"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.
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.
As the small vessel turned and brought itself on track the soft waves of the river hit with a gentle thump. Something the group had grown to ignore like one would sea birds or nearby conversation. Fal took over the row and began pushing along. Moving them with increased vigor as the trireme came closer. Making it to the small forest of reeds mere moments before being spotted Fal's heart pounded like a cat cornered by feral mutts. Once they were successfully behind cover Fal went immediately to his belly and indicated for Mokte to do the same. The boat rocked and if he were a Skaven he would, as Anglermaw would put it 'squirt the fear musk'. They went quiet.
Back on the main river the shimmering trireme moved past. Seeing the large form through the reeds going by with an unnatural purpose. The narrowly noticeable forms of skeletal rowers moved in the bright light that reflected on their sun bleached forms. As the vessel started it's slow pass by the slow beat of drums was heard. It was low. A pattern similarly used to synergize rowing. At least in the olden days of the Empire. It was something he heard about in stories from navymen and saw first hand back in Araby. The shimmering gold along the trireme and it's remarkable strong seeming structure despite age would be weirdly beautiful in other circumstances. Above the reeds towards the front third of the boat was a bone and wooden construction. From the triangular form of wood and numerous bones of possibly Human origin Fal could tell it was some kind of catapult. Each bang of the drums rang out more and more and soon he noticed a golden roof near the end from the corner of his eye. Likely the location that sat whoever was in charge. Though he couldn't tell through the reeds but a noticeable amount of bronze armour adorned those standing up the golden encrusted stairs. Each drum beat continuing to send a booming terror through Fal as he gripped his newer blade's handle.
Back on the main river the shimmering trireme moved past. Seeing the large form through the reeds going by with an unnatural purpose. The narrowly noticeable forms of skeletal rowers moved in the bright light that reflected on their sun bleached forms. As the vessel started it's slow pass by the slow beat of drums was heard. It was low. A pattern similarly used to synergize rowing. At least in the olden days of the Empire. It was something he heard about in stories from navymen and saw first hand back in Araby. The shimmering gold along the trireme and it's remarkable strong seeming structure despite age would be weirdly beautiful in other circumstances. Above the reeds towards the front third of the boat was a bone and wooden construction. From the triangular form of wood and numerous bones of possibly Human origin Fal could tell it was some kind of catapult. Each bang of the drums rang out more and more and soon he noticed a golden roof near the end from the corner of his eye. Likely the location that sat whoever was in charge. Though he couldn't tell through the reeds but a noticeable amount of bronze armour adorned those standing up the golden encrusted stairs. Each drum beat continuing to send a booming terror through Fal as he gripped his newer blade's handle.
Mokte did as he was bidden, he leapt from the ship entered the swampy grove, hoping that they had avoided the sight of the undead. He was afraid of leaving Anglermaw to his fate, but so long as the skaven remained within his reverie, he would be safe. They were all consumed by the lush mass of reeds; the matter was simply allowing these creatures to pass through. With each reverberating pound of the trireme drums, their presence was betrayed. An order was barked in a tongue the Saurus did not recognise, piercing the ongoing percussion. From the distance - his vision marred by the canopy of reeds, Mokte noticed all movement cease. The machinary strides of oars from within the ship stopped.
"I hope you haven't lost your edge. Falderan." Mokte murmured, whispering as best as his saurian countenance would allow. Conflict seemed inevitable. They could retreat into the open desert, but even if these mummies did not give chase, they would inevitably die -- The desert was the sun's domain, and they would eventually succumb to the heat.
Mokte continued to theorise who would die last, as he awaited the trireme to approach. Anglermaw would of course be the first to die; he was already suffering enough from the heat and would not last much longer without medicine. Falderan had shown strength in the face of this climate, but the heavy sunburn across his once milky white frame told stories of his slipping endurance. As for Mokte...
...Well, was starvation a worse fate than dehydration? He did not know.
He brooded over this within ten minutes, the trireme closing in under every synapse as it was directed by a dessicated humanoid, it's face concealed by a bicoloured mask as it strode under the serpentine figurehead. His bleached servants slavishly complied with every imagined sentence. Mokte's heart pounded with anticipation, his club-sword clenched tighly in his right claw as cold dread replaced the desert heat.
The trireme's leering skull must have been a mere few metres from the reed grove before Mokte heard something scream to his left. Heaving footsteps thumped the brass-coloured sand, their owner's warcry horrendously gutteral. Mokte snapped to his left, driven by instinct. Whether the creatures were allies of the undead or not, it had barely entered his mind, but he raised himself to full height as the beastmen charged. The crocodilion were stark naked, almost in parody of the Saurus himself, save that it was dimunitive in comparison, and bore self-mutilations that displayed the icons of chaos. Scavenged greataxe in hand, the creature did not relent. Instinct gripped his mind, Mokte parried the blow, his club-sword dug deep into the creature's chest, crushing it's ribcage and near splitting it in two. A torrent of blood snaked from the monster's palsied body, jittering to the dance of it's death throes.
"What in Nahwa's name was that?!" Mokte blurted as the creature fell, his nerves jolting with a bestial urge for battle that even he struggled to contain. "These beasts, they are a vile interpretation of the Saurus-kin!" Reeds ruffled intimidatingly in front, before exposing the monsters that took refuge. More crocodilions charged with hand-me-down weapons. Others were crudely smithed onto cudgels or gnarled spears, made for the sole purpose of instilling pain.
They charged from all sides save the river. Although he could only spot seven, Mokte feared that there were more hidden within the reed groves. All anticipation left him, he would fight, he would fight until he had killed as much of these monsters as possible. He beckoned Falderan to do the same, he only wished by some miracle that Anglermaw would be safe.
"The undead? These monsters? who does it matter whom we mete pain to?" Shouted Mokte, ignorant of his comprimise.
--
"Bow front! Close in on that swamp!" Barked the masked prince atop his dais, his long since emaciated hand gripping tight the scabbard of his khopesh. Silhouttes danced within shade of the reed grove, their shadows flickering like dancers in the sun. Prince Sobekanen mouthed his thanks to Ptra; the last remnants of Skukeel Dharkhar's host would be slaughtered here, and Sobekanen would take his pelt to Bhagar, where it would be paraded to a soundless crowd of dead. The last thought made him feel awkward, sad even. This living purgatory was not the paradise as described by the Mortuary Cult. This broken frame was not the golden carapace promised to him by the liche priests in his adolescence. No matter how fragmented his memory had become, he could still recall those insipid lies. He had instead awoken ages past the glory days, from a young man his prime, his body had been aged by what seemed to be millenia, though the Nehekharan calendar ceased relevance ages ago. His freedom had been stolen away by a single blade, an orc choppa that had cleaved his skull in two.
Priest Iannoes had told him not to remove the laces that wired his head together, no matter how much it itched.
The itch was frustrating, it reminded him of his last and most costly failure. It also brought him a desire for redemption, and had drove him to challenge Skukeel's predecessor to single combat, where Sobekanen's khopesh exposed the bowels that quivered inside Mukban Fishbeast's belly. The routed host had plagued the Mortis for as long as the Prince had been raised. He would make sure that the remants of Mukban's host never lived to regret their humbling.
"Captain Nourma! I want Myrmiden fire smoking across that forest." Sobekanen ordered to the statuary golem, nondescript from the skeletal crew save a flamingo headress. "Skukeel will know retribution in Usirian's realm."
Nourma silently complied. Soon the skeletons once again milled about in preparation to make the Mortis river a landscape of Hell.
"I hope you haven't lost your edge. Falderan." Mokte murmured, whispering as best as his saurian countenance would allow. Conflict seemed inevitable. They could retreat into the open desert, but even if these mummies did not give chase, they would inevitably die -- The desert was the sun's domain, and they would eventually succumb to the heat.
Mokte continued to theorise who would die last, as he awaited the trireme to approach. Anglermaw would of course be the first to die; he was already suffering enough from the heat and would not last much longer without medicine. Falderan had shown strength in the face of this climate, but the heavy sunburn across his once milky white frame told stories of his slipping endurance. As for Mokte...
...Well, was starvation a worse fate than dehydration? He did not know.
He brooded over this within ten minutes, the trireme closing in under every synapse as it was directed by a dessicated humanoid, it's face concealed by a bicoloured mask as it strode under the serpentine figurehead. His bleached servants slavishly complied with every imagined sentence. Mokte's heart pounded with anticipation, his club-sword clenched tighly in his right claw as cold dread replaced the desert heat.
The trireme's leering skull must have been a mere few metres from the reed grove before Mokte heard something scream to his left. Heaving footsteps thumped the brass-coloured sand, their owner's warcry horrendously gutteral. Mokte snapped to his left, driven by instinct. Whether the creatures were allies of the undead or not, it had barely entered his mind, but he raised himself to full height as the beastmen charged. The crocodilion were stark naked, almost in parody of the Saurus himself, save that it was dimunitive in comparison, and bore self-mutilations that displayed the icons of chaos. Scavenged greataxe in hand, the creature did not relent. Instinct gripped his mind, Mokte parried the blow, his club-sword dug deep into the creature's chest, crushing it's ribcage and near splitting it in two. A torrent of blood snaked from the monster's palsied body, jittering to the dance of it's death throes.
"What in Nahwa's name was that?!" Mokte blurted as the creature fell, his nerves jolting with a bestial urge for battle that even he struggled to contain. "These beasts, they are a vile interpretation of the Saurus-kin!" Reeds ruffled intimidatingly in front, before exposing the monsters that took refuge. More crocodilions charged with hand-me-down weapons. Others were crudely smithed onto cudgels or gnarled spears, made for the sole purpose of instilling pain.
They charged from all sides save the river. Although he could only spot seven, Mokte feared that there were more hidden within the reed groves. All anticipation left him, he would fight, he would fight until he had killed as much of these monsters as possible. He beckoned Falderan to do the same, he only wished by some miracle that Anglermaw would be safe.
"The undead? These monsters? who does it matter whom we mete pain to?" Shouted Mokte, ignorant of his comprimise.
--
"Bow front! Close in on that swamp!" Barked the masked prince atop his dais, his long since emaciated hand gripping tight the scabbard of his khopesh. Silhouttes danced within shade of the reed grove, their shadows flickering like dancers in the sun. Prince Sobekanen mouthed his thanks to Ptra; the last remnants of Skukeel Dharkhar's host would be slaughtered here, and Sobekanen would take his pelt to Bhagar, where it would be paraded to a soundless crowd of dead. The last thought made him feel awkward, sad even. This living purgatory was not the paradise as described by the Mortuary Cult. This broken frame was not the golden carapace promised to him by the liche priests in his adolescence. No matter how fragmented his memory had become, he could still recall those insipid lies. He had instead awoken ages past the glory days, from a young man his prime, his body had been aged by what seemed to be millenia, though the Nehekharan calendar ceased relevance ages ago. His freedom had been stolen away by a single blade, an orc choppa that had cleaved his skull in two.
Priest Iannoes had told him not to remove the laces that wired his head together, no matter how much it itched.
The itch was frustrating, it reminded him of his last and most costly failure. It also brought him a desire for redemption, and had drove him to challenge Skukeel's predecessor to single combat, where Sobekanen's khopesh exposed the bowels that quivered inside Mukban Fishbeast's belly. The routed host had plagued the Mortis for as long as the Prince had been raised. He would make sure that the remants of Mukban's host never lived to regret their humbling.
"Captain Nourma! I want Myrmiden fire smoking across that forest." Sobekanen ordered to the statuary golem, nondescript from the skeletal crew save a flamingo headress. "Skukeel will know retribution in Usirian's realm."
Nourma silently complied. Soon the skeletons once again milled about in preparation to make the Mortis river a landscape of Hell.
Whhhhhh-whhhhaaaa
The roar from the reeds broke the tense silence when only the sound of oar and wave was heard. A large crocodilian beast leapt to Mokte before being swiftly dispatched. Body flung into the water and tainting the water a dread red. The sound of crude war horns blew out across the river followed by splashes. Out of the reeds came three more of the mostly crocodilian beasts. Seeming to be twisted mix of man and reptile many looked deformed with patches of scales on mostly stretched, fleshy frames. They all had a majority of their bodies as scales and beast but the ever so mild fragments of humanity were a twisted reminder of what they were. Beastmen. A foe Fal had fought dozens of times and despised their sickly breed. These ones were a different variety to the typical he met in the Empire but it would be no different.
Drawing his blade he leapt off the boat. Jumping over the head of one as it lunged. Slashing down his steel clashed against the beasts back. Scales hard as armour deflected the blade. Though the strike was enough to trip up the beast. Sending it face first into the boat and underwater. A hole dented into the side of the boat as it rocked furiously. The beasts turned and moved towards Fal. Any other situation he could smell Beastmen a mile away. But between dehydration, the drying of his nose and the foul unnatural smell of the river paired with the Beastmen's own desert hardened skin their was little to give away their position apart from their actions. The sounds of more bodies hitting water ran out. A series of smaller Beastmen more noticeable as a variant to Ungors came. Resembling Hyenas mangy furred hides the humanoid figures roared out. Coming out around them some went for the trireme while four emerged around Fal and Mokte. They screamed and charged swinging ancient, blunted swords likely stolen from a tomb and some simply large rocks. The whistle of shafts flew out and a series of arrows pattered into the reeds. Several bodies fell according to the splashes but this was no comfort. Before Fal could realize the chaos around him one of the crocodilians struck out and knocked him back. Meanwhile another struck for Mokte. Roaring in fury.
