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 bejewelled 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 bejewelled 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.
The hissing whine of Mokte's mace flared to life with a surprising energy. Fal gazed out to the treeline. The flickering shadows moving at the corner of sight did warrent his attention. Forms moved. Seeming vaguely human sized but all evidence pointed to something other. Something darker and more feral. His fingers danced to his own scabbard. Feeling the shaft of his blade. Then something came to him. In the fading evening day and approaching darkness why weren't they attacked?
"My first thought would be Beastmen." Fal shivers. Woods across the Old World are full of them and Kislev is no exception. But we haven't been jumped which is odd. We're a simple carriage and we'd be easy prey presumedly." Fal turned and banged on the small clipped window leading to their driver.
"Andrej, the figures in the brush. Have you noticed them?"
"I wouldn't be this old if I didn't. Some motion in the treeline and weirdly quiet for a start. My guess is scouts. If they're smart they'd be weary of a loan coach. I suspect their too timid otherwise we'd be jumped by now." As they went they came to a split in the road. One path headed left to a town called 'Berlov' and the other a faded dirty path. The carriage took a turn and trotted along the dirt track.
"How much longer do you think?" Fal asks with an anxious tone.
"Under an hour." Andrej reaches into his cloak and pulls out a chained watch. "Yea about thirty. Afterwards I'll be looping back around and should be in Berlov by nightfall if I'm lucky." He then heard the aggrivated movements and grunts from within. Reaching under his seat he pulls out a small box. "Your shorter companion there seems to be getting fiesty. Hunger will do that. Leave in a coin in there and he can have at it. Elk jerky marianted in decent kvas. Cause if he starts gnawing on the leather seating I will kick his ass my friend." Fal snickered. He took the words as a joke but knew it was a thinly veiled threat.
"You have my thanks." Fal says taking it and closign the small window. The box fit easily through and opening it he saw the strips of meat. "Chew on that for a bit." As he handed it over Fal looked out the window. His elven eyes caught what he thought was movement but hard to confirm. The treelines here always looks malicious. And they quickly got quite deep even from the back road they took.
"My first thought would be Beastmen." Fal shivers. Woods across the Old World are full of them and Kislev is no exception. But we haven't been jumped which is odd. We're a simple carriage and we'd be easy prey presumedly." Fal turned and banged on the small clipped window leading to their driver.
"Andrej, the figures in the brush. Have you noticed them?"
"I wouldn't be this old if I didn't. Some motion in the treeline and weirdly quiet for a start. My guess is scouts. If they're smart they'd be weary of a loan coach. I suspect their too timid otherwise we'd be jumped by now." As they went they came to a split in the road. One path headed left to a town called 'Berlov' and the other a faded dirty path. The carriage took a turn and trotted along the dirt track.
"How much longer do you think?" Fal asks with an anxious tone.
"Under an hour." Andrej reaches into his cloak and pulls out a chained watch. "Yea about thirty. Afterwards I'll be looping back around and should be in Berlov by nightfall if I'm lucky." He then heard the aggrivated movements and grunts from within. Reaching under his seat he pulls out a small box. "Your shorter companion there seems to be getting fiesty. Hunger will do that. Leave in a coin in there and he can have at it. Elk jerky marianted in decent kvas. Cause if he starts gnawing on the leather seating I will kick his ass my friend." Fal snickered. He took the words as a joke but knew it was a thinly veiled threat.
"You have my thanks." Fal says taking it and closign the small window. The box fit easily through and opening it he saw the strips of meat. "Chew on that for a bit." As he handed it over Fal looked out the window. His elven eyes caught what he thought was movement but hard to confirm. The treelines here always looks malicious. And they quickly got quite deep even from the back road they took.
Tuthur Zen'jin's horns were draped in the bloody ichor of his latest victim, the sanguine fluid oozing like black ink under the canopy of the hagstree branches. Heavy were the breathes that left his fanged maw, and heavier still was the gurgling of his unfortunate challenger -- an upstart wargor whose heart was filled with great tenacity, but lacking the beastial ferocity required to usurp the herd. The whooping of the tribe muted them both, assorted cacophancies, of roars, hisses, and moans that sound like cries of pain as much as they were excitement and ecstacy gave Tuthur his ovation from behind a makeshift palisade of jagged blades and spears. The Beastlord - a three eyed goatish half-demon crept on cloven hoof toward his opponent, scaled serpentine skin glistened ivory in the torch light. The bloodied challenger lay crumpled beneath his figure, stained in a dye of blood that spurted from the unfortunate gor's gouged shoulders.
