[History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

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Arellion Sapher
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[History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#1 Post by Arellion Sapher »

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
Here is the first instalment of my fictionalised account/history of the Day of Blood. Those of you who have read my previous threads will know that my current High Elf gaming project is to build an army based around the doomed warriors of Morvael's punitive expedition to Naggaroth.

Herein the Dramatis Personae are all of my own invention, as save for Mentheus of Caledor and Phoenix King Morvael himself, precious little is known of the 'bit players' in this Asur tragedy. More historical figures of the Druchii will appear in the later instalments, but this first is a gentle introduction to the narrative: constructive criticism is always appreciated, as this is simply my take on a historical event that Games Workshop has left in the shadows.
***

IX 2 2 13

“Here he comes.”

Cadharion nodded toward the horizon, where the white sails of the Phoenix King's Dragonship were just visible against the darkling sky of dawn. Aletherim glanced up and nodded briefly before returning his attentions to the intricate carvings on the Shrine Of Asuryan's columns.
The great pyramid of steps that led up to the Eternal Flame was still blocking out the sun, leaving the western side of the temple, where the two Elves were standing, in shadow. Cadharion struck up conversation again;

“That is His Majesty's ship. Aren't you going to look for a moment?”

Aletherim did not look away from the motifs of the Shrine as he replied.

“That is his ship, and he is on it. What more is there to see? Morvael would not have begrudged me even a few seconds of study in this temple. During the reign of Caradryel he spent days here himself. No, there is nothing further to see.”

“But this is his first return to public life since he departed to Avelorn with the Everqueen! That has to count for something!”

“You seem nervous, Warden. Are you worried about Morvael's new policy?”

“As a matter of fact, I am”, snapped Cadharion, annoyed at his friend's non-committal attitude. “Who knows what he will do? He was working night and day to hunt out the Cults of Pleasure before his election, and I hear his relationship with the Everqueen was far from congenial. It may have turned his mind completely!”

“Have you so little faith in your own vote?”, laughed Aletherim, looking back at Cadharion finally. “Morvael is a wise Mage, the wisest living in Hoeth. He is no fool. And, I hear he has successfully sired our next Everqueen, so the two of them must have been friendly for at least some time this last year!”

Cadharion grimaced. Talking to Aletherim the Goldentongued was infuriating at the best of times, and years of mixing with the crude humans of Cathay seemed only to have sharpened his wit. He muttered to himself before striding back toward the Shrine's entrance.

“Come on, Ambassador! Let us meet the Phoenix King at the docks! Every other prince worth his salt in Ulthuan will be there already! And spending too much time in this damnable silent Shrine sets me on edge!”

Aletherim sighed, nodded apologetically to the Phoenix guards who stood, silent and watchful, around the Shrine, and followed Cadharion back down the hillside.

***

The two elves approached the wharf that served as the entry point to the Isle of Flame. Their walk had taken nearly two hours, and the sun was fully risen. There was a throng of princes about the quayside, waiting for the great ship to dock. Glittering armour, shining helmets and swirling robes made the otherwise plain wharf into a carnival of Royal display.

“Now”, snorted Cadharion, “Who are most conspicuous by their absence?”

“I cannot begin to guess” muttered Aletherim sarcastically, silently bemoaning his friend's political partisanship.

“I'll enlighten you” said Cadharion, ignoring Aletherim. “Could it be... the braggart Mentheus and his Caledorian cronies?”

“My, my. You were right. How could I have missed that?”

Cadharion glared at the other with mock irritation.

“You may scoff, O Ambassador to Cathay, but I tell you that Mentheus is just bitter because he was denied the Kingship! See, his brothers-in-conspiracy from Tiranoc and Ellyrion are missing too! And they claim to be the defenders of Ulthuan! Hah!”

“I suppose this is just further evidence that the Elves of the Western realms are simply paranoid reactionaries, afraid to sponsor a Phoenix King who stands for real progress...”

“You're mocking me, Aletherim.”

“Perish the thought.”

The Dragonship's majestic hull was pulled alongside the shore now, and the two elves could see the Sea Guard on board lowering the gangplank. An honour guard of half-a-dozen White Lions of Chrace marched down the gangway and made way among the Asur Princes for the Phoenix King.

Trumpets sounded from ship and shore. A White Lion and a Swordmaster, bearing each the Banner of the King and the Banner of Hoeth, descended the gangway, and behind them walked Morvael, 9th Phoenix King of Ulthuan, robed in deep purple, and glaring haughtily at the nobles thronged on the Isle of Flame. Morvael weighed every Prince gathered with unwavering concentration, and when his eyes alighted on Cadharion and Aletherim, he spoke at last.

“Princes of Ulthuan... Friends of ages. We have much to do. As many of you know, the insidious Cults of Pleasure have been spreading into Ulthuan once again. Those of you who still believe them to be isolated incidents of corruption did not see what I saw, on that fateful day in the Jade Palace of Aethis, the last King.”

The hush was total by now. All the gathered Princes were straining even their sensitive ears to catch every syllable of Morvael's speech. The Phoenix King needed no platform, no auspicious surroundings, to command respect. This barren quayside was all that was necessary. Morvael's oratory held them spellbound.

“I, my fellow scholars, and the Swordmasters of Hoeth know precisely why our King was stabbed to death. Girathon, his trusted Chancellor and friend to many here, myself included, was not merely an agent of corrupt cultism, but a master assassin of our dark cousins, the Druchii.”