Behind the reeds a heavily scarred Beastman resembling a cross between a vulture and camel but with a surprisingly bulky frame glared to the trireme. He stood eight foot tall and possessed a thick neck with a beaked head like the typical carrion. His hands had long talons and feet were hooved. His torso was bulky and hunched over with a large hump like that of a camel. He wore several rudimentary pieces of armour taken from Nehekaran cities and drabbed over the creatures back was a sun bleached standard of faded gold worn like a cape. In his talons was a long khopesh of bronze with an intricately carved handle. This beast was the leader, Skukeel Dharkhar. Letting out a cry that sounded like the screech of a bird but deeper the beast charged in. Eyes set on Prince Sobekanen.
Drawing his blade he leapt off the boat. Jumping over the head of one as it lunged. Slashing down his steel clashed against the beasts back. Scales hard as armour deflected the blade. Though the strike was enough to trip up the beast. Sending it face first into the boat and underwater. A hole dented into the side of the boat as it rocked furiously. The beasts turned and moved towards Fal. Any other situation he could smell Beastmen a mile away. But between dehydration, the drying of his nose and the foul unnatural smell of the river paired with the Beastmen's own desert hardened skin their was little to give away their position apart from their actions. The sounds of more bodies hitting water ran out. A series of smaller Beastmen more noticeable as a variant to Ungors came. Resembling Hyenas mangy furred hides the humanoid figures roared out. Coming out around them some went for the trireme while four emerged around Fal and Mokte. They screamed and charged swinging ancient, blunted swords likely stolen from a tomb and some simply large rocks. The whistle of shafts flew out and a series of arrows pattered into the reeds. Several bodies fell according to the splashes but this was no comfort. Before Fal could realize the chaos around him one of the crocodilians struck out and knocked him back. Meanwhile another struck for Mokte. Roaring in fury.
Behind the reeds a heavily scarred Beastman resembling a cross between a vulture and camel but with a surprisingly bulky frame glared to the trireme. He stood eight foot tall and possessed a thick neck with a beaked head like the typical carrion. His hands had long talons and feet were hooved. His torso was bulky and hunched over with a large hump like that of a camel. He wore several rudimentary pieces of armour taken from Nehekaran cities and drabbed over the creatures back was a sun bleached standard of faded gold worn like a cape. In his talons was a long khopesh of bronze with an intricately carved handle. This beast was the leader, Skukeel Dharkhar. Letting out a cry that sounded like the screech of a bird but deeper the beast charged in. Eyes set on Prince Sobekanen.
"There you are, nek." The words rasped off of Sobekanen's dried tongue, muffled from within his facemask. Skukeel's presence elicited torrent of venom in the Prince, figuratively leaking like a malignant ichor from the parting gash that had abruptly ended his life so long ago. The untested Beastlord was of a huge girth, his almost spherical mass wobbling in rhythmic motion. His gangernous flesh was so green that Sobekanen had nearly mistaken Skukeel as one of the crocodilian rank and file within his host, and his body was marred by a number of orifices across his flesh. Pools of virulent mucus trickled from the pores and sizzled upon Skukeel's skin. This was not the second-in-command Sobekanen had mortally wounded near Bhagar. Sobekanen clenched the gilded grip across his khopesh, he'd dare not ascertain what wretched spirit Skukeel had debased himself to.
Skukeel raised himself in a dominating display over the deluge, like a primate sizing up the latest upstart alpha. A retinue of four wargors approached like the minions of an infamous bully. Three of them bore the head of an ibex bull, while the fourth head was smothered in a dazzling mane unfitting for a creature of chaos. Sobekanen recognised the lion-headed wargor as Leo'slaka, the rippling, halberd-bearing servant of the deity called Slaanesh, and one of Mukban's most savage lieutenants.
"Skukeel aksho akh nehek!" Rumbled the baritone drum that was Leo'slaka's voice, he beckoned Sobekanen's leering vessel with a flick of his free claw.
The flammable container had already been made ready for it's flight, fashioned into the likeness of a skull, as was the aesthetic for the tomb lords. Nourma approached his master with a robotic salute, his vibrant headress fluttering to the deluge of makeshift javelins that whooshed in the vessels direction.
"Burn them all, then dock the boat by the shore, so I may take Skukeel's hide."
Nourma nodded, and it had taken merely a boney gesture from the captain for his underlings to sever the sinew holding the catapult in place.
The flaming skull's jaw was swung ajar by the wind, mimicing a rictus scream. A moment later it would shatter upon the reeds, the oil within it's broken cavity engulfing the trench like tendrils which quickly terrified the lesser ungors of their brood. Soon the reed grove was doomed to crumple before the inferno.
--
It was the smoke that stirred Anglermaw from his reverie. His throat was engulfed in ash as embers flickered across the riverbed like black snowflakes, lapping across his whiskers. The air stank of crumbling firewood, as he awoke to a blurry world of ruby red. Pain rang across every nerve of his body, the unprecendented urgency arguing with the fever that burned inside him. Anglermaw dug his left claw into the fur of his forehead, but he couldn't quell the pain. He grunted hard to dull the sensation, but his ears were tortured by the abrupt deluge.
"What in Rat's name..." He muttered aloud, still blind to the danger he was in. He pulled himself upward from the used sacks of food, using his free hand to finger the familiar sensation of his revolver, hidden beneath a makeshift wrapping of linen. He hacked again as he unwrapped the sheet and fingered the shiny trigger. The vision of Hell branded his feverish mind, but the runic etching across the weapons muzzle was imprinted on his mind like muscle memory.
Anglermaw rubbed his eye with the handle, he felt double his age as he heaved himself up the weapon like an old man's cane. He almost fell on his snout as boat swayed upon the riverbed. A moment sooner, and his eyes were smothered with the vision of death and fire. The fever burning in his mind soothed, his nerves were suddenly ice cold with fear. Mutants dotted the beachhead, dead, dying or in great pain as they flailed, their flesh burned black. Beastmen always screamed harder than they roared, Anglermaw had known that from cold experience. He cocked his revolver, looking over the ship prow at what was once a grove of swampy reeds. Mokte and Falderan were nowhere to be found, but he'd hardly fathomed the idea of their deaths.
He didn't have time for it; a javelin had nearly found it's way into the side of his ribcage. He screamed in fear as he stumbled back in shock, curses spilling from his mouth in every language he knew. Queekish, Reikspiel, Estalian, and even a hint of Tilea-Khyprian. The mocking cackles were enough to pull his mind back to the danger, as a second javelin flew past, digging itself so hard into the boat that it tore into the wood. Anglermaw fell on his back, nearly crushing his tail. A jolt of agony spread across his spine, distorted laughter biting at his mind. He struggled back on to his feet, screaming in pain as well as fear as the curses continued to flow. Two hyena-men hurled their bodies by front prowl. The spotted figures grunted in dominance, stone cudgels wrapped across their fists as they cackled gleefully at their prey.
Anglermaw's eyes widened with panic. The ungors closed in for the kill. The Sea-Rat screamed in terror, fight or flight commanding his hands as he pulled the trigger of his revolver. The first ungor fell dead almost instantly, a red orifice leaking pieces of it's shattered heart. It's companion backed off for a brief moment. At first, it reacted only to the thunderous bang, but after a second, the hyena-man noticed the bleeding corpse of it's companion and quivered with clarity.
Now it was the creature's turn to be afraid.
It squaled like a pig as Anglermaw shot the creature in it's furred stomach, penetrating through it's spine. It dropped it's club upon the woodwork as it fell, and it attempted to crawl back into the sea. The pattering upon the surface was clear evidence that it had been far too slow. "You're gonna rot, beast-thing." It was the last thing the fearful creature heard as Anglermaw grabbed the spiked cudgel and thrust it across the ungor's horned crown. It died instantly.
The sudden adrenaline had escaped the Sea-Rat, his body slumped across the bow as the fever once more leeched his energy away. "Horrid bastard-things." Anglermaw heaved, the curses gave him some semblance of control. He had to get off the boat, he had to find Mokte and Falderan. More curses blurted from his mouth as he fell into riverbed, the smoke blotted out the desert sun, and he'd forgotten that he'd sailed some grove on the Mortis River.
He swam feebly to the scabbing surface, glad that the revolver bullets had not fallen out of his jacket while he slept.
Skukeel raised himself in a dominating display over the deluge, like a primate sizing up the latest upstart alpha. A retinue of four wargors approached like the minions of an infamous bully. Three of them bore the head of an ibex bull, while the fourth head was smothered in a dazzling mane unfitting for a creature of chaos. Sobekanen recognised the lion-headed wargor as Leo'slaka, the rippling, halberd-bearing servant of the deity called Slaanesh, and one of Mukban's most savage lieutenants.
"Skukeel aksho akh nehek!" Rumbled the baritone drum that was Leo'slaka's voice, he beckoned Sobekanen's leering vessel with a flick of his free claw.
The flammable container had already been made ready for it's flight, fashioned into the likeness of a skull, as was the aesthetic for the tomb lords. Nourma approached his master with a robotic salute, his vibrant headress fluttering to the deluge of makeshift javelins that whooshed in the vessels direction.
"Burn them all, then dock the boat by the shore, so I may take Skukeel's hide."
Nourma nodded, and it had taken merely a boney gesture from the captain for his underlings to sever the sinew holding the catapult in place.
The flaming skull's jaw was swung ajar by the wind, mimicing a rictus scream. A moment later it would shatter upon the reeds, the oil within it's broken cavity engulfing the trench like tendrils which quickly terrified the lesser ungors of their brood. Soon the reed grove was doomed to crumple before the inferno.
--
It was the smoke that stirred Anglermaw from his reverie. His throat was engulfed in ash as embers flickered across the riverbed like black snowflakes, lapping across his whiskers. The air stank of crumbling firewood, as he awoke to a blurry world of ruby red. Pain rang across every nerve of his body, the unprecendented urgency arguing with the fever that burned inside him. Anglermaw dug his left claw into the fur of his forehead, but he couldn't quell the pain. He grunted hard to dull the sensation, but his ears were tortured by the abrupt deluge.
"What in Rat's name..." He muttered aloud, still blind to the danger he was in. He pulled himself upward from the used sacks of food, using his free hand to finger the familiar sensation of his revolver, hidden beneath a makeshift wrapping of linen. He hacked again as he unwrapped the sheet and fingered the shiny trigger. The vision of Hell branded his feverish mind, but the runic etching across the weapons muzzle was imprinted on his mind like muscle memory.
Anglermaw rubbed his eye with the handle, he felt double his age as he heaved himself up the weapon like an old man's cane. He almost fell on his snout as boat swayed upon the riverbed. A moment sooner, and his eyes were smothered with the vision of death and fire. The fever burning in his mind soothed, his nerves were suddenly ice cold with fear. Mutants dotted the beachhead, dead, dying or in great pain as they flailed, their flesh burned black. Beastmen always screamed harder than they roared, Anglermaw had known that from cold experience. He cocked his revolver, looking over the ship prow at what was once a grove of swampy reeds. Mokte and Falderan were nowhere to be found, but he'd hardly fathomed the idea of their deaths.
He didn't have time for it; a javelin had nearly found it's way into the side of his ribcage. He screamed in fear as he stumbled back in shock, curses spilling from his mouth in every language he knew. Queekish, Reikspiel, Estalian, and even a hint of Tilea-Khyprian. The mocking cackles were enough to pull his mind back to the danger, as a second javelin flew past, digging itself so hard into the boat that it tore into the wood. Anglermaw fell on his back, nearly crushing his tail. A jolt of agony spread across his spine, distorted laughter biting at his mind. He struggled back on to his feet, screaming in pain as well as fear as the curses continued to flow. Two hyena-men hurled their bodies by front prowl. The spotted figures grunted in dominance, stone cudgels wrapped across their fists as they cackled gleefully at their prey.
Anglermaw's eyes widened with panic. The ungors closed in for the kill. The Sea-Rat screamed in terror, fight or flight commanding his hands as he pulled the trigger of his revolver. The first ungor fell dead almost instantly, a red orifice leaking pieces of it's shattered heart. It's companion backed off for a brief moment. At first, it reacted only to the thunderous bang, but after a second, the hyena-man noticed the bleeding corpse of it's companion and quivered with clarity.
Now it was the creature's turn to be afraid.
