The young woman was relieved, and a little awestruck if she dared not to admit it. Falderan's takedown of the furious man was swift, controlled and bereft of intimidation. Even the veteran guards that she'd been 'acquainted' with here in Erengrad were never so sure that they wouldn't get a bruise after a tussle in the snow. "Thank you..." The words drafted from her mouth like a wisp in the air, thoughtlessly while she shook herself back to reality. The young witchling shuffled the flakes from her cloak before speaking. "...You have the pardon, and the keepers know you're all here. They told me that they'll be watching from beyond the taiga. Farewell, Sir Geltroff. We will meet again I hope."
She spun on her heels, the gust of a freak blizzard masked her figure while the azure cloak licked the air. A few seconds later the cloud dissipated into a magic hewn vapour. The young woman was gone, glittering flakes upon the snowed highway settled by where she once stood.
Anglermaw had been staring at the ordeal, casting a sleeve over his eyes when the fog had formed by the coach. He could see that from the curious gazes of the common folk that the coach had overstayed it's welcome. Passers-by weren't simply minding their business anymore. They stared inquisitively, and the march of kossar irregulars starting above the hillside in a rushed stride did little to reassure him.
"Oi, Knight-in-shining-armour yeah!" He barked toward the roughish Elf, waving him over to the coach door like an impatient driver. "Are we heading off or not? Looks like you're about to get more than just woman-things fawning over ya."
She spun on her heels, the gust of a freak blizzard masked her figure while the azure cloak licked the air. A few seconds later the cloud dissipated into a magic hewn vapour. The young woman was gone, glittering flakes upon the snowed highway settled by where she once stood.
Anglermaw had been staring at the ordeal, casting a sleeve over his eyes when the fog had formed by the coach. He could see that from the curious gazes of the common folk that the coach had overstayed it's welcome. Passers-by weren't simply minding their business anymore. They stared inquisitively, and the march of kossar irregulars starting above the hillside in a rushed stride did little to reassure him.
"Oi, Knight-in-shining-armour yeah!" He barked toward the roughish Elf, waving him over to the coach door like an impatient driver. "Are we heading off or not? Looks like you're about to get more than just woman-things fawning over ya."
Falderan was unable to respond. Caught off by the swift words and swifter exist. He could taste the soft tingle of magic. A soft chill that felt to ring across his very soul as it wisped away as quickly as it appeared. As the fog and mist shifted and twirled, the shimmering snowflakes took around the girls form before she was gone. Some illusionary magic? A spell of teleportation? Who could say with the infinte complexities of magic in the world. But one thing remained true now. The soft hum and soon growing foot traffic nearby as people watched. The sight of an Ice Witch was always one to bring awe or fear from the people depending on her mood.
The sudden chill was shaken away by the shock and roughness of Anglermaw's tone. Turning to see the coach door open and their Andrej gave a respectful nod and light bow as the women left.
"With all due respect Mr Falderan, your friend is correct. We should get going." He spoke in a professional tone that sounded sarcastic in the current situation. Brushing off little bits of snow Fal made his way inside. Closing the door behind himself and looking to his companions. A tap on the back behind himself and the carriage got moving.
Fal looked to Anglermaw who sat with a snarky snicker.
"Well it would seem we may have added eyes on us, but it could be for the better depending on how we act." He felt the sudden tingle across his skin fade as he let out a deep sigh. "I can never get used to being around mages and witches." As they spoke they began to make their way out of Erengrad and on the steady journey into Troll Country and their new residence.
Several hours passed. The outside countryside was as chill and blank as one would suspect of Kislev. Peering through the curtains Fal could catch sight of several split roads and signs. One indicated a fort some distance away. He couldn't catch the name but the signage was old. A century plus maybe, and the road they strode on carried a muddy layer to it. Snow and traffic led to a unique sludge on the dirt.
The sudden chill was shaken away by the shock and roughness of Anglermaw's tone. Turning to see the coach door open and their Andrej gave a respectful nod and light bow as the women left.