Tuthur hurled his would-be usurper up by his stomach, and as he did so, a mouth of rowed fangs manifested in it's place, devouring the vanquished's horned head in an instant. The sight of such triumph only motivated the throng of mutants even further, and Tuthur flexed his corded physique in satisfaction upon leaving the arena, while a troupe of fanatics followed their idol like slavering familiars. Tuthur's resolve had been tempered: surely he would be the one that would lead the sacking of Erengrad, with five thousand beastmen and many garish banners of manskin leather fluttering behind him.
Unholy was the after-covenant, as Tuthur's hooves trampled under crimson meshes of gorevine, these artierial tubes - quivering through the soil - emanated from the erected herdstone. Overtime, what was once merely hewn rock had been cursed under the gaze of the Pantheon into a canvas of rotting flesh, evil magic beat within the monolith like a heart. Skeletal remains of cattle, humans, and those of the beastmen that had dissappointed the gods littered the site of the threshing organ -- and as the life essence of these sacrifices drenched the herdstone, the fleshwork seemed to germinate further in time. Soon the beating of the herdstone would become so powerful that even the man-spawn would notice it's quake within the earth. But by then, such a discovery would come far too late. Soon this beating heart would birth the children of the Gods into this material plane.
The Old World would be consumed, and Tuthur and his kin would inherit the material plane.
Speech was not the way of the beastmen. They were creatures driven by sheer instinct, and lived to despise the sentient mind. When Tuthur Zen'jin howled beneath the shadow of the beating stone, the retinue that followed needed no further encouragement. It was a call of celebration -- to nourish the herdstone, and devour the condemned within it's shadow. Tuthur's lieutenants (assumed, not nominated) consisted of a hulking lizardine khargor who could have passed for one of the fabled Saurus of Lustria were it not for his hunched appearance and five serrated claws which protruded from the bones of his spine. This creature was named Lethbaq, and he carried the order of Tuthur Zar'jin across the warherd with a rumbling gurgle. The second abomination was an abject monster that even the most bloodthirsty of the herd avoided if possible. A centaur-like half-spider known to the bray shamans as "He-of-many-legs." Eight spindly legs loomed high above even the tallest gorebull, the silk-wrapped carcass of his human victim dangled by his spinnerets while a hollow row of fangs cursed to remain ajar shrieked Tuthur's will to the heavens.
Soon, the roars of the host joined the ecstatic choir rumbling through the forest like an echo. With the beastlord's latest challenger dispatched, it would be time to celebrate this victory before turning his three eyes toward greater quarry. The fanged maw upon Tuthur's stomach smiled at the quiverring thralls that were thrusted toward the living monument. His mind drank their horror, the bestial conscience branded with one simple word:
"Food."
Tuthur hurled his would-be usurper up by his stomach, and as he did so, a mouth of rowed fangs manifested in it's place, devouring the vanquished's horned head in an instant. The sight of such triumph only motivated the throng of mutants even further, and Tuthur flexed his corded physique in satisfaction upon leaving the arena, while a troupe of fanatics followed their idol like slavering familiars. Tuthur's resolve had been tempered: surely he would be the one that would lead the sacking of Erengrad, with five thousand beastmen and many garish banners of manskin leather fluttering behind him.
Unholy was the after-covenant, as Tuthur's hooves trampled under crimson meshes of gorevine, these artierial tubes - quivering through the soil - emanated from the erected herdstone. Overtime, what was once merely hewn rock had been cursed under the gaze of the Pantheon into a canvas of rotting flesh, evil magic beat within the monolith like a heart. Skeletal remains of cattle, humans, and those of the beastmen that had dissappointed the gods littered the site of the threshing organ -- and as the life essence of these sacrifices drenched the herdstone, the fleshwork seemed to germinate further in time. Soon the beating of the herdstone would become so powerful that even the man-spawn would notice it's quake within the earth. But by then, such a discovery would come far too late. Soon this beating heart would birth the children of the Gods into this material plane.
