified N'dak was to convey here must be of great importance.

"Hear-hear! Through these eyes, the Shadow Rat gifts me vision of clairvoyance..!" Rasped the High Priest as he began his private sermon, raising his thin, furless arms above a pair of perculiar horns, whited with age.
"And through the blessings of the Blood Rat, I walk among the valley of the living to convey our future!"

Walk, you gave up that ability a long time ago, you old fossil. Quipped the Necromancer, his furred arms crossed over a cowl that too was gruesomely fashioned from Vodun's enemies. Wrapped under his leathery cape, he seemed more like a great bat than a skaven.

"But, it is our good-greatest God, that has-has commanded me to recite these words I must convey! From the souls of the dead and devoured, the Rat of Death has-has weaved these words from the soul stuff our foes, past and future!"

The sycophants gasped in a shrill mix of awe and impending horror, their bodies quivering with anticipation at the Death Rat's divine message. Only Muditck seemed unpertured, that insufferable brute could be so superstitious of the present, yet so cynical of the future. No, the truth was that he simply didn't care for N'dak's raving, nor did An-Tcki to a great extent.

The horned priest gargled like a palsied slave, his thin body quivering almost comically beside his dais. Then he recited.
"There, in the North, Demon-things shall manifest from the ashphalt of the wastes. Within toothed mouths burrowed into the earth shall be birthed the children of the Dark Gods. They shall overrun the world, their champion - The Everchosen - shall parade over the ruins that blanket your misshapen world. Here in the South, your hidden places shall be exposed by ignorant eyes, and they shall unknowingly evoke the followers of Chaos here. On the eve of your discovery, the Heart of Darkness shall be wrested from you, the Clan of Death cast unto oblivion. The footfalls of the unwary are imminent, as are the death throes of your hidden nation. Hear these words and despair."

Confusion and indecision enveloped the council, frightened chitterings rattling from their maws. Queekish prayers to the Shadow Pantheon invaded An-Tcki's furred ears, prayers for salvation, promises of further and greater sacrifice and apologies of indolence. It would be easy for An-Tcki to merely cast away N'dak's prophecy, but N'dak was of an arcane breed. He remained High Priest not because any of the council revered him, but because much of what he recited often came true.

An-Tcki heard the smashing of a calcified totem ring to the left of him, the quivering figure of Sngta risen in anger. "By what reason does the Death Rat abandon us?!" Sngta argued. "Are we not great-mightiest of his followers. Do we not feed him the souls of those we kill-devour? Do we not feed his scions, the Blood Rat and the Shadow Rat their just demands?"
"Because we tarry in this forgotten mountain like slothful breeders." An-Tcki finally spoke up, his voice rife with scorn. "We slay and we sacrifice yes-yes, but we are content, we are not ambitious; we do not expand as our rivals do. That is why we rot, and why our kindred survive."

"No." Muditch interrupted, his tone was guttural, monsterous even, as he surveyed the chamber of the shadowed thirteen, his bleached, skeletal thralls creaking their heads in a synchronised parody. "We forget tradition. Vodun has turned it's back to the Spirit Rats. An-Tcki is wrong, ambition shall expose Vodun to ignorant eyes, yes-yes."

Before An-Tcki could rebuke the thick-headed warlord, he was interrupted by the heaving rasps of N'Dak, and the fracticious sneers of both sides came to a halt.
"Whatever the blame-cause, this is the dread message our lords bring from the Spirit Realm." N'Dak said with absolution. "Prophecy is circumstatial, my sons. Prying eyes will arrive soon, that is the truth, and I feel it in my marrow that this world is soon at revelation. Clan Vodun must innovate, so that the Heart of Darkness remains in our hands. Without the spire, we shall be lost forever."

--

Much to N'Dak's ignorance however, An-Tcki had 'innovated.'

The council was a disaster, with much of N'Dak's necrotic sychophants too panicked to come to a conclusion, save to genuflect between An-Tcki and Muditch's rebuttals against eachother. N'Dak was forced to adjourn the congregation prematurely when An-Tcki instinctively exposed his aura. It would be held again next week, during the festival of blood -- a thousand human captives were to be sacrified as nourishment to the Blood-Rat. Hopefully the auspices would be better in such good faith.

An-Tcki's lair was not far from the cathedral of Under-Kil'njuru. As the greatest living necromancer of the clan save N'Dak himself, his chambers were befitting of his station -- a cavernous temple upon the detritus valley that overlooked the thousands of skeletal servitors that slaved at the titanic mound of warpstone known as the Heart of Darkness. So massive was the mound that it pierced far above the vault of Kil'njuru, it's glow enveloping the city like an artificial sky of jade, though there were very few living skaven left to gape in awe at their jewel. Vodun had no need of living slaves, not when most of it's priests were adept in the lore of Necromancy. He admired the stream of bipedal ants from a rickety coach, driven by the skeletons of two human slaves. Big-boned ones, too, slain fresh so that they would not lose their strength in a slow, overworked death. It was not long before An-Tcki was at the temple, granted access under the vigilance of his skeletonized guardians, bearing halberds with blades fashioned from archaic stone.

"Welcome back lord-sire." Gurgled a tattered supplicant, veiled almost entirely in a slur of black garbs, yet unable to hide the smear of rotten pus seeping down it's front. "How went the meeting?" The zombified assassin asked.
"Terrible." An-Tcki replied, that answer was good enough for the Necromancer's yesrat. "How goes the prisoner?" He responded as he helped himself a vial of warpdust, sat upon a shelf that replete with skeletal totems, both human and skaven.
"...Co-operative, my Lord..." Stuttered the former Eshin assassin, some personality still locked with the recesses of his rotting brain.
"Dechi, my good friend, you sound indecisive." Mused An-Tcki, as he wiped the green specks from his whiskers. "Shall I grant the vampire the honour of my return?"
"I could not take his blood, my lord-master." Conceded Dechi, bowing low like the hated sycophants of the congration. An-Tcki did not mind his assassin's servile attitude, however, for it was genuine loyalty. Dechi was no longer capable of independant ambition; his entire world now revolved around the necromancer, ever the attempt on the latter's life.
"The vampire overpowered you with his magic, I bet." A brief moment of silence permeated between master and slave. Then An-Tcki nodded as though in approval. He pulled one of the shrunken heads dangling innocuously above the ceiling down by it's stitched mouth, opening the way toward a secret entrance into his vaunted lab. He was prepared for whatever venom his captive had in store for him this time.