It squaled like a pig as Anglermaw shot the creature in it's furred stomach, penetrating through it's spine. It dropped it's club upon the woodwork as it fell, and it attempted to crawl back into the sea. The pattering upon the surface was clear evidence that it had been far too slow. "You're gonna rot, beast-thing." It was the last thing the fearful creature heard as Anglermaw grabbed the spiked cudgel and thrust it across the ungor's horned crown. It died instantly.
The sudden adrenaline had escaped the Sea-Rat, his body slumped across the bow as the fever once more leeched his energy away. "Horrid bastard-things." Anglermaw heaved, the curses gave him some semblance of control. He had to get off the boat, he had to find Mokte and Falderan. More curses blurted from his mouth as he fell into riverbed, the smoke blotted out the desert sun, and he'd forgotten that he'd sailed some grove on the Mortis River.
He swam feebly to the scabbing surface, glad that the revolver bullets had not fallen out of his jacket while he slept.
The world became a distorted mess of colours and flashing lights as Fal was knocked under the shallow water. Dazed by the impact and feeling a burning ache within his chest he went to gasp in pain but quickly felt water fill is mouth. The distortion around him clearly water. Breaking the surface of the water he gasped for air and started to spit up water. His vision returning to the chaos around him he quickly remembered his peril when a bulky, crocodilian form burst from beside him. Teeth gnashing he narrowly dodged before being slammed away by it's tail. The impact hitting his belly and causing him to throw up a mix of stomach juice and river water.
The taste was vile as he searched for his blade but finding it nowhere. Looking frantically for Mokte he saw the Saurus tackle another reptilian beast into the some reeds and furious roars and screeches followed. A clawed talon came down and managed to slash along Fal's right shoulder. Tearing into the flesh and sleeve a centimeter and drawing blood. Fal grabbed his wounded shoulder. The creature turning and opening its jaw for a kill strike. Fal stared back at the beast not wanting to die looking fearful. He clenched his teeth and growled back. But before the beast leapt a whistling cry erupted. The sound of crackling flames burst out as the Beastman fell to its side roaring in pain. It's flesh burning and a black oil like fluid covering it. The fluid stuck to the water and reeds. Igniting the whole area and filling it with a vile stench. As the beast roared and flailed to remove the stinging flames a swarm of arrows flew out. Flying through the air like rapid wasps they landed around Fal who through either luck or divine intervention avoided him as he fell back. The shock of the ordeal hitting him with weakness. The Beastmen he fought fled from the flames. A wailing erupting from nearby as a burning Ungor ran out. Cackling and yelping in pain Fal managed pick up a flung club by the beast. Little more than a stick and stone tied together it would need to do for now. His shoulder ached as he wielded the weapon in his left hand. Creeping to the shore Fal saw the futility in remaining in the burning riverbed.
Skukeel let out a great cry. Causing even the terrified Ungors to pause. They looked back and the fear for the flames was made miniscule to the fear of their twisted leader. Blinking with vertical eyelids the creature ordered it's host to charge back. From the water he witnessed two of the crocodilians including the one that fought Fal, swimming to the trireme.
"Tuzuu delar batru!" He cries in the vile dark tongue, or at least a variation of it. With new found vigor the Ungors charged back. Black fletched arrows flew out from the sand dunes and smacked about the trireme. None hitting their mark as they spiraled down.
The taste was vile as he searched for his blade but finding it nowhere. Looking frantically for Mokte he saw the Saurus tackle another reptilian beast into the some reeds and furious roars and screeches followed. A clawed talon came down and managed to slash along Fal's right shoulder. Tearing into the flesh and sleeve a centimeter and drawing blood. Fal grabbed his wounded shoulder. The creature turning and opening its jaw for a kill strike. Fal stared back at the beast not wanting to die looking fearful. He clenched his teeth and growled back. But before the beast leapt a whistling cry erupted. The sound of crackling flames burst out as the Beastman fell to its side roaring in pain. It's flesh burning and a black oil like fluid covering it. The fluid stuck to the water and reeds. Igniting the whole area and filling it with a vile stench. As the beast roared and flailed to remove the stinging flames a swarm of arrows flew out. Flying through the air like rapid wasps they landed around Fal who through either luck or divine intervention avoided him as he fell back. The shock of the ordeal hitting him with weakness. The Beastmen he fought fled from the flames. A wailing erupting from nearby as a burning Ungor ran out. Cackling and yelping in pain Fal managed pick up a flung club by the beast. Little more than a stick and stone tied together it would need to do for now. His shoulder ached as he wielded the weapon in his left hand. Creeping to the shore Fal saw the futility in remaining in the burning riverbed.
Skukeel let out a great cry. Causing even the terrified Ungors to pause. They looked back and the fear for the flames was made miniscule to the fear of their twisted leader. Blinking with vertical eyelids the creature ordered it's host to charge back. From the water he witnessed two of the crocodilians including the one that fought Fal, swimming to the trireme.
"Tuzuu delar batru!" He cries in the vile dark tongue, or at least a variation of it. With new found vigor the Ungors charged back. Black fletched arrows flew out from the sand dunes and smacked about the trireme. None hitting their mark as they spiraled down.
Cacophany thundered within Anglermaw's wetted ears, the dawi revolver dangling from his claw while he sauntered amidst the dug arrowheads and discarded blades and cudgels like a plague victim trapped within his last feverish sleepwalk. The fire branded his vision, flickers of soot flew like wayward mites, no amount of blinking rid away the itch. Pain flared across his spine, his earlier fall made his tail limp and swollen hot like the inferno. Cretinous little creatures ran amok, unharmed and afraid while the myrmiden fire danced across their cloven bodies before Aqshy claimed their lives. Anglermaw felt no remorse for them; he'd killed two of them already, stained his clothes and fur with their bodily fluids. These whinning wretches were the lowliest of their brood, but the ungors were sadistic in their own jealous manner, and they were no better than any other beastfolk. He cocked the revolver, the thought like muscle memory, and continued waddling through the conflagration, ignorant the clanging of archaic bronze and the whistle of rogue arrowheads that found their home inside the dying beastfolk.
Until a moment later, one whistled past his snout, nearly replacing the scar he'd earned at Al-Haikk with a fresh dye. Someone was aiming at him, which was enough to make him scamper despite his fever. His reflexes were slower, his pace laughable for even a docile slave, but it was enough to avoid being skewered by the barrage. He aimed the revolver toward his rear out of instinct, but thought better of pulling the trigger. Instead he ran zig-zag of the flurry, a flechted tail dug into the sand of where he'd just leapt. No breath could be taken, no respite, the fire had spread like a visible virus across the swampy forest, the sky bright with brimstone as blackened trees tumbled like falling books from a shelf.
Anglermaw cursed, his body almost cushioning the fall of a smouldered tree. A trio of hidden gors were exposed by the fall, their figures chiseled from obsidian, their snouts long and slim like jackals. They did not charge but instead scaled the sandy hillside for better ground, and were each awarded an arrow to the back for their courtesy. They whimpered like dogs as they bled out.
Anglermaw turned to face the tide of arrows, his mind awoke and astonished by the auric shape of the tomb trireme, gilded sheets of gold masked a millenia of wood rot, the dated vessel sailing by supernatural means that Anglermaw could not guess. What had truly enraptured him however were those who sailed the vessel, and their skeletal visages were bleached with rotten bows in their grips, save the bronze clad figure at the prow, the handle of a halberd clutched between his rotting hands. It had been a revelation to him that dead men truly ruled the ruins of Nehekhara. He felt his heart pause at the sight while another flurry of arrows launched toward the savage host.
"Horned Sigmar-rat, they're actually real." Anglermaw gulped, he hid beside the fallen tree for cover. The sounds of skirmish did not relent however, and he heard the gutteral howls of more beastmen as they dropped upon the smoking sands. His pistol shook between his jittering hands, and he wondered where on the Chaos moon Falderan and Mokte could be?
--
Mokte was forced into killing grounds, abominations encircling him like carrion birds to a sunbaked cadaver. Unfortunately for these mutants, this was Mokte's home away from home. His eyes were full of purpose, and all trepidation was void when he beckoned the mutants forth with his free claw. Three hyena-gors answered the challenge, cackling with battleaxes sharpened from stone, charging at him in frenzy while their peers egged them on. The first one was kicked where the branded icon of Khorne hung upon his stomach, and his organs ruptured violently. The other two were caught in a strike that took both their dog-like heads clean off, bobbing down the hill like lost toys. A red skinned berseker flung at Mokte, two steel axes rolled in his arms like wheels. But the Saurus noted the crazed warrior's weakness instantly, and dug the clubsword into the creature's bovine skull before it could lay a strike. A packhound leapt not a moment sooner, gnawing at Mokte's shoulder and disarming him, but the grip of Mokte's jaw was stronger, and he ripped mutant hound in two with his teeth. A creature with quills upon it's back and a toothy maw for a stomach sought to capitalize on the distraction with a leap, poisoned dagger dripping ichor upon it's arms of exposed bone. But Mokte caught the now whimpering creature midfall. His fangs gouged deeply into the mutant's flesh, and he pulled ruddy flesh so hard that the beast's spiked head came clean off. Mokte laughed as the arterial blood snaked across his dagger sized fangs, and he dropped the jittering corpse to bleed upon the hill.
The creatures lost their impetuousness, they backed away from the very figure of the crimson Saurus, the skulls upon his breast rattling, grinning like the faceless archers down below. From gutteral taunts in the Dark Tongue came hisses of dissonance. The creatures that previously encircled Mokte soon found themselve caught in the next flurry of arrows. Mokte mockingly bowed like an actor on his stage while his apparent audience were whittled down by arrows, dropping where they stood. Mokte licked the blood from his teeth as he rose, did the same with the dripping juices upon his club-sword as he knelt to pick it up. It tasted of salt and iron, and he grimaced at the taste. The creatures fled in terror before, some skewered by fletched arrows, others lost within the brimstone until their forms dissipated from reality.
'Was this truly it?' He thought, raising his arms in challenge. Were these creatures truly the children of Chaos that Supa-Kheti - for all his wisdom - had taught him to fear? Were these the creatures prophecised to devour and corrupt the world in the time yet to come? It would take a million of these monsters to threaten Tzlipectl. Not even close enough to stir Lord Nahwa from his contemplation. The Saurus were engineered to face Demons, not bull-faced cavemen. This skirmish was not a contest. Therein lay a new problem however, for the undead below made no distinction between 'good beast' nor 'bad beast.' Arrows flew at Mokte's direction, three puncturing his side, like glass shards splintering his flesh. The arrows were not fatal -- thanks to his stone hard skin -- but they were painful. Mokte limped for cover while the undead reloaded, the figure of a bronze clad warrior and his skeletal retinue disembarking from the trireme. It would be better to let both abominations fight amongst themselves.
Skukeel, Leo'slaka, and the beastlord's other nameless catamites. It did not matter if this grove was to smoulder and die under the lappings of myrmiden fire, Sobekanen would take their heads as trophies aboard his ship.
Until a moment later, one whistled past his snout, nearly replacing the scar he'd earned at Al-Haikk with a fresh dye. Someone was aiming at him, which was enough to make him scamper despite his fever. His reflexes were slower, his pace laughable for even a docile slave, but it was enough to avoid being skewered by the barrage. He aimed the revolver toward his rear out of instinct, but thought better of pulling the trigger. Instead he ran zig-zag of the flurry, a flechted tail dug into the sand of where he'd just leapt. No breath could be taken, no respite, the fire had spread like a visible virus across the swampy forest, the sky bright with brimstone as blackened trees tumbled like falling books from a shelf.
Anglermaw cursed, his body almost cushioning the fall of a smouldered tree. A trio of hidden gors were exposed by the fall, their figures chiseled from obsidian, their snouts long and slim like jackals. They did not charge but instead scaled the sandy hillside for better ground, and were each awarded an arrow to the back for their courtesy. They whimpered like dogs as they bled out.
Anglermaw turned to face the tide of arrows, his mind awoke and astonished by the auric shape of the tomb trireme, gilded sheets of gold masked a millenia of wood rot, the dated vessel sailing by supernatural means that Anglermaw could not guess. What had truly enraptured him however were those who sailed the vessel, and their skeletal visages were bleached with rotten bows in their grips, save the bronze clad figure at the prow, the handle of a halberd clutched between his rotting hands. It had been a revelation to him that dead men truly ruled the ruins of Nehekhara. He felt his heart pause at the sight while another flurry of arrows launched toward the savage host.
"Horned Sigmar-rat, they're actually real." Anglermaw gulped, he hid beside the fallen tree for cover. The sounds of skirmish did not relent however, and he heard the gutteral howls of more beastmen as they dropped upon the smoking sands. His pistol shook between his jittering hands, and he wondered where on the Chaos moon Falderan and Mokte could be?