The Old World would be consumed, and Tuthur and his kin would inherit the material plane.
Speech was not the way of the beastmen. They were creatures driven by sheer instinct, and lived to despise the sentient mind. When Tuthur Zen'jin howled beneath the shadow of the beating stone, the retinue that followed needed no further encouragement. It was a call of celebration -- to nourish the herdstone, and devour the condemned within it's shadow. Tuthur's lieutenants (assumed, not nominated) consisted of a hulking lizardine khargor who could have passed for one of the fabled Saurus of Lustria were it not for his hunched appearance and five serrated claws which protruded from the bones of his spine. This creature was named Lethbaq, and he carried the order of Tuthur Zar'jin across the warherd with a rumbling gurgle. The second abomination was an abject monster that even the most bloodthirsty of the herd avoided if possible. A centaur-like half-spider known to the bray shamans as "He-of-many-legs." Eight spindly legs loomed high above even the tallest gorebull, the silk-wrapped carcass of his human victim dangled by his spinnerets while a hollow row of fangs cursed to remain ajar shrieked Tuthur's will to the heavens.
Soon, the roars of the host joined the ecstatic choir rumbling through the forest like an echo. With the beastlord's latest challenger dispatched, it would be time to celebrate this victory before turning his three eyes toward greater quarry. The fanged maw upon Tuthur's stomach smiled at the quiverring thralls that were thrusted toward the living monument. His mind drank their horror, the bestial conscience branded with one simple word:
"Food."
The ritual site for the Beastmen was shockingly massive. By this point the Shaman that channeled the dark forces of Chaos to the ever more vibrant and lively Herdstone was but one part of the grotesque ritual. The great Beastlord, the mutant Tuthur was a rising power. Blessed in such a way that few of the Beastmen had ever known rumblings suggested he could even one day rival the greatest Human champions of the great four. He and his brutal following were unlike any these forests had seen. Mutation and twisting new forms that would make even the Norscans of the far North pause in hesitance. The creaking and crackling air around the Herdstone spoke to the belignerant Shaman as the ritual was growing stronger. Voices crept into his mind as he heard the calls of entities beyond the mortal plane.
As the growing numbers and ravenous hordes grew more rauctious a freezing chill began to sink in around the herd. These Beastmen were no stranger to the cold. Kislev was known for it's freezing temperatures but something here felt off. There was an almost electric tingle to the chill. Something felt off and wrong about it and towards the snarling hounds despair took them. Their snarling and aggression turned to the treeline. Staring at it and going quiet. A particularily large hound turned away from a rival beast as they tangled for a meaty chunk from a recent kill. Turning to the forest the beast that was the size of a small horse snarled. Feeling something in the shadows that filled it with worry. The other one that claimed the meat paused. Staring at the treeline and whimpering.
Noticing the uncharacteristic distress in the beasts a clawed up Gor made his way to the treeline. Holding an old hand axe. As he stepped into the trees and looked around a feeling of dread came over them. Fear is something most have felt. But this feeling was more. Something more intense and primal. Something ancient and unheard of. A chilly blue wisp seemed to watch him from the shadows. A blurry blob that he couldn't seem to focus on and then a sharp pain hit. The world went cold and dark before the Gors head slumped to the ground. Severed in a bloody strike. As Ungors turned to the mess panic began to erupt from this corner. And as the caucophany of screams and brays continued a sinister laugh came over the area. Even the Shaman paused and looked around as the voices in his mind silenced. The very energy in the ground felt different. He looked around as a feeling of dream came over him. Then they struck.
From the treelines great hulking forms emerged from the very darkness. Bestial bodies larger than bears with scarred, naked flesh and some ragged fur down their backs. Massive claws and bony spines covered the figures bodies and their heads seemed to be skulls. Skulls with great tusks that let out cries resembling a humans scream mixed with the roars of bear and other beasts. As they burst in Gor and Ungor alike were crushed and gored. They came from every direction and as retalations were done their primal weapons seemed to faze through them. A Gor charged at a beast that had a hound gored on its tusks. Throwing the body away as blood sprinkled down the Gor lunged. The beast seemed to shift like it was a trick of the dark. Going just off being in front as the Gor missed. Panic sunk into its face as a massive talon pierced his boulvine chest. Spitting up blood and being slammed to the ground the creature pushed down and caved in the Gors chest. Roars erupted around the camp and as archers pulled back their bows the forest itself seemed to come alive.