"I have already come so close in unlocking the secrets of eternal life. I will not stop now." He chittered, before he was ultimately enveloped under the shadow of his prison laboratory.

Concealed in the bowels of the Skaven, An-Tcki's nightmarish lair was a hidden laboratory. Though unlike many 'labs' of the Skaven adorned with mechanical constructs and warpstone sparking machines it was more akin to an alchemical study. Papers and books of various ages adorned poorly made but usable bookshelves and a desk. Some covered in skin and others rotting parchment. The smell of rot and mold permeated from around as macabre totems hung all around the chamber. Symbols in triangular shapes of the Skaven's cast empire, shrunken heads of mostly mammalian species but some more bestial, skulls with various chips, cracks and archaic symbols sat around. Towards the back of the room was another door and within something far more sinister than any spell these vermin could cast.

Behind a door made from rusted iron and adorning an oddly large keyhole was a dank chamber. A room with a ritual circle drawn into the stone and laced with the familiar green glow of warpstone dust and the dried crimson of blood. Symbols of Skaven meaning were placed around at thirteen points and smaller etchings within the ring held together the enchantment. Within the center of this was the focus of the enchanted circle. A figure with wrists chained to the sides of a massive hunk of stone. Shackles around his wrists and pulled tight behind the pillar. His ankles also chained as well as a loop around his waist and over his head a metal faceplate with several small slits. Covering the mouth of the grey figure but leaving eyes behind a simple blindfold. All the shackles and the mask had small runes carved into them most likely the limit his capabilities. The individual was tall and lanky. A slender frame that would make such restraints seem over the top. They wore a dark grey, blackish robe and upon their chest was a black crest of dark iron with gold highlights in the shape of scarab with a humanoid skull where the wings would be. This was flat and held close to his chest. Clearly decorative. His head was bald and veins showed across it a dead blue colour. Exposed feet were elongated with long nails and his hands had claws and skeletal, long fingers. This figure was a vampire known as Sepratul. And one taken from his preferred position of dominating.

Sepratul had been here for several weeks by this time. He could recall the moment he was somehow captured by the ratmen as if it just happened. The memory keeping his rage burning and focus strong. Residing within a den located in one of the many ravines and chasms of Nehekara he held a vast collection of necromantic knowledge and a series of powerful experiments including a reanimated reptile from the nearby jungles. The creature was a mix of it's original bones being a large slender reptile twice the length of a horse and a series of bones from some long dead beasts thrown in to extend it's neck and hind legs. Various other animated beasts made from ancient human bones stood around including a four armed humanoid and another that resembled three relatively freshly killed humans attached to the ends of one another and the front crawling in a look of anguish. The flesh in the advance green stages of decay but held together with the sustenance of dark magic. These numerous experiments were his most successful creations. Though they were a mere hobby compared to his his goals. Sepratul had in his possession a copy of one of the forbidden books of Nagash. Having obtained the imitation from Araby shortly after the fall of the Sultan Jafar he knew the power he held. As such he spent centuries reading it and comparing it's script to his own notes.

Trying to learn what he could from a copy of a book of the Great Necromancer he was wallowing in research as he came close to a breakthrough. Something his line had supposedly mastered yet he had not figured out. A means of prolonging ones self after physical death. Something he knew from history the Great Necromancer mastered. Though he was close he didn't even have half of the required notes. Whatever book he did possess a copy of was only part of the puzzle and even then it was cryptic and possessed holes. A faulty translation perhaps? Or some code put in to hinder any who found the books? Neither mattered as he managed to come close with his own research. On the night of the Chaos moon he prepared a ritual. He managed to possess a small quantity of wyrdstone, something the Skaven referred to as warpstone he prepared a ritual. Though on the night before he could enact it they struck. He struck down dozens of rats with his necromantic constructs but they were soon overrun and as the tingle of magic was felt in the air he was rendered unconscious. A combination of hubris and dangerously direct focus let his guard down. He wondered how long the Skaven had been watching him. Days, weeks, years? He had no idea but he knew for sure it was some time.

And now he was taken down. In a position he was repulsed by. A prisoner. A prisoner being interrogated by the ratmen that captured him. It made him sick. That was until they asked him questions. Prying his knowledge of Necromancy and inquiring regarding his state of vampirism. Their curiocity made his anger turn to morbid curiocity. He was aware that what they desired couldn't be done. by their foolish breed. But this he kept to himself and he enjoyed the screams of anger as experiments failed. Though with each one he was beaten. Every few days given but the faintest trickle of blood from either Skaven or one of their beasts. Either way it was thick and tasted vile. They almost made him not want to slaughter them all when he could be free. But this was something he couldn't figure out yet. He could sense the taint of warpstone through the air and nearby a mighty source of it. One that kept his head in a constant headache that he had gotten used to by this point. Still though the power was maddening. He would learn what its source was. And when he did his ultimate ambitions could be reached. True power and he was brought to it without knowing. As he lingered on these thoughts in the darkness he heard the familiar sound of the cell door opening. After the previous Skaven tried to extract his blood and failed he felt it was likely the master rat he had come to know and despise.

The room reeked of death, the numbing tang within An-Tcki's laboratory permeated like an abattoir stench. The necromancer had become accustomed to it, he welcomed it now. It was sanctuary; home. Here he was at peace in his mind, to toil freely without the prying eyes of his rivals and N'Dak's ever scrutinous gaze. The odour was a fragrance, and putrefaction like roses in full bloom. An-Tcki savoured the smell of home, and floated his claws by the cavernous walls leading toward his private dungeon with a nonchalant hum. His children were calling him from within, his name slurred upon their blood-crusted lips, wailing their cravings for flesh like ravenous babes crying out for mother's feed. Their confined tantrums thundered with each step, but An-Tcki felt no trepidation in his heart, opening the door toward his studio, greeting the horrendous surroundings with a smile upon his face.