--
Mokte was forced into killing grounds, abominations encircling him like carrion birds to a sunbaked cadaver. Unfortunately for these mutants, this was Mokte's home away from home. His eyes were full of purpose, and all trepidation was void when he beckoned the mutants forth with his free claw. Three hyena-gors answered the challenge, cackling with battleaxes sharpened from stone, charging at him in frenzy while their peers egged them on. The first one was kicked where the branded icon of Khorne hung upon his stomach, and his organs ruptured violently. The other two were caught in a strike that took both their dog-like heads clean off, bobbing down the hill like lost toys. A red skinned berseker flung at Mokte, two steel axes rolled in his arms like wheels. But the Saurus noted the crazed warrior's weakness instantly, and dug the clubsword into the creature's bovine skull before it could lay a strike. A packhound leapt not a moment sooner, gnawing at Mokte's shoulder and disarming him, but the grip of Mokte's jaw was stronger, and he ripped mutant hound in two with his teeth. A creature with quills upon it's back and a toothy maw for a stomach sought to capitalize on the distraction with a leap, poisoned dagger dripping ichor upon it's arms of exposed bone. But Mokte caught the now whimpering creature midfall. His fangs gouged deeply into the mutant's flesh, and he pulled ruddy flesh so hard that the beast's spiked head came clean off. Mokte laughed as the arterial blood snaked across his dagger sized fangs, and he dropped the jittering corpse to bleed upon the hill.
The creatures lost their impetuousness, they backed away from the very figure of the crimson Saurus, the skulls upon his breast rattling, grinning like the faceless archers down below. From gutteral taunts in the Dark Tongue came hisses of dissonance. The creatures that previously encircled Mokte soon found themselve caught in the next flurry of arrows. Mokte mockingly bowed like an actor on his stage while his apparent audience were whittled down by arrows, dropping where they stood. Mokte licked the blood from his teeth as he rose, did the same with the dripping juices upon his club-sword as he knelt to pick it up. It tasted of salt and iron, and he grimaced at the taste. The creatures fled in terror before, some skewered by fletched arrows, others lost within the brimstone until their forms dissipated from reality.
'Was this truly it?' He thought, raising his arms in challenge. Were these creatures truly the children of Chaos that Supa-Kheti - for all his wisdom - had taught him to fear? Were these the creatures prophecised to devour and corrupt the world in the time yet to come? It would take a million of these monsters to threaten Tzlipectl. Not even close enough to stir Lord Nahwa from his contemplation. The Saurus were engineered to face Demons, not bull-faced cavemen. This skirmish was not a contest. Therein lay a new problem however, for the undead below made no distinction between 'good beast' nor 'bad beast.' Arrows flew at Mokte's direction, three puncturing his side, like glass shards splintering his flesh. The arrows were not fatal -- thanks to his stone hard skin -- but they were painful. Mokte limped for cover while the undead reloaded, the figure of a bronze clad warrior and his skeletal retinue disembarking from the trireme. It would be better to let both abominations fight amongst themselves.
Skukeel, Leo'slaka, and the beastlord's other nameless catamites. It did not matter if this grove was to smoulder and die under the lappings of myrmiden fire, Sobekanen would take their heads as trophies aboard his ship.
The trireme was slammed by a pair of the crocodilian beasts as they leapt from the water. Propelled by their muscular tails they came up from adjacent sides. Both near the front of the vessel. One slammed it's massive claw onto the deck. Digging into the wood it crawled it's way up. Revealing it's burnt body it grabbed the leg of one of the rowers. Flinging the boney form across the deck with ease it's spine shattered as it his the ground. Several others turned and howled as a raspy tone as they reached for short swords by their sides. The Beastmen gave no remorse. On the opposite side the other came up grabbing an archer by the ribs in either hand and slamming them together. Powdery dust emerging from the bones as they bashed together. Throwing the shambling bodies aside as arrows turned on him the beast roared and charged it's attackers. A fierce attack emerged on the vessel seconds after the ships leader got off.
Skukeel let out a cry of challenge to Sobekanen. His great cry keeping what remained of his force nearby and fighting. He glared to his skeletal rival pointed his blade out. His talon clenching around the distant skull of his quarry. Despite the language barrier the meaning was clear. Come and fight. Face your doom. Nothing could misinterpret such meaning without purposeful ignorance. A stillness fell upon the water around Skukeel's feet as he waited for his opponent to come and face him. Honor was now at stake. And between the pride of a Beastlord and a Prince of the sands neither would turn down the offer. And neither could be welcomed by their gods for such cowardice.
Skukeel let out a cry of challenge to Sobekanen. His great cry keeping what remained of his force nearby and fighting. He glared to his skeletal rival pointed his blade out. His talon clenching around the distant skull of his quarry. Despite the language barrier the meaning was clear. Come and fight. Face your doom. Nothing could misinterpret such meaning without purposeful ignorance. A stillness fell upon the water around Skukeel's feet as he waited for his opponent to come and face him. Honor was now at stake. And between the pride of a Beastlord and a Prince of the sands neither would turn down the offer. And neither could be welcomed by their gods for such cowardice.
While the main body of Sobekanen's host fought against the last remnants that Skukeel could muster, the Prince had already found himself caught under an ambush. The trireme teetered alarmingly under the swell of the crocodilian beasts. Sobekanen was himself compelled to reach for the prow to maintain balance, his skeletal servants cast into littered mortis water, not the slightest whimper slipping from their rictus mouths as they plunged. His men were no longer capable of fear, that primal sense had been discarded millenia ago. They did not share his alarm, and even in the presence of danger they sauntered to and fro the deck like automata, spears, bows and wooden shields scattering across the broken mast as their bodies became literally disassemebled under brute force. Only Captain Nourma seemed to maintain some level of awareness; he'd silently ordered his retinue of bowmen to rendezvous with the Prince, acting as his motley crew of bodyguards. Seven supplicants in total, hardly a match for the two monsters, each nearly the size of an ushabti. Sobekanen demanded passage as they notched arrows at the beastly pair, and the wall of bone aquiesced. Fletched arrows screamed beneath the sun before piercing the scaled hides, charred wine red with flame. But the pain only seemed to frustrate the beasts, and with a roar that could pierce the ear drums of most living men, the crocodilian less festooned of the pair charged with the ferocity of it's bovine cousin from the north.
"Disperse! Get away from here!" Sobekanen shouted to the bowmen, his voice muffled under the funerary mask. If either Nourma's cog-like mind failed to process Sobekanen's words, or if his men had no chance of reaction against the beast, it did not matter. The Prince had flung himself opposite the crocodilian's direction, seconds away from being converted into a dusty, millenia old paste. Nourma's men faced the charge headlong; one last flurry punctured the beast as their skeletal frames were cast across the smoking horizon. The beast tumbled alongside the discarded array of plumbed skulls, unknown to the Prince, a fortunate arrow had pierced it's windpipe, hot blood frothing beside the oily river bed as it gurgled underwater.
The second crocodilian had not concerned itself with the bowmen, and had been busy turning the catapult into splinters to vent it's rage. Oil from the rictus containers seeped across the platform, and before Sobekanen could prevent the ruin of his ship, a drawling voice beckoned him to the flaming grove. He turned his masked head to the gangrenous form of Skukeel, a sharpened blade of steel with a makeshift hilt bearing the icon of Nurgle pointed in the Prince's direction. This was a duel, he realised, leaping from the ship to join the rest of his host, Leo'slaka was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the rotting crocodile was hungry for validation in the eyes of his debased god.
Sobekanen wasted no words on Skukeel, he raised his shield arm and braced for the duel. Wetted globules of sand flew riverside with each stride. Despite his dessicated form, Sobekanen charged with the same bygone mien as he had done in life, unshakable in the face of a monsterous threat. Cleaver and khopesh soon connected in a ringing twine amidst the deluge of battle.
"Disperse! Get away from here!" Sobekanen shouted to the bowmen, his voice muffled under the funerary mask. If either Nourma's cog-like mind failed to process Sobekanen's words, or if his men had no chance of reaction against the beast, it did not matter. The Prince had flung himself opposite the crocodilian's direction, seconds away from being converted into a dusty, millenia old paste. Nourma's men faced the charge headlong; one last flurry punctured the beast as their skeletal frames were cast across the smoking horizon. The beast tumbled alongside the discarded array of plumbed skulls, unknown to the Prince, a fortunate arrow had pierced it's windpipe, hot blood frothing beside the oily river bed as it gurgled underwater.
The second crocodilian had not concerned itself with the bowmen, and had been busy turning the catapult into splinters to vent it's rage. Oil from the rictus containers seeped across the platform, and before Sobekanen could prevent the ruin of his ship, a drawling voice beckoned him to the flaming grove. He turned his masked head to the gangrenous form of Skukeel, a sharpened blade of steel with a makeshift hilt bearing the icon of Nurgle pointed in the Prince's direction. This was a duel, he realised, leaping from the ship to join the rest of his host, Leo'slaka was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the rotting crocodile was hungry for validation in the eyes of his debased god.
Sobekanen wasted no words on Skukeel, he raised his shield arm and braced for the duel. Wetted globules of sand flew riverside with each stride. Despite his dessicated form, Sobekanen charged with the same bygone mien as he had done in life, unshakable in the face of a monsterous threat. Cleaver and khopesh soon connected in a ringing twine amidst the deluge of battle.
A deep crack boomed out as weapons clashed. The first clash of blades drew the attention of those fighting. The echoing bang and following shout caught the ears of the Ungors and the other underlings of Beastmen. Watching from around a crowed gathered for the twisted game. A clash not unlike fight pits seen in the rougher parts of cities. The Beastmen slowly approached but kept their distance. A good thirty feet stood away from the fighters as they clashed. What Ungors could escape combat came to watch. Erratic like nervous dogs they watched their leader battle the skeletal ruler. Yips and snarls came from the watchers as they observed the struggle to determine the battle.
Skukeel knocked back Sobekanan and with his foe off balance leapt with a shoulder charge. Swifter than bones would appear he dodged. Only narrowly being clipped and sent spiralling. Regaining his balance from the near bone shattering attack he was swift at avoiding an over head slash of Skukeel's khopesh. A retaliating strike hit the beast in it's side and a roar of anger came out. One hand slashed for Sobekanan's head using the weapon while the other hand slashed with talons. It was a blind fury. Bloodlust taking over and more than that his very honor stood on the line. Even as they fought the others of the tribe pondered the end. If Skukeel was weak enough after one may try to take him out for dominance. A dishonorable tactic but where was honor when survival and domination were on the line?
Skukeel knocked back Sobekanan and with his foe off balance leapt with a shoulder charge. Swifter than bones would appear he dodged. Only narrowly being clipped and sent spiralling. Regaining his balance from the near bone shattering attack he was swift at avoiding an over head slash of Skukeel's khopesh. A retaliating strike hit the beast in it's side and a roar of anger came out. One hand slashed for Sobekanan's head using the weapon while the other hand slashed with talons. It was a blind fury. Bloodlust taking over and more than that his very honor stood on the line. Even as they fought the others of the tribe pondered the end. If Skukeel was weak enough after one may try to take him out for dominance. A dishonorable tactic but where was honor when survival and domination were on the line?
Beasts whooped in frenzy. The skeletons chattered their bleached jaws in a percussive rattle, both host captivated by the struggle, seemingly at truce to the pivotal event, which had the potential to end the battle in it's infancy. Spears, shields and cudgels raised and juggled in rhythm, the rival warbands providing a barrier for their respective lord. The skeletal automata braced themselves in a shieldwall, providing a staunch report for the Prince while the warherd of Skukeel impetuously heaved their weapons toward their proclaimed leader with indecisive courage, egging him on, and yet mocking his caution. For the Beastlord, the only key out of this pit lay with Sobekanen's partitioned head in his slimy clutch. Not that Skukeel had any intention of retreat, his rusted cleaver digging into the shield of his foe. The Beastlord smiled, his quarry staggering. The sight of struggle made him drawl across the cavities of his molars, his rancid breath perfuming the churning atmosphere.
Sobekanen's shield dented against Skukeel's thrust, he stumbled awkwardly upon reedy sand, backing away to obtain a level of sobriety. The mutants raved their bodies excitedly. He could feel their lust for violence course like venom within his split cavity, he felt it again through another blow to the shield, rattling his emaciated frame. A third time Skukeel thrust, and this time broke Sobekanen's defence. He fell supine by the jittering shieldwall of his men, spears poised at the ready should the rotting Patriarch dare breach the boundary. It would be a pointless defence, but a brave show of loyalty. They were silent in comparison to the beastmen, their howls reaching their zenith, chucking stones, sticks and dirt at the skeletal line in presumed victory. Sobekanen shield arm vibrated in a jolt of electrified pain, his physical body dried and hollow, but his bindings wreathed with unlife. Phantom adrenaline pierced the cavity of his mind, rolling deftly from a fourth blow from his foe and balancing himself with khopesh in hand. Sobekanen grinned from within his funerary mask, he'd gauged the clumsy crocodilian and his brutish attempts at swordplay, he would steal the offensive from his foe.