Drawing back bows an archer went to aim but before he could release it a crow came down and pecked at his eye. The cries of birds and flapping of wings formed a deafening cacophany that came over the group like a fog. Hundreds of birds dove on the Beastmen and pecked at eyes and throats. Viscious swinging took down birds in the dozens but many had eyes pecked from their skulls as morale tanked. The larger Minotaur stomped and slammed around at the birds before one charged one of the shadowey creatures. The beast reared up and the two clashed. Biting and punching at one another. Claws dug into thick hide and massive arms slammed into the beasts sides. A crack came out as its ribs were broken. It let out a fierce cry as the Minotaur threw the creature into a small burning effigy. Letting out a cry of victory the Minotaur lowered it's horns and charged for the kill. As it went to charge a sudden pain shot through its legs. Falling to it's hands and knees the Minotaur let out a cry of pain. Twisting and contorting as the shadowey beast stood up. It's concaved chest popped back out and splintered tusks and claws seemed to reform.
Wandering up from behind the Minotaur was a frail looking woman.
"Far be it from the Beasts of Chaos to harm the spirits of the land. For their wretched blood and forms are little more than poor imitations of the great nature of the world." Ryk spoke as she casually walked up to it. In her hands holding a small dangling talisman of wood and fur. "For your days are ended and the many hells of the world await you." The Minotaur looked to her with furious eyes and lunging forward the mysterious entities of the woods struck. One jumped from the left, slamming the beasts head down. Another from behind gouging its tusks into the creatures back. Slashing and tearing followed as the massive Minotaur was butchered like the cattle it resembled. Ryk then turned her attention to the three mutatent Razorgors that rampaged nearby. The massive pigs were a danger but within her power. Her eyes gaining a ghostly glow as she pointed a finger to them. Words escaped her lips that seemed to echo on the wind and as the beasts tensed they froze. With a flick of her wrist the beasts turned and charged at a group of Ungors lining up arrows. Charging in cries and wet tearing were heard as they butchered their former ranglers. Ryk then turned to the Shaman and leader of this tribe, the horribly mutant beasts that held their power had a tinge of what seemed like fear in their feral eyes.
Shouting unholy words in the dark tongue the Shaman channeled energy into a viscious spell. Crackling energy swirled around him as fowl green light focused in his ragged hand. Ryk simply smirked. The Shaman let out a cry and with a flick of his wrist a bolt of crackling green smoke flew to the witch. From out of no where a swrm of birds flew in the path. Fiery energy exploded as the birds were burnt up by the blast.
"You dare use the energies of Kislev and her power against me?" Ryk cackled. A sinister sound that made even the Shaman back up. Ryk raised her hand and amber energy swirled around her. A cry of a beast came from her left as a Minotaur charged. Her eye moved to watch it approach. Never turning her head. And mere moments before it struck her she dodged. Pulling back with speed that seemed impossible for such a frail women. The enraged eyes of the minotaur turned to see her before she swung her hand. Blood sprayed into the sky as the Minotaurs eyes were slashed out as Ryk stood with a grin. Her hand had great talons on each finger. Elongated nails that slashed with the fury of an Elfs mighty blade. She grinned and ducked down. Lunging forward and with her strange broom in hand stabbed the claws into the Minotaurs skull. It flung it's head back and she leapt onto its back. A wicked cackle went out as she stabbed down and into the beasts head. it tumbled down as she once more stood on the ground.
Around the camp the Beastmen were slaughtered. Hundreds were dead on the ground as the very earth seemed to fight back. The shadowey beasts made it easy to slay them without mercy for the forces of Chaos did not deserve pity. As the Herdstone began to glow and illuminate with a great aura the Shaman tried to channel all the power he could. Channeling every last ounce of energy to a powerful blast. His body sizzled and skin peeled off as he channeled great power. Ryk simply grinned and rose her hand. Suddenly the Herdstone grew quiet. It's glow faded and the Shaman fell to his hands and knees puking blood. A growing light flickered in the grass and carved into the Herdstone.