Boney candelabras illuminated the charnel house, skeletal hands locked in rigor mortis stained a honey hue under drippings of crusted wax. An-Tcki's chamber was a nightmarish blend of a library and a slaughterhouse. Translated tomes of esoterism stood rowed upon bookshelves carved into the stone like hauled out mine veins, while a bloody arena dominated the centre like a spoked wheel. Desiccated bodies repeated the last moments of the past life, hauled into dangling gibbets where the Necromancer would study their palsied relapse into life upon scrawlings of parchment that none other than he would ever read. The first forays into eternal life were simply unbecoming for the eyes of his ambitious brethren. But these were failed experiments, however. Any skaven with an iota of knowledge knew how to puppeteer a mindless slave, bound by necromancy. An-Tcki could muster legions of such.

Five days ago, he had lead a mass raid upon the villages surrounding Mount Kil'njuru without any pretence of subterfuge. He had organised the capture of over two-thousand human prisoners in preparation for the festival of blood, his rotting slaves razed every village they found until there was nothing but ashen skeletons of their dead communities. As council member of N'Dak's congregation, he had used his influence to transport a number of captives he deemed to be magically inclined, where they were drained and butchered like cattle in this very dungeon. An-Tcki felt no remorse for all their suffering, their shrill wails serving as morbid entertainment for his one, albeit unwilling guest. Their lot was a noble sacrifice, their steaming remains key into unlocking the secrets of eternity simmering beside a still lit cauldron. A dimly lit study desk, laden with graphic diagrams of a strange vial and it's queekish annotations separated the boiling remains from a large cage that contained his most coveted treasure: a live vampire.

This was not some savage who'd given into his frenzied instincts, moreover. There was always a glint and a smirk upon An-Tcki's painted beak whenever he gazed upon the mask of Sepratul. He longed for the knowledge that brimmed inside, rapping his claws as he seated himself beside the cage, like a physician monitoring his patient, tiny fissures bored into the surface of his lectern.

"I would love-like if we could negotiate co-operative relationship." An-Tcki said, a chittering snicker grinding upon his incisors. " I feel it would be in our best interests, the success-goal of my project depends on the creation of this elixir. I wish to become like you, immortal and all-powerful, but my copy of your elixir has only created monsters. Can you hear my children below?" He mused, gesturing to the drain in the middle of his arena, apish howls echoing through the tinny oubliette, their owners braying upon their cells in a masochistic frenzy. "Those were the creatures that bound you, because they do not know fear. They are utterly rabid. The lust for blood runs through their minds... It is their only thought... I do not wish to become like my experiments. Help me-me, and I can guarantee your life. That I promise."

Sepratul had to force himself to hold back a snicker. The Skaven's attempts at flattery and extending a friendly arm was all an attempt where pain and fear had failed. For weeks Sepratul had been physically tortured. Jabbed with with hot prods, cut with torturous knives and blasted with sorcerous stings and pains the Skaven's change in technique was one of desperation. He held back his mocking chuckle until the rodent mentioned his 'eternal life'. That truly set him off. A hollow cackle escaped his lips.
"How many failures did it take? How many faulted formulas or mutant abominations did you create before deciding to change up your plan hm?" His words were laced with as much venom as any Skaven could muster. Like a serpent he struck again with words. "Surely it's a lot. And you know you can extract what you need right? Can't use that magic of yours? You've tried many nights to sneak into my mind but I never falter. That's the thing about my 'life'. It removes a need for such silly things like sleep."

Looking through the small slit holes he looked upon the Skaven as he checked for breaks in his composure. He then looked down to the drain and the sounds of the failed experiments within.
"To be honest I tuned them out long ago. But I must admit they make it feel more homely." His cackling tone changed to something more stern like his concealed expression. "I have told you all you need. You have my books and notes. I'm sure a rodent with as big a brain as yours can figure it out. Or maybe you're little more than those pitiful fools screaming below?" There was one thing about psychological warfare that a Vampire was good at. Reading people and adaption. Weeks of being in this position he learnt how the Skaven behaved and some of his little quirks and ticks. So it was simply a matter of pushing in and twisting the verbal knife. Retribution would likely come for him but Sepratul knew he wouldn't be killed. The Skaven needed him as he had said. Something that gave even a prisoner power. Knowing their value to their captor.

An-Tcki did not comprehend Sepratul's snide tone as anything more than criticism, and thus ignored his insults. Even as the vampire chuckled hollowly at what he considered to be floundering attempts at immortality, An-Tcki simply adjusted his seat like a studious underling rapt in the ecstasy of newfound knowledge.
When Sepratul questioned the Rat-Necromancer's aptitude, An-Tcki nodded, failing to pick up on the cue. "I am... very knowledgeable in the black arts, indeed." He began, no anger laced in his strangely cordial tone. His speech, though heavily accented, slightly bestial and exotic, was near flawless and had no tick, which was required as a necessary medium between the languages of Southland Queekish and Nehekharan. It was no question from the amount of self authored scrolls and bound symbols that An-Tcki was most likely one the most educated rodents in all skavendom. Though he ever pained himself that he had no great work to show for all the knowledge he had obtained, save an elixir that turned cravens in to pseudo-vampiric abominations.

"I had been introduced to the Death Rat's blessings since I was a runt, vampire." Continued An-Tcki. "I am not merely a summoner of the dead, I command them at my whim. I have burned nations that squat upon Kil'njuru to ash. I have used those same armies to save my clan from the marauders of Sulu, savage despoilers in services of the false gods you call Kone and Ngurlu. I have travelled north upon pilgrimage, the first of those among my council in fact, to attune myself before the Black Pyramid. And even there I looked upon the same future my lord N'dak prophesizes, that Clan Vodun is to be exposed and destroyed by Kaios."

An-Tcki then leaned back upon the edge of his seat, rubbing at the lips of an androgynous face upon his cowl. The face appeared to be strained and in blatant discomfort, though it's previous was most likely, and perhaps hopefully, dead.
"I have read what I could decipher from your tomes, vampire." An-Tcki continued. "They are written in a code not even the eldest of Vodun could understand; I find myself wanting. Yet I am so close to finishing the recipe, that I can no longer simply give in to frustration." He gestured with a shadowed paw toward the grated arena as he finished, the resounding echoes of rabid vermin particularly unnerving. Despite this, An-Tcki smiled, like a proud father about to dote on how well his sons have grown and accomplished.

"Perhaps they are experiments, these slaves of mine, but failures? Nay vampire, they are but wayward children. They have drank from my grail, though imperfect, they will serve a greater purpose as forerunners of a bloodline, lead by myself."