Skukeel hazed a growl of annoyed disproval, cracking the bones within his putrefied neck to make a heinous noise. He uttered a curse in the dark tongue as Sobekanen raised to his feet, abandoning his beaten shield. The emaciated prince radiated with overconfidence, a curved blade poised in Skukeel's direction, goading him to strike. He would acquiesce, to his displeasure. For while the slayer of Mukban stood, glistening in his ancient livery, his status as Beastlord would remain questioned by the council of Wargors. As the raving mutants snarled for death, he hefted the cleaver at Sobekanen in a whirlwind of strikes, wafts of smog whipping against the fierce winds. Cyclonic waves nicked the fabric of the prince's segmented armour, collateral blows splintering the shield wall, pincering Sobekanen like a cornered rat. Nurgle's icon gifted Skukeel with a body that although slow, was immune to the frailty of fatigue. Sobekanen knew the putrid lord would not cease. He saw his chance as the beast spun again, savagely waving his great cleaver downward to split Sobekanen's skull a second time. Untouched by fear, the prince dug his khopesh into the lime flesh, splitting Skukeel's blotchy stomach like a burst fruit. The sharpened bronze plunged into Skukeel's squirming intestines. Skukeel gargled in muted agony, pus-like fluid spilled from within the newly made orifice, the bloody ichor creamy like diluted milk while the lord screamed. Sobekanen laughed in triumph, he twisted the curved sword in Skukeel's belly, before heaving a vertical slash that disembowelled the beast.
The once riled crowd of mutants quivered helplessly as their lord fell to his knees, organs and vital fluids bobbed comically out of Skukeel's cavernous stomach as he desperately pieced his discoloured guts back inside his body, the sands stained in smoking acid. Sobekanen raised the khopesh in triumph, and roared with a heartiness that belied his mummified form. He let Skukeel take a moment to regret his fatal challenge, then he raised the khopesh over the Beastlord's prostrate head to split his jade crown in two. Triumph welled in the prince's dried veins. He envisioned himself beneath the yoke of the desert sun, parading the dried belt of this vermin across the street of Bhagar from upon his princely chariot, the bleached masses waving their boney limbs and bowing their exposed vertebrae in eerie supplication. He would bring honour to his title and sovereign, for death had not parted him with his mettle just yet.
--
Anglermaw scurried fearfully through charred grove, chittering in likeness of his smaller kin as he hoped that he was not being watched by another of the hyena-men. His head was caught in the vice of his fever, and the adrenaline left his body, he sank back into a heavy fatigue. He tumbled snout first into remote grove, kneading the lanky knoll of plants with his claws. The monsterous whoopings became echoes in his mind, desperation replaced with confusion. Time did not exist in this place, only vertigo and a shivering fear of death. Was he still dreaming, he wondered wide-eyed in his fever dream. Then he corrected himself. He may have been ill, but his earlier fall had hurt like a sharkbite, and the visceral cruelty he'd dealt to the hyena-man as he'd caved it's skull in was a very real sensation. He calmed himself, crawling upon the dirt that stained his torn jacket. This was not the first time he'd brushed with death, he reminded himself. It would not be his last, he had a good knack for survival in the worst of situations. Angerlaw knew one thing though; that inescapable truth -- If he wanted to live through this unscathed, he'd have to find either Mokte or Falderan. Sigmar-Rat knew where either had gotten lost in this infernal mess.
Crawling slowly, away from the area in which danger loomed, Anglermaw crawled like an earthworm. If they had been raided by the beast-things, as it had seemed down below. He would likely find both his saviours further inside the grove. Each shuffle made the way to sanctuary clearer. But the figure in front of him had made Anglermaw's racing heart sink. A rippling figure of pale flesh, scars of historic battles bared across his body proudly like the chiselling of Tilean marble. From the figure's leonine head flowed an obnoxious mane of gold in lieu of the piercing sun hidden by the smog. His gauntlets were silver, his fingers trimmed in a hue of amethyst like the glowing hands of a sorcerer ready to unleash his incantation of power. Anglermaw had become acquainted with Leo'slaka via the snarling face embossed over his groin, a barbed tongue petrified within cursed steel, two sapphire eyes glittered wildly like realms of the sea, a skirt of steel shimmered from behind, the lion's fleshy, eye-laden tail dangling over Anglermaw's petrified beak like a fly's proboscis. Judging him, savouring his emotion. The Sea-Rat looked up, the sky blotted by the edge of Leo'slaka's great axe, the size of which befitted the glorious creature which wielded it. The centre of the axe-head was emblazoned by the mark of Slaanesh, and the wails of the newly dead seemed to echo from within the hollow crystal in the centre of the icon.
"What in Stromfels' deep hell are you-you?" Anglermaw quivered, the axe raised above his head.
"I'm going to send you there myself, little creature." The Leonine Wargor chuckled, in an accent that Anglermaw eerily understood. "Die."
Sobekanen's shield dented against Skukeel's thrust, he stumbled awkwardly upon reedy sand, backing away to obtain a level of sobriety. The mutants raved their bodies excitedly. He could feel their lust for violence course like venom within his split cavity, he felt it again through another blow to the shield, rattling his emaciated frame. A third time Skukeel thrust, and this time broke Sobekanen's defence. He fell supine by the jittering shieldwall of his men, spears poised at the ready should the rotting Patriarch dare breach the boundary. It would be a pointless defence, but a brave show of loyalty. They were silent in comparison to the beastmen, their howls reaching their zenith, chucking stones, sticks and dirt at the skeletal line in presumed victory. Sobekanen shield arm vibrated in a jolt of electrified pain, his physical body dried and hollow, but his bindings wreathed with unlife. Phantom adrenaline pierced the cavity of his mind, rolling deftly from a fourth blow from his foe and balancing himself with khopesh in hand. Sobekanen grinned from within his funerary mask, he'd gauged the clumsy crocodilian and his brutish attempts at swordplay, he would steal the offensive from his foe.
Skukeel hazed a growl of annoyed disproval, cracking the bones within his putrefied neck to make a heinous noise. He uttered a curse in the dark tongue as Sobekanen raised to his feet, abandoning his beaten shield. The emaciated prince radiated with overconfidence, a curved blade poised in Skukeel's direction, goading him to strike. He would acquiesce, to his displeasure. For while the slayer of Mukban stood, glistening in his ancient livery, his status as Beastlord would remain questioned by the council of Wargors. As the raving mutants snarled for death, he hefted the cleaver at Sobekanen in a whirlwind of strikes, wafts of smog whipping against the fierce winds. Cyclonic waves nicked the fabric of the prince's segmented armour, collateral blows splintering the shield wall, pincering Sobekanen like a cornered rat. Nurgle's icon gifted Skukeel with a body that although slow, was immune to the frailty of fatigue. Sobekanen knew the putrid lord would not cease. He saw his chance as the beast spun again, savagely waving his great cleaver downward to split Sobekanen's skull a second time. Untouched by fear, the prince dug his khopesh into the lime flesh, splitting Skukeel's blotchy stomach like a burst fruit. The sharpened bronze plunged into Skukeel's squirming intestines. Skukeel gargled in muted agony, pus-like fluid spilled from within the newly made orifice, the bloody ichor creamy like diluted milk while the lord screamed. Sobekanen laughed in triumph, he twisted the curved sword in Skukeel's belly, before heaving a vertical slash that disembowelled the beast.
The once riled crowd of mutants quivered helplessly as their lord fell to his knees, organs and vital fluids bobbed comically out of Skukeel's cavernous stomach as he desperately pieced his discoloured guts back inside his body, the sands stained in smoking acid. Sobekanen raised the khopesh in triumph, and roared with a heartiness that belied his mummified form. He let Skukeel take a moment to regret his fatal challenge, then he raised the khopesh over the Beastlord's prostrate head to split his jade crown in two. Triumph welled in the prince's dried veins. He envisioned himself beneath the yoke of the desert sun, parading the dried belt of this vermin across the street of Bhagar from upon his princely chariot, the bleached masses waving their boney limbs and bowing their exposed vertebrae in eerie supplication. He would bring honour to his title and sovereign, for death had not parted him with his mettle just yet.
--
Anglermaw scurried fearfully through charred grove, chittering in likeness of his smaller kin as he hoped that he was not being watched by another of the hyena-men. His head was caught in the vice of his fever, and the adrenaline left his body, he sank back into a heavy fatigue. He tumbled snout first into remote grove, kneading the lanky knoll of plants with his claws. The monsterous whoopings became echoes in his mind, desperation replaced with confusion. Time did not exist in this place, only vertigo and a shivering fear of death. Was he still dreaming, he wondered wide-eyed in his fever dream. Then he corrected himself. He may have been ill, but his earlier fall had hurt like a sharkbite, and the visceral cruelty he'd dealt to the hyena-man as he'd caved it's skull in was a very real sensation. He calmed himself, crawling upon the dirt that stained his torn jacket. This was not the first time he'd brushed with death, he reminded himself. It would not be his last, he had a good knack for survival in the worst of situations. Angerlaw knew one thing though; that inescapable truth -- If he wanted to live through this unscathed, he'd have to find either Mokte or Falderan. Sigmar-Rat knew where either had gotten lost in this infernal mess.
Crawling slowly, away from the area in which danger loomed, Anglermaw crawled like an earthworm. If they had been raided by the beast-things, as it had seemed down below. He would likely find both his saviours further inside the grove. Each shuffle made the way to sanctuary clearer. But the figure in front of him had made Anglermaw's racing heart sink. A rippling figure of pale flesh, scars of historic battles bared across his body proudly like the chiselling of Tilean marble. From the figure's leonine head flowed an obnoxious mane of gold in lieu of the piercing sun hidden by the smog. His gauntlets were silver, his fingers trimmed in a hue of amethyst like the glowing hands of a sorcerer ready to unleash his incantation of power. Anglermaw had become acquainted with Leo'slaka via the snarling face embossed over his groin, a barbed tongue petrified within cursed steel, two sapphire eyes glittered wildly like realms of the sea, a skirt of steel shimmered from behind, the lion's fleshy, eye-laden tail dangling over Anglermaw's petrified beak like a fly's proboscis. Judging him, savouring his emotion. The Sea-Rat looked up, the sky blotted by the edge of Leo'slaka's great axe, the size of which befitted the glorious creature which wielded it. The centre of the axe-head was emblazoned by the mark of Slaanesh, and the wails of the newly dead seemed to echo from within the hollow crystal in the centre of the icon.
"What in Stromfels' deep hell are you-you?" Anglermaw quivered, the axe raised above his head.
"I'm going to send you there myself, little creature." The Leonine Wargor chuckled, in an accent that Anglermaw eerily understood. "Die."
It took some time to pull himself from the shore. His left arm and both legs felt searing pain from the battles Fal had fought with the great Beastmen in the river. Muscles ached and burnt with fire and if it wasn't for the chill of the water he'd swear he burnt. The smell of burnt flesh and reeds was rampant in the air. Black smoke blotted out the sky and likely would be a signal for any and all scavengers that prey was ample in the area. Staying low and keeping out of sight of the cackling Ungors Fal was desperate to fine his allies. The Saurus and Skaven he had travelled some time with. The two he would call friends with enough ale. He needed to find them as apart he at least was fairly easy prey for any wandering Beastmen with a love of flesh.
The sounds of the distant battle and cheering fell silent. The silence was strange as if he went death and apart from the sloshing water and sizzling matter it would seem so. After a hollow cry sounding like air through a dried, cracked horn the sounds of horns blared. Yelps and squeals of fear filled the air as dozens of Beastmen began running into the desert. Fal dropped to the sand and tried to shimmy into the sand. Remaining silent he saw many of the beasts fleeing. Numerous forsaking upright motion to drop to all fours and run in the most animalistic manner. Something had occurred that sent them to flight and Fal had a good guess. Beastmen rarely stayed fighting after their leader was slain. Odds are the Beastlord was struck down and it's weak willed followers would flee before the enemy. Unless they somehow had a huge advantage the shock of morale would be too much. As the clatter of wet bodies went on some distance before him he heard a smash to his side. Inside the not yet burning brush he heard a fierce impact and a series of panicked splashes. Pulling himself up he went to the source. Club ready.
Fal saw a something which brought a mix of relief and anger to him. He saw Anglermaw on all fours frantically trying to escape from a large lion headed Beastman that let out a howl of rage. With the horns of retreating sounding it's eyes went red as it opened it's mouth for a roar. Serpentine tongue flickering like a lash. It would seem perfect timing. By the swiftness of the strikes the anger and surprise at the retreat threw off the freakish spawn of Chaos. Though Anglermaw was in little condition to out speed the beast. He saw the vermin buckle as he hit something beneath the water. Flinging forward in a daze. The axe raised high the Beastmen went to strike before Fal shouted.
"Beastmen!" He cried as he felt a burning in his chest. The lion headed beast turned. Fal paused. Realizing what he had done and cursing his brashness. He double downed on his actions though. "Your kin flee. Weak willed and foolish as the vile Gods you serve. Now you think you can still earn favour? Your kin are pathetic and you seem to be no different. Hunting a pitiful rat." He spat a mix of bloody spitel Coughing something up from his now burning chest. Fal raised his club with his least sore arm and glared at the healthy seeming Gor. He just hoped his ploy worked to distract it. Letting Anglermaw have a moment to collect and escape his predicament. Though what would happen next, how he would survive. Well you couldn't call it an impromptu plan if it was thought out.