"With all due respect Mr Falderan, your friend is correct. We should get going." He spoke in a professional tone that sounded sarcastic in the current situation. Brushing off little bits of snow Fal made his way inside. Closing the door behind himself and looking to his companions. A tap on the back behind himself and the carriage got moving.
Fal looked to Anglermaw who sat with a snarky snicker.
"Well it would seem we may have added eyes on us, but it could be for the better depending on how we act." He felt the sudden tingle across his skin fade as he let out a deep sigh. "I can never get used to being around mages and witches." As they spoke they began to make their way out of Erengrad and on the steady journey into Troll Country and their new residence.
Several hours passed. The outside countryside was as chill and blank as one would suspect of Kislev. Peering through the curtains Fal could catch sight of several split roads and signs. One indicated a fort some distance away. He couldn't catch the name but the signage was old. A century plus maybe, and the road they strode on carried a muddy layer to it. Snow and traffic led to a unique sludge on the dirt.
Anglermaw sniffed about the chill air, letting the cold touch massage his human mask while he enjoyed the numbness it left behind. An illusion though it might be, the hagscloak that he wore emulated the bare skin of his avatar. He scrapped at the rubbery hairless snout, expecting to feel an absence of touch. A slight irritation flared while his bare claw nipped at the flesh, but it was passable sensation. Whatever kept his need to eat at bay was enough to pass the time. And where they were expecting to go, food would hardly be something in abundance.
He began to fantasise about the many beasts he'd spend his time hunting in the taiga of North-of-nowhere. Bear meat was chewy, but bears were big and therefore that meant a lot of meat. Their fur could keep a rat warm through a blizzard. Reindeers should make a nice eating, Moulder-vermin were known to graft the antlers of the creatures to some of their subjects (it was never practical however). Trolls were common up in the north too, and Anglermaw had known rats who'd managed to calm the Black Hunger simply on a diet of regenerating troll meat. The self healing properties of trollflesh were nothing to dismiss out here, if one felt mad enough to size one of the beasts up for a kill. Carving the flesh of one of them had to be a nightmare as well.
If the chance ever appeared, there was always putting Mokte up front as a bait. Sigmar-Rat knew that lizard would be salivating at the thought of a steak that grew itself back after every bite.
Then, as he continued to fantasise about the prospect of half decent food, Anglermaw felt a hollow pain in his stomach like something had carved out his innards until there was nothing but an empty cave. He gnawed at his lower lip out of instinct, and his body shivered in a palsied rhythm he had no power over. The hunger was there, and he could not hold it back for long. It was always well hidden by the force of a will more iron than most skaven minds could handle. A lower clanrat would have begun to gnaw at the woodwork of the coach doors to mimic the taste of flesh, scraping rapidly at the interior for desperate means of sustenance. Instead, Anglermaw announced:
"For Sigmar's sake, I am starving god dammit!" He hissed, a scowl crossed over the face of his human caricature. "I haven't eaten since we got off the boat. Ain't there any thing to eat on this ride? Rations? Just something." It was a petulant whine, even he knew. But just something to put off the hunger would make a difference as they neared the tower in the foggy distance. A simple jerky would do.
Mokte turned his head from the waves of pale snow and sludge out on the horizon. He faced Mokte with a grin that exposed the teeth of his avatar. It was the most horrifying smile Anglermaw had ever seen on a man-thing, and he knew that Mokte was still getting used to his Human skin.
"Food would be a good thing, but I hope whatever stores we have will be great enough for my appetite!" The Saurus replied, cheerful than he had been as of recent.
"If I had to guess, you're wantin' something hunted. I can tell by your excitement." The Sea-Rat mentioned, an eyebrow raised in trepidation. Anglermaw did not feel like freezing himself to death in the cold here, nor did he feel like playing a game of chance with the Troll County wildlife. His hand crept down to the pommel of his machete, rested by his left thigh. It had been an act of repetition as of recent. Out here on the surface, it felt naked to be unharmed.