An-Tcki then removed himself from the desk without further ramble. He rummaged around one the stoney crevasses that considered to be a bookshelf, and took out a decorated tome that was replete in ancient hexes and unholy symbolism. The mummified head of a southland shaman dangled by the tome's spine by a single, thick dreadlock. The book was Sepratul's copy of Nagash's written work, vandalised by skaven icon native to Clan Vodun. The Necromancer slammed the tome upon the desk, the dangling head moaning from the whiplash, some semblance of life still coursing through it's dried veins.

"Your diagrams contain a great many sketches of artefacts, vampire. A great many totems that I do not recognise." An-Tcki mused, perusing the dusty pages, most of Sepratul's anecdotes were now annottated in Queekish, but most of An-Tcki's scribbling consisted of questions and theories upon the use of the sketched artefacts. "Tell me about these. Tell me where you think they are held, and I will not bore you-you with diatribes that I know you will not be interested in."

An-Tcki finished, gesturing with a robed claw toward the book, stretched, agonised faces chafing upon his cowl with each strain of the still living fabric.

An-Tcki's words were borderline dribble to the reserved Nechrarch. His desires and claims of success were laughable. What he perceived as great acts of necromantic power were little more than common spells harnessed by even the most ignorant of Necromancers. Though he had to admit. The Skaven had done more and asserted more control than Sepratul had considered logical. Though the toll was obvious. One part of his curse led Sepratul to have a highly advanced sense of smell. He could detect living beings by smell before he saw them. He had been around the dead so long he could tell species apart as he became more attuned to his skills. And this wannabe Necromancer had a scent different to the others. The taint of Dark Magic was on his very essence. For one entuned with the winds, especially Shysh this was obvious. Warpstone had not been kind and would continue to eat away at him. But what would give first? His mind or body? Sepratul pondered this before his book was opened before him.

Seeing his personal copy of one of the dark tomes of the Arch Necromancer in such a state brought his blood to a boil. He started to snarl but bit his lip. Refraining from an outburst. Being shown diagrams and drawings of runes the Skaven failed to identify was typical of such an animal. Question marks and writings in the messy Queekish tongue were like looking at a child that drew over their fathers most precious of documents. As the rat asked about identifying them Sepratul got curious about what exactly stumped him. Looking at them they were drawings of strange stones and what would appear like jewelry. One appeared to be a a diadem that gave the look of being made of serpents with wide mouthed vipers holding a swirling crystal. The words in the original text were in the language of the ancient Nehekaran priesthood. Something of the Mortuary Cult long before Nehekara became what it is today. In truth Sepratul was still trying to translate most of it but he had a good idea for the majority. He read it out in it's native tongue.

"It is a construct of soul binding. Binding the will of one to the owner of such a reilc. Holding their soul to you for eternity." He said this softly. "An example given by what I can presume were Elves." He added indicating some of the runes beneath it. They were indeed elvish to those knowing of the language. But the diadem in the image was in Nehekaran design. Most likely a design by whoever was reading the notes. Perhaps Nagash himself? Sepratul couldn't know as he would likely never be fortunate enough to grace the original tomes with his own eyes. "The other one." He indicates the next page with a set of alchemical runes placed in a circle. Several runes were translated but a handful remained unknown to the Skaven. "A ritual circle. One of binding and twisting of the winds to form shackles around ones very essence." He added as his red eyes looked over the pages. Taking note of every note and clawed mark added since he lost it. He would make them pay for every crease he vowed.

An-Tcki licked his front incisors, perusing the old diagrams with a fiendish desire for knowledge. With each answer from the vampire, An-Tcki nodded in reciprocation. Of course, he knew that if Sepratul knew anything truly worth a mention, that he would not bring it up, or elude to it's power with feeble downplay. More often than not, An-Tcki found himself questioning the legitimacy of the diagrams, he stroked the salt and pepper whiskers upon his beak in silent brooding, occasionally grunting with each turn of unholy papyrus. 'Were these items real?' he wondered. Were they potent? Were they relevant to the final solution of Clan Vodun? The grin from his beak ebbed away as he began to question the direction of his project in that moment.

His doubt faded once his claw nail nonchalantly flipped the next page. It was a very detailed piece of work, the artefact dazzlingly illustrated in all exquisite detail, traced from the sketch of a now long dead artist. Every minor detail, every chink and filigreed ridge of the serpent diadem was annotated in old Nehekharen, lines and vortices trailed from the rows of gratuitous gems, themselves annotated with swirling runes that An-Tcki knew to be Elvish, though he hardly understood the context of them. From what he could tell, this artefact was of great importance, hence the level of detail. It piqued An-Tcki's curiosity, his smile returned as he inquired about the artefact.

'…A construct of soul binding...

…Twisting the winds to shackle one's very essence...'

There could be no doubt, somehow the interment of Septratul and his works had finally borne fruit. The reverberating howls of the manic experiments below seemed to mirror An-Tcki's own excitement. His claws caressed the dried ink laid bare upon the papyrus.

"Where is this jewel held?" An-Tcki asked, he thought nothing of what guardians the artefact would have, only the fantasies that played in his mind.

"I am afraid the book does not tell of it's location or even if it was created to begin with. If the diadem was in fact crafted it was by the Great Necromancer himself. Likely something he forged to test his limits and capabilities." Sepratul felt a jolt of delight run up as body at the thought. An artifact of Nagash himself. Even one he made as a throwaway test could have power greater than anything seen in an age. "It could have ended up anywhere within the sands of Nehekara. After the Kings of the past raided his great Pyramid his artifacts could have ended up anywhere. Though." He paused. "No that's a foolish thought." He shooks his head softly. Letting the idea fade away as his eyes glanced up to his captor. Gauging his responses. It was like using string to play with a cat. The rodent was being lured along with what he said as a pet would it's toy.

An-Tcki studied the sketch while Sepratul spoke, silently brooding over the indices of sharply drawn vellum. He nodded broodingly while he stroked the sketch with his matted left paw, decorated by rings made from the fetishes of slain creatures thought to be enchanted. His own magical ingenuity was enough to make sure such normally primitive trinkets were fashioned into powerful, yet unseemly artefacts. But the Vodun were superstitious, less privy to the understandings of logic and science like their 'civilized' kin in the north. They were animists, through and through, if bloodthirsty, and everything in this world was animated by a spirit. It was just that some spirits were more worthy of reverence than others. With the proper incantations, the Vodun believed a soul could be locked inside of it's corporeal shell long after death. Many of the shrunken heads, their dreadlocks hanging decrepitly above the study, had once belonged to gifted magi and shamans. They served An-Tcki's purpose in a way they would have reviled in their living bodies; they had no choice regardless.