The sounds of the distant battle and cheering fell silent. The silence was strange as if he went death and apart from the sloshing water and sizzling matter it would seem so. After a hollow cry sounding like air through a dried, cracked horn the sounds of horns blared. Yelps and squeals of fear filled the air as dozens of Beastmen began running into the desert. Fal dropped to the sand and tried to shimmy into the sand. Remaining silent he saw many of the beasts fleeing. Numerous forsaking upright motion to drop to all fours and run in the most animalistic manner. Something had occurred that sent them to flight and Fal had a good guess. Beastmen rarely stayed fighting after their leader was slain. Odds are the Beastlord was struck down and it's weak willed followers would flee before the enemy. Unless they somehow had a huge advantage the shock of morale would be too much. As the clatter of wet bodies went on some distance before him he heard a smash to his side. Inside the not yet burning brush he heard a fierce impact and a series of panicked splashes. Pulling himself up he went to the source. Club ready.
Fal saw a something which brought a mix of relief and anger to him. He saw Anglermaw on all fours frantically trying to escape from a large lion headed Beastman that let out a howl of rage. With the horns of retreating sounding it's eyes went red as it opened it's mouth for a roar. Serpentine tongue flickering like a lash. It would seem perfect timing. By the swiftness of the strikes the anger and surprise at the retreat threw off the freakish spawn of Chaos. Though Anglermaw was in little condition to out speed the beast. He saw the vermin buckle as he hit something beneath the water. Flinging forward in a daze. The axe raised high the Beastmen went to strike before Fal shouted.
"Beastmen!" He cried as he felt a burning in his chest. The lion headed beast turned. Fal paused. Realizing what he had done and cursing his brashness. He double downed on his actions though. "Your kin flee. Weak willed and foolish as the vile Gods you serve. Now you think you can still earn favour? Your kin are pathetic and you seem to be no different. Hunting a pitiful rat." He spat a mix of bloody spitel Coughing something up from his now burning chest. Fal raised his club with his least sore arm and glared at the healthy seeming Gor. He just hoped his ploy worked to distract it. Letting Anglermaw have a moment to collect and escape his predicament. Though what would happen next, how he would survive. Well you couldn't call it an impromptu plan if it was thought out.
Leo'slaka cocked his bristling mane in the direction of the newcomer's voice, the panting of battle exhaustion sensitive on the wargor's ears. Curious, he dug his axe into the dirt, his prostrate quarry lay almost statuary, either petrified or already accepting of his fate. The leonine wargor raised his pierced brow while the lanky figure emerged from the dissipating smog, the carnage of battle vanishing alongside the scores of fleeing beastmen. The survivors of the battle ran back into scorching desert, their monstrous forms belied their cowardly opportunism. With Skukeel dead, his cause died with him, and his host fractured like his rotting body, cleaved into pieces by the frenzied Tomb Prince down by the riverside. Leo'slaka felt no grief over the Beastlord's untimely death, whereas the lesser gors flew in a deranged panic, Leo'slaka's cunning mind envisioned an opportunity.
A deep chuckle reverberated within Leo'slaka's baritone throat, his silver fangs glinting in the desert sun, as did the studs embedded into his bifurcated tongue. He sauntered menacingly toward the displaced elf, greataxe in hand, while the legion of eyes stared at the two quarries. It would be very foolish of Anglermaw to think that Leo'slaka had been simply distracted by Falderan's timely arrival. "You are an amusing one, Elf-man." Leo'slaka began, tone gutteral like chalk upon a teacher's blackboard, but his words were morbidly articulate. "These plains are my haven, I will rebuild Dharkhar's host in my own vision in due time. But you, a long way from home, in the vastness of the open desert? Are you so sunbaked? Come, lay your neck by my axe, and I will ease the madness the sun has wrought on you."
His pace increased, silver boots in the shape of clawed feet kneading over the charred reeds until each self-inflicted scar became plain in view. Leo'slaka's display of bravado had earned him a small crowd of spotted ungors, breaking from their panic at the sight of such savage majesty. The icon upon Leo'slaka's axehead pulsated with hunger, like an abyssal hound salivating at the sight of it's quarry.
But a thunderous roar pierced the reformed herd, as burned shrubbery disintegrated to give way to Mokte's blooded form. The dented club-sword, crusted with the gore of beastmen waved in his left claw, a makeshift buckler fashioned from the head of a crocodilian gor in the right. The arrowheads dug into his thigh were replaced by reddened punctures, red ichor dripping down his leg like tree sap. Although injured, Mokte paid his body no heed, and his presence was enough to turn Leo'slaka's head, and to make his quivering kin mewl in terror. "Think you have the better odds now, beast-filth? I seen piles of rat dung more threatening than you, come on!" Mokte shouted to gain the wargor's attention, beating the mutiliated head-shield across the rattling shawl of skulls across his chest.
Leo'slaka surveyed the second arrival. He smirked, impressed by Mokte's savage form. Then he chuckled at the sauruses attempt to hide such obvious injuries. "I am beset by two cripples and a rat." The axe glinted in his rippling arms, the silver weapon brandished defensively to mock his enemies, beckoning them forth. "Come on, I will indulge you both." Leo'slaka said, the host of Sobekanen meanwhile marched toward the fight, heedless of danger as shattered remants of bone reformed into bleached cadaveres. The prince's rage did not end with Skukeel's brutal death, as his small but rejuvenated host marched alongside, he would slaughter the remainder of beastmen like the cattle that they were.
A deep chuckle reverberated within Leo'slaka's baritone throat, his silver fangs glinting in the desert sun, as did the studs embedded into his bifurcated tongue. He sauntered menacingly toward the displaced elf, greataxe in hand, while the legion of eyes stared at the two quarries. It would be very foolish of Anglermaw to think that Leo'slaka had been simply distracted by Falderan's timely arrival. "You are an amusing one, Elf-man." Leo'slaka began, tone gutteral like chalk upon a teacher's blackboard, but his words were morbidly articulate. "These plains are my haven, I will rebuild Dharkhar's host in my own vision in due time. But you, a long way from home, in the vastness of the open desert? Are you so sunbaked? Come, lay your neck by my axe, and I will ease the madness the sun has wrought on you."
His pace increased, silver boots in the shape of clawed feet kneading over the charred reeds until each self-inflicted scar became plain in view. Leo'slaka's display of bravado had earned him a small crowd of spotted ungors, breaking from their panic at the sight of such savage majesty. The icon upon Leo'slaka's axehead pulsated with hunger, like an abyssal hound salivating at the sight of it's quarry.
But a thunderous roar pierced the reformed herd, as burned shrubbery disintegrated to give way to Mokte's blooded form. The dented club-sword, crusted with the gore of beastmen waved in his left claw, a makeshift buckler fashioned from the head of a crocodilian gor in the right. The arrowheads dug into his thigh were replaced by reddened punctures, red ichor dripping down his leg like tree sap. Although injured, Mokte paid his body no heed, and his presence was enough to turn Leo'slaka's head, and to make his quivering kin mewl in terror. "Think you have the better odds now, beast-filth? I seen piles of rat dung more threatening than you, come on!" Mokte shouted to gain the wargor's attention, beating the mutiliated head-shield across the rattling shawl of skulls across his chest.
Leo'slaka surveyed the second arrival. He smirked, impressed by Mokte's savage form. Then he chuckled at the sauruses attempt to hide such obvious injuries. "I am beset by two cripples and a rat." The axe glinted in his rippling arms, the silver weapon brandished defensively to mock his enemies, beckoning them forth. "Come on, I will indulge you both." Leo'slaka said, the host of Sobekanen meanwhile marched toward the fight, heedless of danger as shattered remants of bone reformed into bleached cadaveres. The prince's rage did not end with Skukeel's brutal death, as his small but rejuvenated host marched alongside, he would slaughter the remainder of beastmen like the cattle that they were.
If the decicated form midway between man and beast wasn't enough to repulse anyone with a sense of sanity then the way it spoke was. Gutteral and twisted but undoubtfully a language alike Reikspiel. Similar to Anglermaw but with it's more animalistic tones and subtleties. The way this creature pretended to be a man was disgusting. Elves, Dwarfs and even Ogres were not Men yet they were naturally akin to them. Similar but oddly alien in varience. Yet a common ground could be found across the three in a way that felt designed. But this Beastmen. Maybe it was how Human it seemed despite the bestial mutations that made it seem more Human than Fal would admit. Almost Human. Perhaps more than his own kind were to them. Still. This sick amalgmation that dared tried to touch upon the Human aspects of itself was as sickening as the horrors he saw in Lustria. And the way such a beast spoke rather articulately. He couldn't help but think back to the Champion. The one he sent to meet their Gods.
Fal shook the memories away. This wasn't the time for remembering past troubles. It was a time to act. With Mokte's abrupt arrival and challenge Fal could nearly smell the pride on the beast. An arrogance that radiated off it like heat from a furnace. Something that could be acted on.
"Yea we are pitiful." Fal held up his club. Hiding a wince from pain up his arm. "Will surely render you as a disgrace when you're life is cut down by us." Fal held up the mace and let some of his weakeness show. "After all. Even the most pitiful of Goblin would laugh at you when killed by this." He steadied himself. Trying to keep an eye on his compatriots and knowing things could only go poorly if his plan worked and he was attacked. That being said all he needed was an openning for the others to strike.
Fal shook the memories away. This wasn't the time for remembering past troubles. It was a time to act. With Mokte's abrupt arrival and challenge Fal could nearly smell the pride on the beast. An arrogance that radiated off it like heat from a furnace. Something that could be acted on.
"Yea we are pitiful." Fal held up his club. Hiding a wince from pain up his arm. "Will surely render you as a disgrace when you're life is cut down by us." Fal held up the mace and let some of his weakeness show. "After all. Even the most pitiful of Goblin would laugh at you when killed by this." He steadied himself. Trying to keep an eye on his compatriots and knowing things could only go poorly if his plan worked and he was attacked. That being said all he needed was an openning for the others to strike.
The duo's desperate act of bravado elicited a grunting sound from Leo'slaka's baritone throat. If either had the time to guess, they'd probably have concluded on a chuckle. The Lion-gor flexed the silver greataxe glistening in his claws as he pulled his biceps taut, highlighting the self-inflicted abrasions that marred his inhumanly marble complexion. "Come on then..." The ash flexed mane fluttered while Leo'slaka cracked his neck. "...Bold words aren't going to save your life."
"Nor yours, mutant." Mokte snarled, hardly a shed of intimidation buckled his resolved as he clashed weapons with the beast. He'd faced and killed nightmares far grislier than this feral amalgamation of man, lion and unmistakably demon; just another trophy in the long list of offerings to Lord Nahwa. Mokte hefted his weapon toward the Lion-gor in an unbridled flourish, swing after swing thrown wildly in a short burst of pent up energy. Such a heavy onslaught would have made an abattoir out of a group of lesser beastmen, but Mokte was no longer facing the grovelling mutants among the charred ruins of their ship, and his blows were deftly parried, blow after blow vibrating in the skulls of the duelists like teeth gnashing upon stone.
It had been enough to deliver Anglermaw from his panic striken reverie, an indiscriminate clash of weapons causing him to yelp without any sense of thought. He scuttled away from the duel while Leo'slaka was pre-occupied. He had to get away, there was no desire to fight coursing through Anglermaw's rushing brain, for he brooked no contest. He fell upon a grove of high leaves a short distance from the duel, hardly concealed from danger, but enough to regain his bearings. He squeezed his palms taut, a hollow whistle echoing through his throat like the wind of a derelict hall. It had occurred to him just how close to death he had been in that moment, and the immediate dread of knowing that he would have to step back into the deluge. To flee was suicide; flickers of Anglermaw's end flashed unique pictographs within his mind. To either meet a slow end as he dehydrated in the sun like a sizzling cut of meat, to being festooned with rotting arrows two millenia late, or being ambushed and eaten alive by a pack of starving ungors. He let the thoughts run their course as he began to consider a plan of distraction, the boney footsteps of an undead legion buzzing in his mind like angry wasps. Anglermaw conceded a morose sigh -- he didn't have to glance back to the embers to know that the skeletons were on their move uphill.
Despite Mokte's fierce offensive, Leo'slaka had yet to brook a sweat, whom hadn't flexed his might even in the first ambush, comforably hidden away from the din of slaughter, convinced of his swansong to a ragged warherd which he'd given no loyalty to.