"We were already aware and planning for this." Ryk said as both hands took her staff and she slammed the base into the ground. A massive burst of amber energy travelled into the ground and travelled to near the Beastlord. The ground trembled and a fierce roar came from the very earth before a great horned skull and furry body emerged from the shadows. A beast of pure legend. Made from the full power of the Amber Wind. The Incarnate Elemental of Beasts. It roared and swung its massive arms to kill several Beastmen at once. Turning its attention to the Beastlord and his mutated, spider like ally. The Shaman weakly pulled himself up. Glassy eyes looked to Ryk and he rose his hand to try another spell. Though the chaotic winds seemed the weaken and die he felt alone once more. Ryk meanwhile rose her hand. As she seemed to grip something above her head a long spear of amber energy formed. The Shaman let out a final cry as he went to fire what little energy he had left. But as he did Ryk flicked her wrist. The spear of energy flew forward and impaled the Shaman against the Herdstone. Held to it by crackling energy that burnt through flesh, organ and bone. He gasped and tried to raise his hand before going limp.
As the growing numbers and ravenous hordes grew more rauctious a freezing chill began to sink in around the herd. These Beastmen were no stranger to the cold. Kislev was known for it's freezing temperatures but something here felt off. There was an almost electric tingle to the chill. Something felt off and wrong about it and towards the snarling hounds despair took them. Their snarling and aggression turned to the treeline. Staring at it and going quiet. A particularily large hound turned away from a rival beast as they tangled for a meaty chunk from a recent kill. Turning to the forest the beast that was the size of a small horse snarled. Feeling something in the shadows that filled it with worry. The other one that claimed the meat paused. Staring at the treeline and whimpering.
Noticing the uncharacteristic distress in the beasts a clawed up Gor made his way to the treeline. Holding an old hand axe. As he stepped into the trees and looked around a feeling of dread came over them. Fear is something most have felt. But this feeling was more. Something more intense and primal. Something ancient and unheard of. A chilly blue wisp seemed to watch him from the shadows. A blurry blob that he couldn't seem to focus on and then a sharp pain hit. The world went cold and dark before the Gors head slumped to the ground. Severed in a bloody strike. As Ungors turned to the mess panic began to erupt from this corner. And as the caucophany of screams and brays continued a sinister laugh came over the area. Even the Shaman paused and looked around as the voices in his mind silenced. The very energy in the ground felt different. He looked around as a feeling of dream came over him. Then they struck.
From the treelines great hulking forms emerged from the very darkness. Bestial bodies larger than bears with scarred, naked flesh and some ragged fur down their backs. Massive claws and bony spines covered the figures bodies and their heads seemed to be skulls. Skulls with great tusks that let out cries resembling a humans scream mixed with the roars of bear and other beasts. As they burst in Gor and Ungor alike were crushed and gored. They came from every direction and as retalations were done their primal weapons seemed to faze through them. A Gor charged at a beast that had a hound gored on its tusks. Throwing the body away as blood sprinkled down the Gor lunged. The beast seemed to shift like it was a trick of the dark. Going just off being in front as the Gor missed. Panic sunk into its face as a massive talon pierced his boulvine chest. Spitting up blood and being slammed to the ground the creature pushed down and caved in the Gors chest. Roars erupted around the camp and as archers pulled back their bows the forest itself seemed to come alive.
Drawing back bows an archer went to aim but before he could release it a crow came down and pecked at his eye. The cries of birds and flapping of wings formed a deafening cacophany that came over the group like a fog. Hundreds of birds dove on the Beastmen and pecked at eyes and throats. Viscious swinging took down birds in the dozens but many had eyes pecked from their skulls as morale tanked. The larger Minotaur stomped and slammed around at the birds before one charged one of the shadowey creatures. The beast reared up and the two clashed. Biting and punching at one another. Claws dug into thick hide and massive arms slammed into the beasts sides. A crack came out as its ribs were broken. It let out a fierce cry as the Minotaur threw the creature into a small burning effigy. Letting out a cry of victory the Minotaur lowered it's horns and charged for the kill. As it went to charge a sudden pain shot through its legs. Falling to it's hands and knees the Minotaur let out a cry of pain. Twisting and contorting as the shadowey beast stood up. It's concaved chest popped back out and splintered tusks and claws seemed to reform.