Whether Sepratul was deliberately obfuscating what he knew regarding the crown, or if he genuinely did not remember it's location, it did not matter. Either could have been true and it would not have dissuaded An-Tcki from his objective. He was the revered High Priest for a reason, and the members of the inner circle (excluding Muditch, who openly loathed An-Tcki and the coven he'd been forced to associate himself with) came to his temple for guidance in their servile attempts to curry favour from him. He had ways of making things work, through his unequivocal influence, or through means that even the coven struggled to comprehend.
He looked Sepratul with a controlled glare, his ringed claw digging into the defiled papyrus. He was not smiling anymore, the superficial veil of compassion torn away. "I had considered that I would reach this impasse with you." Now An-Tcki's tone was curt when he spoke. "So many little men-folk had to die for this, not that I feel any remorse. Their sacrifice will bring about the ascension of our little clan."

An-Tcki did not wait for the vampire to reply; he didn't need to. For this, the vampire's services were not required. So he removed himself away from the lectern and prostrated himself in the centre of the laboratory, adjacent to the bloodwell. He lay his claws upon the crimson crusted bars that separated the lab from the prison in which is savage experiments whooped like rabid chimpanzees. Like a monk in prayer, he chanted amidst the deluge of screaming skaven. The babble was not loud, but it was rich in strength and commanded an abstract respect that seemed to still the guttural moans below. Instead the vermin were oddly cowed, like juvenile primates in the presence of an undisputed alpha. Eventually, only the eerie babble of the high priest dominated the room. He lifted his claws from the stained grit, and it would probably occur to those observant that the dry crust had suddenly become fresh, like sanguinary paint. The dabs across grit soon increased in width until it seemed that the bars had been red since their forging. Soon the bloody bars dripped with fresh ichor, and the experiments below lapped at the droppings in ecstasy, driven mad by even the slightest sate of their bloodthirst. Various exposures in the room soon became flowed with red, cascading down the jagged walls until the liquids pooled across the floor, deep enough to squirm like a mass of writhing worms with Sepratul's cell.

Along with this macabre display came the voices, the screams of those terrified tribesfolk that were put to death in this laboratory in the name of progress. There were so many wails of suffering, the abject cries for an end to the pain interlinking with eachother in a crescendo that drowned out An-Tcki's prayer. If he held any sentiment of panic at a display that would terrify even the coven of Vodun, he did not display it. Instead he raised his wizardly figure in a rapture, his claws reaching out toward the long dead, manifested within the bleeding flood. Faceless, sanguinary figures surrounded An-Tcki as the flood approached the height of his tail, kneeling, begging the rat, as though he were an ancient tyrant passing harsh judgement. But he ignored them, and sauntered back to the vampire's cell.

While he did so, he plucked into the gelatinous mass of one of the dead. Time stood still as his claw penetrated the androgynous frame, each begging spirit frozen in animation. Their wails abruptly silenced, An-Tcki's smile returned as he glared back at the vampire captive. "The realm of souls is an abstract back and for cycle of death and rebirth. You and I already know this. But if we reversed the cycles, and looked into the past, you and I? Even the little men-folk hold many secrets locked away in their past lives." The High Priest laughed. ripping his claw away so fiercely that it perforated the seamless face of the figure. What spouted out was not blood, but sand. The pressure so fierce that the entire room became enveloped in a stream of copper. The abstract bodies dissipated, and the lab dissolved as though it were simply an illusion.

When the display had passed, An-Tcki was still studying Sepratul from within his cell. Once more the High Priest was smiling under the guise of hospitality, regarding Sepratul with a respect that a master could respect from a student, the dusted tome still laid bare over the gnarled wood of An-Tcki's lectern. But both were no longer within the laboratory. They stood in a realm as ephemeral as the world of chaos. Realities fissured together in blurs, thousands upon thousands of memories all manifested in this incantation of clairvoyance. The landscape twisted around both figures, until like a frequency in focus, they found themselves in a decrepit antechamber, populated by a congregation of cultists surrounding a studded alabaster platform replete with priceless jewels and other beatific paraphanalia scattered around like spokes upon a wheel. The idol of this mass was not a figure. It was not a God. In fact, it was just a small trinket sat humbly upon the top of the alabaster pole. "Look there." An-Tcki pointed with his left claw, his bark unheard even among the crowd of masked worshippers, twenty disturbing figures chanting hymms from behind their skull masks.

The item was a jewel. No, it was a crown in fact. An-Tcki whipped his whiskered beak back and forth, excited to ascertain whether this artefact was truly the diadem Sepratul spoke of.

Through this half-real congregation, perhaps some light would be shed on it's whereabouts.

The spell was one that even brought pause to the Nechrarch. The whispers and chants that begin to twist reality was felt in the very winds of magic. It ran through the air and stung at Sepratul's skin. Ringing in his veins was the adherent sensation of dark magic. A mix of winds he couldn't quiet grasp but knew were something more. Something strangely unique. Though despite the foulness of it Sepratul couldn't help but envy the sensation. Similar to how one who obsesses over tobacco can seemingly become immune and even find pleasure in the formerly foul taste a Vampire like himself loved the feel of this magic. He felt a mix of hunger and curiocity. As the chant subsided and the very realm of reality began to shift Sepratul realized what was happening. At least in concept.

An-Tcki's explanation left him almost in tears of mockery till he saw it. A shifting mirage out of time. A period long ago and containing information neither could know on their own. He gazed at the memory in awe.
"But how... This is." He paused his shock and tried to focus. The area was swarmed with dark magic and his skin felt oily. It was a miracle the rodent hadn't exploded from an over use. Seeing the murky shape come into focus it was indeed the diadem. The figures around were cloaked in robes but their skull like masks were not disguises. They were boney faces of age torn skin long since expired but bodies living. Lich Priests of Nehekara. Gazing at them Sepratul noticed their garbs. The silken symbols on their robes and the subtle indicators in the stonework. "Bhagar?" He said pondering their meaning. He had no idea how long ago this was. It could be centuries or mere weeks. But it was indeed a memory. Somehow the Skaven had done something even the Nechrarch thought was merely fantasy. He didn't even notice he vocally said the location he was so lost in the confusion of the situation.