As Skukeel stooped upon the wetted sands, desperately clawing at his exposed entrails, he'd observed the mortified herd with utter indifference. While his mutant brethren ran screaming for their lives under a swarm of ancient, copper tipped arrows which abruptly skewered their mortal coils, he hadn't pitied them was a milisecond of remorse. When his fellow Wargor and supposed brother in arms - Khardath Hornshatter, right claw of Skukeel - whose bovine frame was burned alive by a wreathing conflagration of oily death before he could assist the pretender beastlord - Leo'slaka merely smiled, for he had endured one less rival on his road to greatness. The Lion-gor was unfatigued, terrifyingly fresh with a vigour that had yet to be exposed until now. Unlike Falderan and Mokte, Leo'slaka was at his peak.
The amethyst orb embossed within Leo'slaka's axehead swished like the afterimage of a falling comet, the weapon hefted like a massive feather in the pearlescent arms of the Lion-gor. Mokte found himself parried, and promptly pushed back with a silvered footclaw beside a withering tree. The offensive quickly lost, as flutterings of purple death burned themselves into the Saurus' eyes like coronas of shyish illuminating the embers. Mokte's swordarm bucked violently, the exotic club-sword flew from his bloodied claws before it was strewn upon the shrubbery, shards of obsinite freckled the ground like flecks of ash. Mokte was given no time to consider his options, the pommel of Leo'slaka's axe flew upward, crashing directly with Mokte's lower jaw. A fountain of blood and shattered teeth rose like a geyser from his mouth, and he fell onto his back beside his club-sword. Dizzied and broken, Mokte tried to raise himself up. Rivulets of blood flecked across Mokte's gaping maw a moment later, as the last thing that he saw before unconsciousness was the silver effigy of a demonette emblazoned upon a kneecap, slamming into his snout.
Leo'slaka gave half a second to admire his brutal handiwork. Then he turned his attention to Falderan, killing the Saurus would have to wait, he had plans for them both, while they still breathed, at least.
"Nor yours, mutant." Mokte snarled, hardly a shed of intimidation buckled his resolved as he clashed weapons with the beast. He'd faced and killed nightmares far grislier than this feral amalgamation of man, lion and unmistakably demon; just another trophy in the long list of offerings to Lord Nahwa. Mokte hefted his weapon toward the Lion-gor in an unbridled flourish, swing after swing thrown wildly in a short burst of pent up energy. Such a heavy onslaught would have made an abattoir out of a group of lesser beastmen, but Mokte was no longer facing the grovelling mutants among the charred ruins of their ship, and his blows were deftly parried, blow after blow vibrating in the skulls of the duelists like teeth gnashing upon stone.
It had been enough to deliver Anglermaw from his panic striken reverie, an indiscriminate clash of weapons causing him to yelp without any sense of thought. He scuttled away from the duel while Leo'slaka was pre-occupied. He had to get away, there was no desire to fight coursing through Anglermaw's rushing brain, for he brooked no contest. He fell upon a grove of high leaves a short distance from the duel, hardly concealed from danger, but enough to regain his bearings. He squeezed his palms taut, a hollow whistle echoing through his throat like the wind of a derelict hall. It had occurred to him just how close to death he had been in that moment, and the immediate dread of knowing that he would have to step back into the deluge. To flee was suicide; flickers of Anglermaw's end flashed unique pictographs within his mind. To either meet a slow end as he dehydrated in the sun like a sizzling cut of meat, to being festooned with rotting arrows two millenia late, or being ambushed and eaten alive by a pack of starving ungors. He let the thoughts run their course as he began to consider a plan of distraction, the boney footsteps of an undead legion buzzing in his mind like angry wasps. Anglermaw conceded a morose sigh -- he didn't have to glance back to the embers to know that the skeletons were on their move uphill.
Despite Mokte's fierce offensive, Leo'slaka had yet to brook a sweat, whom hadn't flexed his might even in the first ambush, comforably hidden away from the din of slaughter, convinced of his swansong to a ragged warherd which he'd given no loyalty to.
As Skukeel stooped upon the wetted sands, desperately clawing at his exposed entrails, he'd observed the mortified herd with utter indifference. While his mutant brethren ran screaming for their lives under a swarm of ancient, copper tipped arrows which abruptly skewered their mortal coils, he hadn't pitied them was a milisecond of remorse. When his fellow Wargor and supposed brother in arms - Khardath Hornshatter, right claw of Skukeel - whose bovine frame was burned alive by a wreathing conflagration of oily death before he could assist the pretender beastlord - Leo'slaka merely smiled, for he had endured one less rival on his road to greatness. The Lion-gor was unfatigued, terrifyingly fresh with a vigour that had yet to be exposed until now. Unlike Falderan and Mokte, Leo'slaka was at his peak.
The amethyst orb embossed within Leo'slaka's axehead swished like the afterimage of a falling comet, the weapon hefted like a massive feather in the pearlescent arms of the Lion-gor. Mokte found himself parried, and promptly pushed back with a silvered footclaw beside a withering tree. The offensive quickly lost, as flutterings of purple death burned themselves into the Saurus' eyes like coronas of shyish illuminating the embers. Mokte's swordarm bucked violently, the exotic club-sword flew from his bloodied claws before it was strewn upon the shrubbery, shards of obsinite freckled the ground like flecks of ash. Mokte was given no time to consider his options, the pommel of Leo'slaka's axe flew upward, crashing directly with Mokte's lower jaw. A fountain of blood and shattered teeth rose like a geyser from his mouth, and he fell onto his back beside his club-sword. Dizzied and broken, Mokte tried to raise himself up. Rivulets of blood flecked across Mokte's gaping maw a moment later, as the last thing that he saw before unconsciousness was the silver effigy of a demonette emblazoned upon a kneecap, slamming into his snout.
Leo'slaka gave half a second to admire his brutal handiwork. Then he turned his attention to Falderan, killing the Saurus would have to wait, he had plans for them both, while they still breathed, at least.
Outside the battle on the shore where the unlikely trio fought a violent struggle against an adhorent Child of Chaos skeletal bodies moved with purpose. Step by step and in unison boney forms made their way to the tops of sand dunes. Ancient quivers encrested with runes of the Desert Gods were drawn back. Silver tipped arrows glimmered in the sun before being released in a whistling hail. Metal tips pierced the backs of fleeing Ungors. Taking some out and simply crippling others. One tumbled forward with a yelp as an arrow shot behind its knee. Hot blood leaking onto the sand that quickly aborbed in. Small forms moved beneath it. Tasting the succulant fluids from the wounded beast. Whimpering as the scavanging desert dwellers approached a silent killer brought down a blade. Hacking down a skeletal warrior took out the defenceless Beastman. Moving forward a moment later with steps that left little sound on the hot desert sand. Like sharks parting the sand the scavnegers approached. Unbothered by the skeletal warriors small black beetles began to nibble at the recently deceased carcas. Hundreds of small bodies creeping to the fleeing horde and large amount of shoreline bodies. A feat waiting to be had as carrion began a slow decent from above.
Mokte's defeat was a kick to morale. Fal would have needed the Saurus up and going for this attack to get anywhere. As the body fell and a kneeslammed into him made his move. Looping around so as the Gor turned he would need to adjust his vision. A brief moment as he was found by the beasts twitching snout Fal swung up from behind. His Elven subtlety playing into his stealth as he made his admittedly weak attempt at a susprise. The club managed to bash into the forearm of Leo'slaka's left arm. The poor weapon splintered at the handle as small wooden shards flung off. The furious beast turned and lashed with his teeth in retaliation. Fal raised the weapon as pain seared his arm but the urge to survive numbed such feelings. Teeth bit in and through the wooden handle by the head and a twist of the head snapped it off. The butt of the axe bashing into Fal's face and sending a stream of blood down his nose as his ruined weapon was dropped. An impact that broke it and filled his mouth with a warm iron taste. His sense of smell thrown as he fell back. He coughed up thick saliva into the sand. Was he really going to die here? To this animal or some sentiant bones from a forgotten age? The fierce figure approached over him and as his pained hands dug into the sand he went for a final play. Hands behind himself to hold himself up he grabbed a handful of sand.
Leo'slaka rose the hilt of his axe to beat conciousness from Fal when he acted. Pain shot into his shoulders as he forced the sand into the eyes of the Beastman. He roared in frustration and slammed down. The faint moment of anger let Fal narrowly roll out of the way. The axe hilt beating into the sand and burrowing deep. Fal retrieved the broken end of the club. Now more of a poormans shiv than a club with three two to three inch spikes. The splintered wood on the tip went into the back of his foes back. Stabbing into the back between the ribs with all the force he could muster blood was drawn to little effect. Leo'slaka swung the axe around in rage. Partially blinded as he rubbed sand from his eyes. Narrowly missing Fal who began to crawl away. Making his way to the reeds as his foe was distracted. While swinging the sharp wood in his back fell out to the sand. The the fight was not going unnoticed.
From atop the hill a series of four silent figures approached. Bones clattering gently with each step. Glaring down with hollow eyes they bore witness to the raging Beastman. Beside them came one weilding a bow. Cracking back an arrow it took aim at the blinded beast that raged. Letting loose an arrow it would make landing in Leo'slaka's right arm from the side. A roar of pain as the beast turned to the direction of the strike. Vision returning he saw the four skeletal soldiers with blades coming down. From over the sand a second archer came up. Looking down at him it too drew a bow. They seemed to pay no heed to the seemingly dead Saurus beside him. Only interested in their viscious and active quary for now.
Mokte's defeat was a kick to morale. Fal would have needed the Saurus up and going for this attack to get anywhere. As the body fell and a kneeslammed into him made his move. Looping around so as the Gor turned he would need to adjust his vision. A brief moment as he was found by the beasts twitching snout Fal swung up from behind. His Elven subtlety playing into his stealth as he made his admittedly weak attempt at a susprise. The club managed to bash into the forearm of Leo'slaka's left arm. The poor weapon splintered at the handle as small wooden shards flung off. The furious beast turned and lashed with his teeth in retaliation. Fal raised the weapon as pain seared his arm but the urge to survive numbed such feelings. Teeth bit in and through the wooden handle by the head and a twist of the head snapped it off. The butt of the axe bashing into Fal's face and sending a stream of blood down his nose as his ruined weapon was dropped. An impact that broke it and filled his mouth with a warm iron taste. His sense of smell thrown as he fell back. He coughed up thick saliva into the sand. Was he really going to die here? To this animal or some sentiant bones from a forgotten age? The fierce figure approached over him and as his pained hands dug into the sand he went for a final play. Hands behind himself to hold himself up he grabbed a handful of sand.
Leo'slaka rose the hilt of his axe to beat conciousness from Fal when he acted. Pain shot into his shoulders as he forced the sand into the eyes of the Beastman. He roared in frustration and slammed down. The faint moment of anger let Fal narrowly roll out of the way. The axe hilt beating into the sand and burrowing deep. Fal retrieved the broken end of the club. Now more of a poormans shiv than a club with three two to three inch spikes. The splintered wood on the tip went into the back of his foes back. Stabbing into the back between the ribs with all the force he could muster blood was drawn to little effect. Leo'slaka swung the axe around in rage. Partially blinded as he rubbed sand from his eyes. Narrowly missing Fal who began to crawl away. Making his way to the reeds as his foe was distracted. While swinging the sharp wood in his back fell out to the sand. The the fight was not going unnoticed.
From atop the hill a series of four silent figures approached. Bones clattering gently with each step. Glaring down with hollow eyes they bore witness to the raging Beastman. Beside them came one weilding a bow. Cracking back an arrow it took aim at the blinded beast that raged. Letting loose an arrow it would make landing in Leo'slaka's right arm from the side. A roar of pain as the beast turned to the direction of the strike. Vision returning he saw the four skeletal soldiers with blades coming down. From over the sand a second archer came up. Looking down at him it too drew a bow. They seemed to pay no heed to the seemingly dead Saurus beside him. Only interested in their viscious and active quary for now.
Sobekanen rushed up the hill to meet his foe, the draft of embers fluttering beside him like an aura of fireflies. Soot blackened his bloodstained wrappings, and the ash painted prince seemed more a wrathful djinn than a desiccated mummy. The Prince introduced himself with a roaring charge, rendered hollow by the blackened funerary mask he refused to part with. Arrows soared overhead Sobekanen, thin bodies fletched from the feathers of undead carrion unnotched by statuary companions, their skeletal remains rejuvenated and re-calcified. The Prince charged at the pale beast as the arrows harassed him, Sobekanen's fury reserved solely for the mutant lion. Leo'slaka backed with what strength his body could muster, two rusted arrows embedded into his flesh would not be enough to put him down, but the slayer of Skukeel was afire with vigour despite his decrepit form. He blinked the sand from his eyes, his demeanour far less arrogant, iron rings across his face vibrated with a growl.
The Lion thrust his axe forward, brought to a halt by the glittering tower shield, embedded into the dried frame. Sobekanen slashed wildy, his khopesh whistling in the wind while Leo'slaka fought to release his great axe. Another barrage of arrows flew over the desert sun, corrugated heads sang like eagles on their killing dive. Another arrow embedded itself deep into Leo'slaka's shoulderblade, eliciting a fierce jerk of the lion's body. The silver axe came free from Sobekanen's shield, strobes of amethyst burned into his ghostly retina. The Prince flourished, swinging the khopesh to take Leo'slaka's head with one swoop. But the Lion staggered back with seconds to spare - mutant blood flecked the dying grass, rivulets of blood dripping down the Lion's marble flesh in a cascade. He rose to his feet, undettered by the onslaught as his grip upon the greataxe tightened - arrows that would have crippled a mortal, by they man or beast, were an inconvenience to the pale one. He who was touched by the Dark Prince for his exploits in sadomasochism.