Wandering up from behind the Minotaur was a frail looking woman.
"Far be it from the Beasts of Chaos to harm the spirits of the land. For their wretched blood and forms are little more than poor imitations of the great nature of the world." Ryk spoke as she casually walked up to it. In her hands holding a small dangling talisman of wood and fur. "For your days are ended and the many hells of the world await you." The Minotaur looked to her with furious eyes and lunging forward the mysterious entities of the woods struck. One jumped from the left, slamming the beasts head down. Another from behind gouging its tusks into the creatures back. Slashing and tearing followed as the massive Minotaur was butchered like the cattle it resembled. Ryk then turned her attention to the three mutatent Razorgors that rampaged nearby. The massive pigs were a danger but within her power. Her eyes gaining a ghostly glow as she pointed a finger to them. Words escaped her lips that seemed to echo on the wind and as the beasts tensed they froze. With a flick of her wrist the beasts turned and charged at a group of Ungors lining up arrows. Charging in cries and wet tearing were heard as they butchered their former ranglers. Ryk then turned to the Shaman and leader of this tribe, the horribly mutant beasts that held their power had a tinge of what seemed like fear in their feral eyes.
Shouting unholy words in the dark tongue the Shaman channeled energy into a viscious spell. Crackling energy swirled around him as fowl green light focused in his ragged hand. Ryk simply smirked. The Shaman let out a cry and with a flick of his wrist a bolt of crackling green smoke flew to the witch. From out of no where a swrm of birds flew in the path. Fiery energy exploded as the birds were burnt up by the blast.
"You dare use the energies of Kislev and her power against me?" Ryk cackled. A sinister sound that made even the Shaman back up. Ryk raised her hand and amber energy swirled around her. A cry of a beast came from her left as a Minotaur charged. Her eye moved to watch it approach. Never turning her head. And mere moments before it struck her she dodged. Pulling back with speed that seemed impossible for such a frail women. The enraged eyes of the minotaur turned to see her before she swung her hand. Blood sprayed into the sky as the Minotaurs eyes were slashed out as Ryk stood with a grin. Her hand had great talons on each finger. Elongated nails that slashed with the fury of an Elfs mighty blade. She grinned and ducked down. Lunging forward and with her strange broom in hand stabbed the claws into the Minotaurs skull. It flung it's head back and she leapt onto its back. A wicked cackle went out as she stabbed down and into the beasts head. it tumbled down as she once more stood on the ground.
Around the camp the Beastmen were slaughtered. Hundreds were dead on the ground as the very earth seemed to fight back. The shadowey beasts made it easy to slay them without mercy for the forces of Chaos did not deserve pity. As the Herdstone began to glow and illuminate with a great aura the Shaman tried to channel all the power he could. Channeling every last ounce of energy to a powerful blast. His body sizzled and skin peeled off as he channeled great power. Ryk simply grinned and rose her hand. Suddenly the Herdstone grew quiet. It's glow faded and the Shaman fell to his hands and knees puking blood. A growing light flickered in the grass and carved into the Herdstone.
"We were already aware and planning for this." Ryk said as both hands took her staff and she slammed the base into the ground. A massive burst of amber energy travelled into the ground and travelled to near the Beastlord. The ground trembled and a fierce roar came from the very earth before a great horned skull and furry body emerged from the shadows. A beast of pure legend. Made from the full power of the Amber Wind. The Incarnate Elemental of Beasts. It roared and swung its massive arms to kill several Beastmen at once. Turning its attention to the Beastlord and his mutated, spider like ally. The Shaman weakly pulled himself up. Glassy eyes looked to Ryk and he rose his hand to try another spell. Though the chaotic winds seemed the weaken and die he felt alone once more. Ryk meanwhile rose her hand. As she seemed to grip something above her head a long spear of amber energy formed. The Shaman let out a final cry as he went to fire what little energy he had left. But as he did Ryk flicked her wrist. The spear of energy flew forward and impaled the Shaman against the Herdstone. Held to it by crackling energy that burnt through flesh, organ and bone. He gasped and tried to raise his hand before going limp.
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