He began to fantasise about the many beasts he'd spend his time hunting in the taiga of North-of-nowhere. Bear meat was chewy, but bears were big and therefore that meant a lot of meat. Their fur could keep a rat warm through a blizzard. Reindeers should make a nice eating, Moulder-vermin were known to graft the antlers of the creatures to some of their subjects (it was never practical however). Trolls were common up in the north too, and Anglermaw had known rats who'd managed to calm the Black Hunger simply on a diet of regenerating troll meat. The self healing properties of trollflesh were nothing to dismiss out here, if one felt mad enough to size one of the beasts up for a kill. Carving the flesh of one of them had to be a nightmare as well.
If the chance ever appeared, there was always putting Mokte up front as a bait. Sigmar-Rat knew that lizard would be salivating at the thought of a steak that grew itself back after every bite.
Then, as he continued to fantasise about the prospect of half decent food, Anglermaw felt a hollow pain in his stomach like something had carved out his innards until there was nothing but an empty cave. He gnawed at his lower lip out of instinct, and his body shivered in a palsied rhythm he had no power over. The hunger was there, and he could not hold it back for long. It was always well hidden by the force of a will more iron than most skaven minds could handle. A lower clanrat would have begun to gnaw at the woodwork of the coach doors to mimic the taste of flesh, scraping rapidly at the interior for desperate means of sustenance. Instead, Anglermaw announced:
"For Sigmar's sake, I am starving god dammit!" He hissed, a scowl crossed over the face of his human caricature. "I haven't eaten since we got off the boat. Ain't there any thing to eat on this ride? Rations? Just something." It was a petulant whine, even he knew. But just something to put off the hunger would make a difference as they neared the tower in the foggy distance. A simple jerky would do.
Mokte turned his head from the waves of pale snow and sludge out on the horizon. He faced Mokte with a grin that exposed the teeth of his avatar. It was the most horrifying smile Anglermaw had ever seen on a man-thing, and he knew that Mokte was still getting used to his Human skin.
"Food would be a good thing, but I hope whatever stores we have will be great enough for my appetite!" The Saurus replied, cheerful than he had been as of recent.
"If I had to guess, you're wantin' something hunted. I can tell by your excitement." The Sea-Rat mentioned, an eyebrow raised in trepidation. Anglermaw did not feel like freezing himself to death in the cold here, nor did he feel like playing a game of chance with the Troll County wildlife. His hand crept down to the pommel of his machete, rested by his left thigh. It had been an act of repetition as of recent. Out here on the surface, it felt naked to be unharmed.
As they travelled and spoken the evening miasma crept in. Kislev was known for long nights. And the further you went up North the less predictable and more mystical the nights felt. Though this was mostly folklore and speculation. But the events of the moon and stars, the seasonal shifts that were simply nature had a way of messing with the thoughts of men and mortal as a whole. Fal peered to Anglermaw and Mokte as he could tell they grew eager and hungry. He started to feel bad for them. Having to hold off on their most basic of instincts and urges. Having to hide exactly what they were for peace's sake.
"It will be time to hunt soon. Oleg had assured me there were preserved rations there. At least to satisfy hunger for a little. But the area is known for a mix of stags and wolves. Just be aware of making offerings to the local shrine and we'll have no issue keeping a hefty stag body for our trouble. You both can keep and feast till your hearts content. And by how long we've been travelling I feel we're getting close." He smiled back at the duo. Hoping a friendly smirk would be enough to satiate their needs of food for a little. He peered back out the carriage window. Looking out to the treeline. Something caught his eyes. But as quickly as he saw it it faded. A face or figure maybe. Larger than a man but oddly like one. But as if the second he noticed it it was gone like a mirage. A beastly wail came from the woods. Something that sent a shiver up Fal's spine. There was something unnatural but at the same strange time, completely natural about it.
A long distance off. At the approaching of night and the miasma of the forest a bestial form stood in a clearing. A large stone of black rock standing nearly eight foot tall and adorned with stakes and bones of beast and man alike. Icons of foul origin were scraped in or painted in what could only be blood. An eight pointed star painted on hide was hung on the large stone. The foul smell in the air and glimmering torchlight showed off what it was. A herdstone of the wild children of Chaos. The Beastmen, setting it up as a meeting ground for them and standing before it were the curled horns of a wicked Bray-Shaman. Curved horns that twisted back and were as black as the night sky. Speckled with blood from a recent kill and the flayed body of the poor fool that was used for the offering. The Shaman let out a cry as he threw down the corpse of a human man. His body brutalise beyond recognition. Blood speckled the fowl fur of the Shaman and as he held up a chunk of gore, seemingly a lung and with a cry in it's bestial tongue bit into it.