The remnants of Sobekanen's host had already reformed, the silhouette of a skeletal spearwall barely visible on the horizon. Mutant flesh adorned their once nondescript weapons. Bloodied heads and torn limbs spitted upon their points like ornaments. Leo'slaka was quick creature, both in strength and wit. In his infinite wisdom, he'd realised that this duel had become suicide. It was now time to leave. With all his strength, Leo'slaka thrust his axehead into the dirt with a thunderous roar. The ground crackled, a laceration five metres in length separated the Tomb Prince from his quarry, the purple flares in the dirt wound distracting Sobekanen. The Prine quickly threw off the second long stupor, and lashed again at the Lion. But his second long reprisal was all the time Leo'slaka had needed. A burst of amethyst swelled from the wound like a flare, blinding the prince. Screams of agony erupted from the wound, as though the earth itself had consciously reacted to the attack upon it, deafening Sobekanen's senses. He swung undeterred, ignorant to the lion's movements as a chorus of arrows unnotched as a reaction to their lord's ailment. With barely a fraction of their soul remaining in their carcasses, the skeletons were unaffected by the kaleidoscopic nightmare. Anglermaw tore his eyes from the ordeal, curses in every tongue he knew slithered in spent hisses from his phlegmatic rodent beak. After the stream had faded, he did not know whether to feel elated or dreadful. The beastmen were gone now - scattered in panic or in pieces across the fluttering embers, their limbs festooned to worn, rotting spearheads, or porcupined by the masse of unending arrows.
Sobekanen's stupor was quick to remedy, but by the time his baleful strobes emulated sight once again, Leo'slaka was gone, the dirt wound sizzled with spent energies. No clawprints had betrayed the Lion's escape, it seemed he'd been devoured by the vortex upon it's release. He was gone. Skukeel was finally dead, and so were his deputies. Days of trekking the time beaten Mortis had borne fruit at last, and Sobekanen thrust his khopesh toward the unforgiving disc above, and his ruined body bathed in it's unkindness. "Victory! Skukeel is dead, we have triumphed!" He cheered in old nehq-arwn, his unliving host reciprocated the cheer with a synchronized percussion of chattering jaws. Wooden shields battered with beast-skin. The vibration tickled the shredded whisker's upon Anglermaw's snout, as he was hidden from the forest of desiccated soldiers.
It was then Sobekanen turned his mask toward Falderan, long since unnoticed by the virtue of the situation. He silently regarded the sunburnt elf with the khopesh heavy in his hand. It had been said that the great enemy, Nagash, had harboured such fey-like creatures, and had been granted knowledge of his dark power as a consequence. Just because the thing was injured did not make it less of a threat. He ventured toward the alien nervously.
The Lion thrust his axe forward, brought to a halt by the glittering tower shield, embedded into the dried frame. Sobekanen slashed wildy, his khopesh whistling in the wind while Leo'slaka fought to release his great axe. Another barrage of arrows flew over the desert sun, corrugated heads sang like eagles on their killing dive. Another arrow embedded itself deep into Leo'slaka's shoulderblade, eliciting a fierce jerk of the lion's body. The silver axe came free from Sobekanen's shield, strobes of amethyst burned into his ghostly retina. The Prince flourished, swinging the khopesh to take Leo'slaka's head with one swoop. But the Lion staggered back with seconds to spare - mutant blood flecked the dying grass, rivulets of blood dripping down the Lion's marble flesh in a cascade. He rose to his feet, undettered by the onslaught as his grip upon the greataxe tightened - arrows that would have crippled a mortal, by they man or beast, were an inconvenience to the pale one. He who was touched by the Dark Prince for his exploits in sadomasochism.
The remnants of Sobekanen's host had already reformed, the silhouette of a skeletal spearwall barely visible on the horizon. Mutant flesh adorned their once nondescript weapons. Bloodied heads and torn limbs spitted upon their points like ornaments. Leo'slaka was quick creature, both in strength and wit. In his infinite wisdom, he'd realised that this duel had become suicide. It was now time to leave. With all his strength, Leo'slaka thrust his axehead into the dirt with a thunderous roar. The ground crackled, a laceration five metres in length separated the Tomb Prince from his quarry, the purple flares in the dirt wound distracting Sobekanen. The Prine quickly threw off the second long stupor, and lashed again at the Lion. But his second long reprisal was all the time Leo'slaka had needed. A burst of amethyst swelled from the wound like a flare, blinding the prince. Screams of agony erupted from the wound, as though the earth itself had consciously reacted to the attack upon it, deafening Sobekanen's senses. He swung undeterred, ignorant to the lion's movements as a chorus of arrows unnotched as a reaction to their lord's ailment. With barely a fraction of their soul remaining in their carcasses, the skeletons were unaffected by the kaleidoscopic nightmare. Anglermaw tore his eyes from the ordeal, curses in every tongue he knew slithered in spent hisses from his phlegmatic rodent beak. After the stream had faded, he did not know whether to feel elated or dreadful. The beastmen were gone now - scattered in panic or in pieces across the fluttering embers, their limbs festooned to worn, rotting spearheads, or porcupined by the masse of unending arrows.
Sobekanen's stupor was quick to remedy, but by the time his baleful strobes emulated sight once again, Leo'slaka was gone, the dirt wound sizzled with spent energies. No clawprints had betrayed the Lion's escape, it seemed he'd been devoured by the vortex upon it's release. He was gone. Skukeel was finally dead, and so were his deputies. Days of trekking the time beaten Mortis had borne fruit at last, and Sobekanen thrust his khopesh toward the unforgiving disc above, and his ruined body bathed in it's unkindness. "Victory! Skukeel is dead, we have triumphed!" He cheered in old nehq-arwn, his unliving host reciprocated the cheer with a synchronized percussion of chattering jaws. Wooden shields battered with beast-skin. The vibration tickled the shredded whisker's upon Anglermaw's snout, as he was hidden from the forest of desiccated soldiers.
It was then Sobekanen turned his mask toward Falderan, long since unnoticed by the virtue of the situation. He silently regarded the sunburnt elf with the khopesh heavy in his hand. It had been said that the great enemy, Nagash, had harboured such fey-like creatures, and had been granted knowledge of his dark power as a consequence. Just because the thing was injured did not make it less of a threat. He ventured toward the alien nervously.
Falderan had no options. The sudden arrival of the skeletal forces saw the Beastman leader unleash what smelt like an act of sorcerery. Something that brought back memories of the champion Zeigfried from the Arc and Sartosa. A sickening memory Fal felt he would never escape. In the flash more blinding than the unnaturally seeming sun he was gone. Fal was left before the noble looking Undead. One of the fabled Tomb Princes of Nehekara he assumed. He spoke in a tongue Fal had no knowlege of only hearing in stories from travellers afar. Not wanting to meet his end in the mud by the reeds he stood. Wincing slightly as he struggled to his feet. His clothing was stained by his ample injuries and his body burnt with an intense heat that felt missplaced by how close he felt to Moors gate. But through the pain he stood up. Weaponless he stared the approaching Tomb Prince down. He wouldn't be able to run anyway. But he sure as hell wasn't going to grovel like a frightened child even if this was his last moments. As fitting an end as it would be.
"Those Beastmen were you quarry I assume? You fight well to have forced them to flee when such an advantage was theirs." Fal hadn't seen the full extent of the battle. He hadn't seen Sobekanen's slaying of their mutant leader. But from the many Beastmen herds he fought he recognized the response. The death of a leader or larger beast would cause such breaking. And Fal would be willing to bet his last crown on it.
"Those Beastmen were you quarry I assume? You fight well to have forced them to flee when such an advantage was theirs." Fal hadn't seen the full extent of the battle. He hadn't seen Sobekanen's slaying of their mutant leader. But from the many Beastmen herds he fought he recognized the response. The death of a leader or larger beast would cause such breaking. And Fal would be willing to bet his last crown on it.
Sobekanen tread closer to the Elf, the desiccated expression of the confusion hidden behind the half-coloured funerary mask. His khopesh hung sheathed by his linen wrapped waist, glittering a ruby sheen as the sun shone above the rotting dead. His shield, splintered by the skirmish still remained tightly clutched to provide some barrier in front of the foreigner; the prince, though elated at his victory, was not altogether unwary of the stranger. Falderan stood there by a bush of charred shrubbery, his expression stoic in the face of the prince. And beside him lay an unconscious lizard-monster, it's bestial form bloodied as it lay by the grass, flecking the bushes a fresh dew of blood. Curiosity stayed Sobekanen's sword-arm, and as Falderan spoke, his shield arm relaxed.
The words came to him slow and steady, his reikspiel tongue was unpractised, rarely heard among the dunes of Old Nehekhara. "You speak the northern man's words..." Sobekanen began, resting his shield by the grass as the emulated adrenalin left his unliving body. "...You're... very far from home. Treasure hunter, perhaps? Living men oft come to the pyramids for gold and riches... most are consumed by the desert, or the monsters you see around you." He said, gesturing to the corpses littered across the riverbank.
"Yeah, guess that could'a been us. You gonna stick-stab us like the rest of these goat-monkeys?" Another voice grunted, one that did not belong to either Sobekanen nor the Elf. It was rough, wretched and spoke with an accent like spoiled Estalian wine. Sobekanen turned his mask toward the direction of the voice. Anglermaw shambled around the recent and ancient dead. intoxicated with fever. He finally sat squat upon the corpse of an ungor, it's death mask contorted into an eternal scream as it's frozen maw devoured the whistling sand. The wounded sea-rat slapped the skewered body absent-mindedly like a wrathful toddler beating it's doll. "Y'know, I've had too many brushes with danger-death to t' care anymore." His scarred beak crooked a smile, but his ruby eyes were heavy with fever as his ill body rattled. "I 'an't got the will in me, 'an't got the passion. So just..." Before the Sea-rat could finish his sentence, his body lost the skirmish against his ailment, and he fell snout first upon the sand with a thump. The prince's host moved forward upon the prostrate skaven to end his suffering, but Sobekanen uttered an exotic command in his own tongue, and his throng of automata stayed their weapons.
Sobekanen reared his head back toward Falderan, he surveyed the elf and his broken companions again like quaint commodities. "I drove the host of Skukeel toward you, and have cause you harm. But I see you fought back." The Prince's tone wavered from curiosity to being outright apologetic. "I have done your folk a grave disservice." The regiment of skeletons encircled Sobekanen as his decorated carcass creaked in a solemn bow toward the Elf. "If it is in my power, I shall seek to right this wrong. Come aboard my ship, and I will honour you with sanctuary. I promise."
The words came to him slow and steady, his reikspiel tongue was unpractised, rarely heard among the dunes of Old Nehekhara. "You speak the northern man's words..." Sobekanen began, resting his shield by the grass as the emulated adrenalin left his unliving body. "...You're... very far from home. Treasure hunter, perhaps? Living men oft come to the pyramids for gold and riches... most are consumed by the desert, or the monsters you see around you." He said, gesturing to the corpses littered across the riverbank.
"Yeah, guess that could'a been us. You gonna stick-stab us like the rest of these goat-monkeys?" Another voice grunted, one that did not belong to either Sobekanen nor the Elf. It was rough, wretched and spoke with an accent like spoiled Estalian wine. Sobekanen turned his mask toward the direction of the voice. Anglermaw shambled around the recent and ancient dead. intoxicated with fever. He finally sat squat upon the corpse of an ungor, it's death mask contorted into an eternal scream as it's frozen maw devoured the whistling sand. The wounded sea-rat slapped the skewered body absent-mindedly like a wrathful toddler beating it's doll. "Y'know, I've had too many brushes with danger-death to t' care anymore." His scarred beak crooked a smile, but his ruby eyes were heavy with fever as his ill body rattled. "I 'an't got the will in me, 'an't got the passion. So just..." Before the Sea-rat could finish his sentence, his body lost the skirmish against his ailment, and he fell snout first upon the sand with a thump. The prince's host moved forward upon the prostrate skaven to end his suffering, but Sobekanen uttered an exotic command in his own tongue, and his throng of automata stayed their weapons.
Sobekanen reared his head back toward Falderan, he surveyed the elf and his broken companions again like quaint commodities. "I drove the host of Skukeel toward you, and have cause you harm. But I see you fought back." The Prince's tone wavered from curiosity to being outright apologetic. "I have done your folk a grave disservice." The regiment of skeletons encircled Sobekanen as his decorated carcass creaked in a solemn bow toward the Elf. "If it is in my power, I shall seek to right this wrong. Come aboard my ship, and I will honour you with sanctuary. I promise."
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