"Does this place invoke some slither of thought, my companion-friend?" An-Tcki chuckled as he sauntered over the balcony presiding over the below congregation, his claws scratching at the tenderised layer of human skin that flapped over his cowl. He peered from behind the marble barrier, a colonnade of torches marking the entrance to the alabaster edifice. An-Tcki did not need illumination to notice that he and the Vampire had been brought to what appeared to be an indoor arena, built into the structure of a mausoleum that had long since caved in, left to rot in darkness in the centuries to come. It was the perfect location for this un-living coven, the desiccated fingers of these long rotted mummies lined across the grooves chiselled into the alabaster. It looked like a picture; an event of some sort. An-Tcki spotted upon the hieroglyphs the figure of a humanoid, clad in a single robe, the open jaws of his bleached skull devouring the rays of the sun. And below the figure of this great skeleton were the etchings of his brood, little replicants, the undead legions of Nagash come forth to bathe the world in darkness. The coven chanted a moribund prayer in a tone so egregious that even High Priest's tail quivered with animalistic reaction. No musk emanated from him however, An-Tcki had learned how to ignore fear decades ago.

An-Tcki knew immediately that Nagash was the titan depicted within the alabaster carving. Nagash was an honourary member of the Vodun pantheon of thirteen; the unknowing benefactor of the Southland Skaven as the founder of Necromancy. He was not so much appeased, merely remembered. The Vodun had their own ambitions, and they did not lie in being the slaves of a giant skinless monkey and his cattle. Foreign Gods were the folly of the northern kin, their pretentious 'Horned Rat,' an idol perpetuated by Chaos would grant them no absolution.

An-Tcki turned to face Sepratul again, the darkened crevasses leading to the coven antechambers rippled like fissures in space and time. "As imparted to me by seer N'dak, I bid you welcome to the Kaior'Ulgo, the Realm of shadow." The high priest presided with a grin. "This world is born from the recollection of those long since dead, their memories conveyed after death by their descendants in our present day and channelled here in minute fragments. What we see here is just a vapid excuse of the event that took place. The priests speak, but their tongues are laden with gibberish, because what they spoke has been sullied by a poor memory. It might even be a false recollection, conceived in madness by it's dead thinker. I wish I could tell you what era we are in-in, and if you had not spoke that name, I would have been puzzled to why we had been summoned to this memory in particular. Could you have fathomed it, that one of those sacrifices shared the same lineage as one of those priests below? Was it some fragment of that said priest that brought us here, as if the flame of his ambitions fanned from beyond the grave?"

The world around them both flickered between the illusion of the arena and the material realspace of An-Tcki's lab.

"You have indeed sparked my interest."Sepratul says admiring the illusion of the memory. The longer it went on though the hazier it got. Words began to mix and sentences formed an uneasy structure. What should be elegant prayers were now gibberish. Sometimes even blank rattling like a mug of shaken stones. Though the blurry mockery was hard to tell it was indeed a image of Nagash. Though rather crude if it was real. When this took place was impossible to tell. All Sepratul could gather was it was after the great ones defeat. But which one he had no idea. "Centuries could have passed. The slave you used. Were they of the Priests conclave? This would have been noticeable. They would have strong magic." Sepatul then took note of something. Their position. If this was a memory surely they saw it through the eyes of the poor victim? If so it would explain the haze around them. We only had mild focus on what we looked at and the angle told us they were either a higher leveled member of the cult given the raised angle or they were a servant of one. Though the unmistakable rot proved they were the undead forces they were in the modern day. He tried to find more details. Waiting for an answer from the rodent as his words seeped in. This strange realm would be worth investigation and interrogation when he was free.

"One of the conclave? No, I could never have been so fortunate." An-Tcki shook his beak, his sad expression visibly numbed as the illusionary realm began to subsume into the void of another lost memory. A black maw formed in the centre of the event, manifesting in the blink of eye, like it were there since the lost memory was first began. Although the forming hole was benign to the two attendants, it devoured everything around, and the world collapsed upon itself. Whatever happened afterward was likely lost forever. "No such priest has ever come so far south, unless by some portent that drew them deep into the uncharted land. But that would have been long before the formation of Vodun. These... 'supplicants,' shall we call them, they were most likely related to at least one member of that congregation, yes-indeed. But such ancestry had become so diluted, that only a fraction of that same potency exists within their blood. Were one of those same priests in my custody, we could have deciphered so much more."

The familiar air of the laboratory returned, there was nothing left for them both in Kaior'Ulgo as far as An-Tcki was now concerned. The torrent of blood that erupted from An-Tcki's prayer evaporated into a red mist, before de-atomizing altogether. The maddened experiments below remained ominously cowed, as though some still existing primal fear alerted them that all was not well, even within the confines of their dank pit. Only one thing had changed from the venture within the memory, and it was that the laboratory door had been swung ajar. When An-Tcki turned to confront the trespasser, he was relieved to find that the visitor was his trusted wight, Dechi. The undead eshin rat reeked of putrefaction, and his once ashen robes were stained in a pallete of vomit yellow and dried blood. His limbs were heavily banadged in yellowing linen, to the point that only his skeletonized tail and decomposing beak were the only parts of flesh still exposed to the air.

"I heard screaming, master-lord, yes-yes!" Gargled the wight. He was armed with only a sickle sword, but could contort his rodent body in such ways that his clumsy quarry were often sliced to pieces in a dance of death. "I would not suffer the High Priest any harm, not from a nasty bloodsucker. No-no."
An-Tcki was bemused, but he was not angry at Dechi. The wight was only doing as An-Tcki had compelled since his binding of the would-be assassin. "Close the door, you'll attract unwanted ears." He rasped without any preamble.

There was no doubt in An-Tcki's mind now. "Bhagar... Bhagar..." He thought aloud. He'd heard of the place upon his travels outside of N'Dak's domain. That was decades ago, when he had undertaken a pilgrimage to the Black Pyramid of Nagash, and had stood as a begrudging figure in the presence those arrogant vampires. These creatures, who had the power to cheat death coursing through their chilled veins, yet too decedant to make any productive use of their immortality. An-Tcki desired that power for his own. The key lay dormant in the confines of a long forgotten pyramid.