Letting out a cry the woods began to feel alive. Twisted forms of goat, bouvine and man began to emerge. Gors, horrid mix of man and beast of burden with various horns all twisted and curled came out. Many were nakedor near to it. Their bodies covered in fur and the faintest of cloths. A brayherd began to gather. Called to the herdstone by the Shaman. Feeling the cry and call to gateher from the surrounding woods and forests. Slobbering hounds, twisted and mutated by Chaos and choice breeding by the foul children of Chaos led to these animals being monsterous. Larger than an average wolf by a noticeable amount and tusks came out of their mouths. They salivated and howled into the approaching night. Several dozen meters away a Gor with twisted horns that split and sprouted out like roots slammed a spear shaft into the ground. Banging it again and again. Several others joined in and cries of great razorgor came up.
Vile and massive boar even larger than the biggest bears of the Empire snarled and swung at one another. Crude reins were hooked into their thick hide as beast masters tried to keep them in check. Numerous more Gor and smaller Ungor came out. Ungors were smaller, with horns that often only came to little nubs on their heads they were to be used as fodder by the stronger Gors. Forms crept from the woods. More and more figures gathered as there was easily nearing two hundred plus of Gor and Ungor as their numbers grew. As they did a sickening and radiating power seemed to radiate from the stone.
The Shaman let out a long cry as he ate more gore from the poor man he had butchered. The cries grew louder as more twisted forms approached. More and more gathered as the warherd was being formed. And tonight this group would prepare to turn their attention onto the nearby villages of Kislev. All in honor of the vile, Dark Gods of Chaos.
Across the land and in a darkened corner of the forest the creaking of a small wooden shack. A strange sight in the darkened corners of the wilderness. The shack seemed old. Yet despite giving a feel of being centuries old it somehow seemed as new as the day it was born. It's wood creaked and moaned yet seemed structually stable. The windows gave an otherwordlly glow and colourful smoke rose from the chimney. An herbal scent with a strange, magical spark to it. Inside was a strangely organised area. Benches covered in strange ornaments and jars. Around the room were brazers with small runes etched into them that glowed with a warm light but no sight of flame. In the centre of the room was a large cauldron. Made of darkened iron and etched with various runes and small talismans hung off it. Standing over was a haunched figure. Scrawny and old looking. A woman that seemed to be in her late 80s yet carried a strange vigor. Her hair was pale and grey. Full on her head but split and bristled as it went down to her shoulders. Her skin was a pale but slightly yellowish tone. She wore long brown robes and an assorted necklace of various small totems hung over her neck.
She stared into the cauldron. A pot of simmering blue and orange fluid that sparked and sizzled with magic. Her eyes were rolled back as she seemed to stare into a world beyond the physical.
"Is it as we have been suspecting my Sisters? The Cloven Ones gather in more frequent numbers and their herdstones spark with the same exotic energy as on Geheimnisnacht." The woman spoke. In the swirling mass and mixture other ghostly and gaunt figures form.
"It is indeed, as far off as Praag have I seen them gather. And word travels far that Daemons and otherworldly horrors are creeping into the dreams of children and parent alike." Another voice spoke. This one was more phlegmy and gutteral.
"We must act in the interest of Kislev. For the whole region could be beset by darkness within. But tell me Sisters, have you been keeping your eyes on the Orthodoxy? A upstart in their ranks near your lands Ryk." One of their eyes directs to the first. The one in brown robes known as Ryk.
"I have been keeping my eyes out. He's certainly pushing more than eevn the most fanatical Patriarch of Kostaltyn had done. Though I see no acts against my home as the people are not foolish enough to trifle with the words of Ostyanka. And those foolish enough to do not deserve a place in mothers protective gaze." The group cackle. A sudden pause takes Ryk. She freezes for a moment. "I am afraid action is needed my Sisters. The Cloven Ones have acted on one of the marked herdstones. May the Ancient One grant her power to you all. And may Mothers Wraith come down upon these heathens." She grins. Another cackle of delight as the glowing cauldron fades.
Ryk's eyes roll back. She takes a breath and draws her hand. A whicker fletched broom is pulled to her grasp. The head of fibres are a mix from vbarious plants and herbs. She pulls out one that resembles wheat. Throwing it into the cauldron and whispering words no mortal could grasp. An image formed in the cauldron. A gore speckled Bray Shaman feating on the innards of an unfortunate. And around them a growing warherd.
"Come my children, for it's time to bring Mothers' judgement to these beasts." She cackled as otherwordly howls emerge from the woods and snapping jaws could be heard but nothing seen. Wisps and chill wind blow around and without even blinking she was gone. Taken away by unknown means for her plans and actions.
"It will be time to hunt soon. Oleg had assured me there were preserved rations there. At least to satisfy hunger for a little. But the area is known for a mix of stags and wolves. Just be aware of making offerings to the local shrine and we'll have no issue keeping a hefty stag body for our trouble. You both can keep and feast till your hearts content. And by how long we've been travelling I feel we're getting close." He smiled back at the duo. Hoping a friendly smirk would be enough to satiate their needs of food for a little. He peered back out the carriage window. Looking out to the treeline. Something caught his eyes. But as quickly as he saw it it faded. A face or figure maybe. Larger than a man but oddly like one. But as if the second he noticed it it was gone like a mirage. A beastly wail came from the woods. Something that sent a shiver up Fal's spine. There was something unnatural but at the same strange time, completely natural about it.
A long distance off. At the approaching of night and the miasma of the forest a bestial form stood in a clearing. A large stone of black rock standing nearly eight foot tall and adorned with stakes and bones of beast and man alike. Icons of foul origin were scraped in or painted in what could only be blood. An eight pointed star painted on hide was hung on the large stone. The foul smell in the air and glimmering torchlight showed off what it was. A herdstone of the wild children of Chaos. The Beastmen, setting it up as a meeting ground for them and standing before it were the curled horns of a wicked Bray-Shaman. Curved horns that twisted back and were as black as the night sky. Speckled with blood from a recent kill and the flayed body of the poor fool that was used for the offering. The Shaman let out a cry as he threw down the corpse of a human man. His body brutalise beyond recognition. Blood speckled the fowl fur of the Shaman and as he held up a chunk of gore, seemingly a lung and with a cry in it's bestial tongue bit into it.
Letting out a cry the woods began to feel alive. Twisted forms of goat, bouvine and man began to emerge. Gors, horrid mix of man and beast of burden with various horns all twisted and curled came out. Many were nakedor near to it. Their bodies covered in fur and the faintest of cloths. A brayherd began to gather. Called to the herdstone by the Shaman. Feeling the cry and call to gateher from the surrounding woods and forests. Slobbering hounds, twisted and mutated by Chaos and choice breeding by the foul children of Chaos led to these animals being monsterous. Larger than an average wolf by a noticeable amount and tusks came out of their mouths. They salivated and howled into the approaching night. Several dozen meters away a Gor with twisted horns that split and sprouted out like roots slammed a spear shaft into the ground. Banging it again and again. Several others joined in and cries of great razorgor came up.
Vile and massive boar even larger than the biggest bears of the Empire snarled and swung at one another. Crude reins were hooked into their thick hide as beast masters tried to keep them in check. Numerous more Gor and smaller Ungor came out. Ungors were smaller, with horns that often only came to little nubs on their heads they were to be used as fodder by the stronger Gors. Forms crept from the woods. More and more figures gathered as there was easily nearing two hundred plus of Gor and Ungor as their numbers grew. As they did a sickening and radiating power seemed to radiate from the stone.
The Shaman let out a long cry as he ate more gore from the poor man he had butchered. The cries grew louder as more twisted forms approached. More and more gathered as the warherd was being formed. And tonight this group would prepare to turn their attention onto the nearby villages of Kislev. All in honor of the vile, Dark Gods of Chaos.