But this time, he could not make a second journey to Nehekhara. The situation in Under-Kil'njuru had become far too tumultuous, the lesser vermin now turned to the leaders of Vodun in light of N'Dak's prophecy. To leave now would give Muditch the Boneshaper the key to undisputed dictatorship of Clan Vodun. Dechi would have to journey in his place.

"This has been a fruitful meeting, Sepratul." An-Tcki said, heading toward the bloodspecked grit, where his experiments gargled in apprehension. "In just one conversation, we have come to a conclusion on the key to immortality, and where it lay hidden. You are an asset, and so I will keep you here-here, because although I have no love for your forsaken race, the semi-sapient hairless monkey 'man-things,' I do feel like a partnership may be formed between our cooperation." An-Tcki unlocked the cellar, lifting the grit ajar until it was locked in place. The Direvermin flung themselves above in frenzy at the first taste of freedom. They whooped and screeched like chimpanzees displaying to their rivals, their midnight clad figures battering across the lab, elongated claws scraping across the stone walls, creating a sound that would have been cringe-worthy to any human ear. The beasts sparred between themselves to vent their need to dismantle, and those that found themselves without a partner instead eviscerated the zombies in their hanging gibbets. Everything savage that lay hidden inside the skaven psyche was laid bare in these bloodthirsty rats, combined with the experimental quasi-vampiric essense passing through their veins, all that brutality was accentuated to the point that the Direvermin remained in a constant state of rage. No thought of flight remained, only the desire to make their quarry suffer. They were the perfect specimen of warriors concieved as far as the High Priest was concerned.

Yet despite this terrifying display, they would not touch An-Tcki, nor would they dare approach his wight, or even his prisoner. As if some unexplained conditioning prevented them from doing so. As far is the Direvermin were concerned, the High Priest reeked the musk of the alpha male, despite his humble countenance. After a few moments of entertainment, An-Tcki raised his left paw, dyed ashen grey, and the commotion abruptly stopped.

"My trusted friend and servant." An-Tcki began, his gaze piercing deep into Dechi's weeping eyes. "It was not coincidence that you were compelled to come down here. There is a task that is suited only to your station. One that will take you far north of here, where there are no friends of Clan Vodun. The Direvermin are yours to take as a retinue, as I believe that these clan-rats will perform... admirably, in an environment suited to their needs. That is, tearing apart those impudent hairless monkeys." An-Tcki chuckled.

Dechi gave a deep, almost servile bow. "Anything the high priest desires, almighty master." The assassin cheered in an almost slavering tone.

"Good." An-Tcki replied. He returned to the lectern opposite Sepratul's cell, inviting the wight close to his desk. "Come, I have much to tell you, and in little time too. The Boneshaper could already be a step ahead."

It had been nearly four days since beginning their journey by boat. The sea waves rocked the small vessel as the shifting weight of the mighty Saurus aboard kept it barely stable. The sail was lucky enough to pick a strong easterly wind several hours ago. Pushing them along at an accelerate pace thanks to clear skies. It didn't take long before the rocking waves and squawking sea birds fell silent. They sailed shortly off shore. A few hundred meters. Falderan looked out as they began to turn and adjusted their rought to move onto the fabled River Mortis. A vast river through the heart of Nehekara and tainted long ago by a foul dark magic.

The air grew sickly as they made it to the river. Birds fell silent and waves were softer. The clicking off insects often heard along the edge of rivers went dull as a sickening stillness approached. It was difficult to adjust the sail. The very air seemed to turn away from this place like nature itself feared it. Fal's skin felt oily and a taste on his tongue almost like ash sent shrills of disgust up his body. Despite having occurred centuries ago the dark taint of magic resided in the water. Enough to send disgust to anyone even slightly sensitive to it. They made their slow trek down it. Silently moving as the Elves eyes scanned the horizon.

"This place isn't right." Fal says as the sound of waves in the distance fade. "Starting to wonder if coming here was the right idea." He says looking into the water. It was murky and the sight of movement was near impossible to see. Deep below there could be a swarm of fish or predators. Or death and decay. Nothing living could be there or the water was safe. Fal didn't want to find out either way and adjusted the sail. "We have another day worth of sailing. But if the wind doesn't pick up could be longer." He says licking his lips. For the past few days all they could do for sustenance was a small supply of rations and using a small metal bowl Fal contained within his robes boiled some water slowly using a simple and iffy fire. Luckily the dampness off the wood prevented the boat igniting. Though boiling barely a pint of water at time took a while to properly give the three of the group what was needed. Luckily though they didn't exert themselves so the time was little issue. Though hunger became a problem. And now Fal's stomach began to grumble. He hoped they would reach their rendezvous soon. And if his calculations were correct it would only be one more day.

The heat was terrible; there wasn't much else Anglermaw could process these past few days, with every other imaginary remark critisizing the sun with each passing of his inner voice. The desert sun was an uncontested predator to the likes of the skaven, like the uncomprimising eye of some divine bird of prey that stalked it's quarry struggling in their last fumbling errors in the sands. Time ceased to exist during the day, and each passing hour while the sun burned above was heavily strained, hours that Anglermaw spent struggling in the shade of the storage shed where he had slept among the food surplus. Had, was the keyword, for the food surplus only lasted around a day once Anglermaw and Mokte both got a whiff of the dried meat sat in their designated barrels like jewels for a royal wedding. As far as the both were concerned, a salted beef shank was worth more than Ghal Maraz. The meat store had ran out within two days, and it had hardly occurred to either that their third peer had probably only tasted a few scraps of beef jerky and chicken before the Sea-Rat had sucked the last juices of marrow from leftover bone shards. Neither were terribly apologetic, however, and Mokte had even voiced aloud the question whether or not 'all Elves were vegans.'
Logically speaking, the crop vegetables would've been the next to vanish, though Mokte had refused to even entertain the thought. It was while crafting a rudimentary fishing net from foraged Mortis reeds that he had casually stated to both Falderan and Anglermaw. "I am a saurus, I don't eat leaves." While the red beast was more than content to live off the fat of the river, his great countenance pulling in great numbers of perch (Two thirds for himself, the rest shared between his peers), Anglermaw had felt that the Black Hunger had began to wear off. This was not a blessing, however -- the heat had made him ill, and stolen away his appetite. It was also around day two that a rotation had been agreed upon by the gang, and since Anglermaw was a nocturnal owl, he'd made the best choice for night lookouts. But the toll of malnutrition was visible on the skaven. Anglermaw was wearier, skinnier even, and often lapsed into mumbling. After day three, he'd become self-aware of this newfound tick, and ignored small talk altogether. His shifts were often spent by the prow, staring toward the moon like the ship's very own scarecrow.
Water was another issue. Mokte could take the sun, he was built for the heat. It may not be as accomodating the humid Lustrian jungles, but there was plenty of water to go around on the wide Mortis river. Anglermaw's illness was taking a toll on his intake however, he was dehydrated as well as malnourished. In the late hours, the red saurus would often visit the Sea-Rat, slouched beneath Mannslieb's glare just to offer him a bowl of lukewarm water to keep him on his toes. The sentiment was lost on Anglermaw, as well as the humour of a Saurus administering to the health of his racial adversary.