Across the land and in a darkened corner of the forest the creaking of a small wooden shack. A strange sight in the darkened corners of the wilderness. The shack seemed old. Yet despite giving a feel of being centuries old it somehow seemed as new as the day it was born. It's wood creaked and moaned yet seemed structually stable. The windows gave an otherwordlly glow and colourful smoke rose from the chimney. An herbal scent with a strange, magical spark to it. Inside was a strangely organised area. Benches covered in strange ornaments and jars. Around the room were brazers with small runes etched into them that glowed with a warm light but no sight of flame. In the centre of the room was a large cauldron. Made of darkened iron and etched with various runes and small talismans hung off it. Standing over was a haunched figure. Scrawny and old looking. A woman that seemed to be in her late 80s yet carried a strange vigor. Her hair was pale and grey. Full on her head but split and bristled as it went down to her shoulders. Her skin was a pale but slightly yellowish tone. She wore long brown robes and an assorted necklace of various small totems hung over her neck.
She stared into the cauldron. A pot of simmering blue and orange fluid that sparked and sizzled with magic. Her eyes were rolled back as she seemed to stare into a world beyond the physical.
"Is it as we have been suspecting my Sisters? The Cloven Ones gather in more frequent numbers and their herdstones spark with the same exotic energy as on Geheimnisnacht." The woman spoke. In the swirling mass and mixture other ghostly and gaunt figures form.
"It is indeed, as far off as Praag have I seen them gather. And word travels far that Daemons and otherworldly horrors are creeping into the dreams of children and parent alike." Another voice spoke. This one was more phlegmy and gutteral.
"We must act in the interest of Kislev. For the whole region could be beset by darkness within. But tell me Sisters, have you been keeping your eyes on the Orthodoxy? A upstart in their ranks near your lands Ryk." One of their eyes directs to the first. The one in brown robes known as Ryk.
"I have been keeping my eyes out. He's certainly pushing more than eevn the most fanatical Patriarch of Kostaltyn had done. Though I see no acts against my home as the people are not foolish enough to trifle with the words of Ostyanka. And those foolish enough to do not deserve a place in mothers protective gaze." The group cackle. A sudden pause takes Ryk. She freezes for a moment. "I am afraid action is needed my Sisters. The Cloven Ones have acted on one of the marked herdstones. May the Ancient One grant her power to you all. And may Mothers Wraith come down upon these heathens." She grins. Another cackle of delight as the glowing cauldron fades.
Ryk's eyes roll back. She takes a breath and draws her hand. A whicker fletched broom is pulled to her grasp. The head of fibres are a mix from vbarious plants and herbs. She pulls out one that resembles wheat. Throwing it into the cauldron and whispering words no mortal could grasp. An image formed in the cauldron. A gore speckled Bray Shaman feating on the innards of an unfortunate. And around them a growing warherd.
"Come my children, for it's time to bring Mothers' judgement to these beasts." She cackled as otherwordly howls emerge from the woods and snapping jaws could be heard but nothing seen. Wisps and chill wind blow around and without even blinking she was gone. Taken away by unknown means for her plans and actions.
Anglermaw gnawed at his bottom lip, the rodent jitter exposed through his human disguise. His upper lip vibrated, and a row of fangs that only a halfling could appreciate were bared through the vibration. Feeling defeated, he lumped back into his chair with a frown, and a pout.
"You let me out of this coach right now-now and I half-guarantee I'd outrun a deer, yeah." Anglermaw grumbled. He laid back, staring at the ceiling while the coach rocked scraped through the evening mush, trying to drift off and let the Black Hunger run it's course for as much as his mind would allow. He knew that patience was key in this journey, but the hunger did not care for promises of the future. All that was relevant was to feed and sustain in the present, before even the flesh for his newfound friends became appetising to his senses. He mentally shouted down the urge from his mind, and let the rumblings of the coach drift his attention.
Mokte glared at his companion for a moment. He wanted to speak but thought better of it. Unlike, the sea-rat, Mokte's hunger (and it was a great hunger indeed) did not threaten to drive him insane. Anglermaw had explained to him over this journey of the infamous Black Hunger -- how skaven bloodbonds and ancient contracts could become null and void over the question of a simple meal. Cannibalism was a bloody tenet, common in the Under-Empire society, and greatly encouraged. Suspected rivals weren't a problem if they were busy being eaten. Mokte cringed at the thought, and he became disgusted on how aquianted he'd become with the knowledge of such blasphemous practices. Disgusted with how he had allowed himself to befriend this sworn enemy. Mokte threw his face to the opposite direction, and stared toward the bejewed northern horizon that blanketed the woods.
The beauty almost cascaded the guilt to the recesses of his mind -- But a gutteral whelp within the forest dragged him from his waking dream. His Lizardine eyes widened, the pupils of his human eyes constricted to near a grain's size. Cold-blooded nerves whirred like clockwork to the sound of voices that were more akin to vomitous hawks and gurgles, some hoarse, and dominant among the cacophany of whines. Others were slow with power, and rumbled in the wood like the vibration of their tones influenced the very earth.
Asurenil chafed, thorns penetrated the fabric of Mokte's hagscloak. A chilling rasp escaped the blade, wreathed in anger. Mokte unsheathed the great segmented club from his back, and found a sneer on the blade that glowered with bloodthirst.
It was stark enough for Anglermaw to contain his appetite, and he stared fearfully at the effigy clasped in Mokte's subsumed claws. "Think your blade is tryin' to tell us what's in those woods." The words were hollow as they escaped Anglermaw's throat, and he nudged Falderan with a gesture to take a glance.
"Monsters." Mokte answered, starting deep into the forest canopy. The shadows of horned creatures and other abominations flickered from within.
"You let me out of this coach right now-now and I half-guarantee I'd outrun a deer, yeah." Anglermaw grumbled. He laid back, staring at the ceiling while the coach rocked scraped through the evening mush, trying to drift off and let the Black Hunger run it's course for as much as his mind would allow. He knew that patience was key in this journey, but the hunger did not care for promises of the future. All that was relevant was to feed and sustain in the present, before even the flesh for his newfound friends became appetising to his senses. He mentally shouted down the urge from his mind, and let the rumblings of the coach drift his attention.
Mokte glared at his companion for a moment. He wanted to speak but thought better of it. Unlike, the sea-rat, Mokte's hunger (and it was a great hunger indeed) did not threaten to drive him insane. Anglermaw had explained to him over this journey of the infamous Black Hunger -- how skaven bloodbonds and ancient contracts could become null and void over the question of a simple meal. Cannibalism was a bloody tenet, common in the Under-Empire society, and greatly encouraged. Suspected rivals weren't a problem if they were busy being eaten. Mokte cringed at the thought, and he became disgusted on how aquianted he'd become with the knowledge of such blasphemous practices. Disgusted with how he had allowed himself to befriend this sworn enemy. Mokte threw his face to the opposite direction, and stared toward the bejewed northern horizon that blanketed the woods.
The beauty almost cascaded the guilt to the recesses of his mind -- But a gutteral whelp within the forest dragged him from his waking dream. His Lizardine eyes widened, the pupils of his human eyes constricted to near a grain's size. Cold-blooded nerves whirred like clockwork to the sound of voices that were more akin to vomitous hawks and gurgles, some hoarse, and dominant among the cacophany of whines. Others were slow with power, and rumbled in the wood like the vibration of their tones influenced the very earth.
Asurenil chafed, thorns penetrated the fabric of Mokte's hagscloak. A chilling rasp escaped the blade, wreathed in anger. Mokte unsheathed the great segmented club from his back, and found a sneer on the blade that glowered with bloodthirst.
It was stark enough for Anglermaw to contain his appetite, and he stared fearfully at the effigy clasped in Mokte's subsumed claws. "Think your blade is tryin' to tell us what's in those woods." The words were hollow as they escaped Anglermaw's throat, and he nudged Falderan with a gesture to take a glance.
"Monsters." Mokte answered, starting deep into the forest canopy. The shadows of horned creatures and other abominations flickered from within.
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