The beginning of day number four was not abnormal, Mokte spent the morning luring more quarry, his rictus skulls clicking to the rickety waves upon the river. Anglermaw had finished his shift a few hours ago, and now spent his time buried beneath the empty cereal sacks like a corpse. Navigation would've been his forte a lifetime ago, but with his ailment, he could not work his way around a pond. That role was entirely Falderan's now. This particular catch had been looking very unfortunate for Mokte; most of the perch he'd caught upriver were striken with alarming ailments. Perforations marred their scaled frames, holes so big that Mokte could glance at the reed shrubs upon the shoreline, as though he was under a mask. Others were far more terrible, some even swam with their skeletal structures exposed to the water, like they had been half digested by local predators.
But what was very perculiar to Mokte among these seemingly severe injuries was that these half-dead perch swam as gracefully as any other fish in the Mortis river. He licked his lips in bewilderment, until a moment later he'd heard Falderan voice his concern. Mokte was no longer dumbfounded, he was very suspicious.

"I believe that there is something very evil afoot, my friend." Mokte said as he aproached Falderan, a putrefied fish struggling for life within his rock hard grip. He didn't need to state that the fish he'd caught should've died a long time ago. "You say that it may take a day before we reach this place, but what will we find there? I think that we could be walking into a trap."

Not a second too soon, the stink of the river invaded Mokte's nostrils. The air suddenly reaked of decomposition, as though the ship had just been metaphorically transported inside a salted charnel house. Both seemed too entranced by their abrupt surroundings to notice the silhouette of a gold trimmed trireme that sailed in near complete silence on the horizon, it's form concealed by the vivid cowl of the desert sun.

They were definitely not alone.

As the sun beat down Fal went to respond to the Saurus's remarks before a glimmer caught his eye. Something in the distance a few hundred meters down the river. Light flickered off metal. and a tall form began to crawl into his view. Shielding his eyes he winced forward. Trying to focus past the light reflecting off metal and the water. Something began to take form and his blood ran cold. Before him was a tall spine like form with a humanoid head positioned like a snake. The head was large and adorned with a headdress. Noticing it from this distance it was clearly not normal sized. It was large like a trebuchet stone. It was mounted at the tip of a long wooden frame. Stretching behind it for over a dozen meters and atop the deck were skeletal figures. Not just lacking nutrition but lacking flesh. Sun bleached bones wearing little to no amour apart from some minor chest pieces of headgear. Fal then realized what approached. A Tomb King barge. The masters of these lands.

"We have to move now!" He said panicked and looked around. They were passing by a large shore of reeds. Over a dozen meters long and standing nearly three meters tall. Reeds and cane blew softly. Frailed edges and darkening stems showed signs of the rivers long term detriments. Fal adjusted the rudder and the boat made a sharp turn. The breeze was behind them which thankfully slowed the other vessel by the tiniest fraction as its large oars were turned by boney crew. "Mokte get rowing now. We have probably not even a minute to reach those reeds before we're spotted." His voice was rushed and heat exhaustion left him as adrenaline took hold.

"What my friend?" Countered Mokte, whose vision was still striken by the cowl of the sun. "What is the matter, why are you so afraid?" He asked, his arms raised as to soothe his panicking companion, fishing net and rotting perch in separate claws. It had been clear that he'd been blind to the sight of the trireme ahead, sailing eerily upon the wide Mortis river in a cold, logical rhythm. The lapping of oars upon the swampy riverbed was synchronized, like the ship itself was automata; piloted by some machine or unholy spirit. It wasn't far from the truth, as Mokte would soon learn.
His curiousity was piqued when Falderan ignored his act of reassurance, the Man-elf racing over to the rudder to adjust their direction toward the reeds (Mokte was indifferent to Falderan's origins, and believed the past was best left unsaid). Now he'd been completely dumbfounded, and he watched Falderan struggle with the ship like Lustrian prey evading the chase of a salamander. He tossed the miraculous perch into the water without ceremony, and treaded toward the prow. Immediately he became privy to Falderan's fear. A glittering canoe of glimmering gold, bleached bone and ancient, rotting wood. It's sails were stained with age and tattered beyond repair, it's broadsides glimmered with sheet-thin gold, like a beetle's segmented carapace. A serpentine head craned it's neck in their direction, the face of screaming skull bearing down at these interlopers with utter contempt.

But none of this was enough to unnerve the Saurus of Tzlipectl. Until he'd glimpsed at the slavering menials that milled onboard, to and fro in their own rapid movement. Whatever these skeletal thralls were clambering about at was hardly on Mokte's mind, save that the entire crew was composed of the undead; reduced to little more than mewling puppets of calcium. Mokte did not voice his findings as he raced to the oar. It would have been entirely redundant to alert Falderan of what he'd grimly ascertained. Mokte heaved as much as his grave countenance would allow, and that was much more than even the most seasoned human sailor. The little vessel moved like it had been spurred alive by the clarity of the situation.

Meanwhile, Anglermaw still roved around the used grainsacks that had made for improvised bedsheets, completely oblivious to the danger. His world now comprised that of his fever. His chest heaved in a spike of acute pain, and he sputtered beneath the textile rags he'd taken from the storeroom.

In his own blissful little world, Anglermaw was as safe as one could be.