Aletherim heard Cadharion snort and bluster by his side. There were several whispers of fear and anger among the other princes. Aletherim, however, had been in Cathay these past four hundred years, and knew better than to dismiss the rumours that the Druchii were abroad once again.
Ganrod of Eataine spoke up, interrupting the Phoenix King with an indignant voice;

“Your Majesty, the Druchii are long gone. They have been wasting away in the Land of Chill for two thousand years! It is impossible that they even have the strength to send agents abroad!”

Morvael glared angrily at Ganrod, who took a step back from his lord, shocked. The Phoenix king answered him loud enough for all to hear;

“You are a fool, Prince of Eataine, if you believe the Druchii to be a powerless remnant of our race! You have never faced them in battle, you know not their tenacity and their unbreakable malice!”

The assembly was silent once again. Morvael resumed his speech.

“The Druchii were driven back into the north, before many of you reached maturity and importance in Ulthuan. Those of you who were with me at the battle of the Blighted Isle will remember the parlous state that both they and we were left in. Too many had died to continue the war, and Tethlis, our King, was struck down by his own bodyguards because he wanted to continue fighting. We had the chance, then, to follow our arch-foes to their lair and exterminate them once and for all. We should have taken that opportunity. I confess, I was glad to see an end to the war. I hoped never to see such bloodshed again.”
“Nonetheless, the Druchii, like us, have survived. It is clear, however, that the sparse resources of their bleak realm cannot support a large population, and thus in many ways, my comrade from Eataine is correct. The Druchii have been wasting away. However, they are not yet gone. They remain a threat, even now. They are reduced to fighting a secret, stealthy war against our nobles, our leaders. They can no longer stand against open combat. From Arnhelm there have been no reports of Druchii scouts for nearly five hundred years.”
“We know they are dying. But we must show them no mercy. One of their skulking spies slew our king, and we will have revenge. For two thousand years they have gone unpunished for the deaths of millions of Asur! Now, they have made the greatest and last mistake in their history! My first action as Phoenix King of Ulthuan is to declare unceasing, unrelenting war on Naggaroth! To this end I intend to send the largest, most powerful fleet since the reign of Tethlis the Slayer to destroy the dark cities of the Druchii and cast every last Dark Elf howling into the dark beyond this living realm!”

Cadharion's eyes widened. Aletherim, too, was surprised. Morvael had previously been a peaceful, scholarly character, not given to rages or aggression. One thing Aletherim did remember, however, was Morvael's frequent mood swings. Clearly, crowning him king had only made his emotional reactions more intense. Aletherim dreaded the thought of what Morvael's depressions would result in when this intensity had abated.

“This warhost will require commanders! I expect each one of you to commit your armies to the attack. Those of you without forces of your own will contribute your battlefield talents to both the invasion of Naggaroth and its consolidation. My personal contribution will be five regiments of the White Lions of Chrace, and another five of the Swordmasters of Hoeth. I am... disappointed that my former political rivals from Caledor, Ellyrion and Tiranoc could not be present, but we will have to make up for their skill with all the might of the Eastern realms.”

The collected Princes were waiting with bated breath for Morvael's key appointments. Each was a mighty warrior of Ulthuan, each had lent considerable support to Morvael during his bid for the kingship.

“Admiral Bel-Mirriad, Sea Lord of Lothern will command the war-fleet.”

There were murmurs of approval. Bel-Mirriad was a competent sailor, one of the few who had seen regular combat over the centuries against Human pirates from the Northlands and Araby.

“Aethos the Grey of Cothique will be responsible for guiding our fleet through the straits of Naggaroth. The way is treacherous, and nigh unmapped by our people. Aethos will lead the Sea Mages who will guide each ship.”

There were more uncertain mutterings by now. Aethos was not present, indeed had not been seen since a now-legendary spellcasting accident, which it was said had severely crippled his body. Reports of his death had been widely circulated.

“The high commander of the armies of Ulthuan will be the Warden of Tor Yvresse, Cadharion the third.”

Cadharion strode proudly forward, bowing elaborately before the King. Bel-Mirriad respectfully regarded his counterpart with icy eyes.

“Finally, supreme command of the entire punitive expedition will be devolved upon my old friend, Aletherim the Goldentongued, former ambassador to Cathay and now Viceroy of Naggaroth. His role will be to bring Malekith the traitor to account, and watch over the Land of Chill when all the Druchii have at last been hunted down.”

Aletherim raised his eyebrows in bemused surprise. All the princes turned to face him.

“I... am honoured by your appointment, your Majesty. I... am at a loss for words.”

“That's a first, at least.” growled Cadharion to a chuckling Bel-Mirriad.
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Dannaron
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#2 Post by Dannaron »

I feel like I'm obligated to provide a useful critique here... But at the moment it's too short and too simple for me to really think of anything.

(Note: I forgot to ask whether you'd actually be looking for criticism or would appreciate it. If not, feel free to entirely ignore the rest of the paragraph and be content in the knowledge that I like the idea of this story and it was entertaning :) )

There are no fantastic gems of prose and no glaring errors: on the whole it is written well, and flows nicely. I like the pacing as well, you seem to cut straight to the point without feeling rushed.

The only complaints I have is that people seem to be nodding all over the place, particuarly in that first section. Easily fixed and not a big deal, but there y'are.

The other is that Morvael doesn't sound particuarly kingly. His audience is 'spellbound by his oratory' and it seems he's delievering a rehearsed speech, but I'd assume that for these things to occur he'd need to be saying a lot more, and saying it very impressively.

I enjoyed reading this, and look forward to the next one!
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Arellion Sapher
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#3 Post by Arellion Sapher »

That's a pretty fair critique, actually. I suppose this scene was a bit of a limber-up and scene-setting, really, but I see your point. I intend to jump the story forward a bit, however, for next time.

Cheers! At least noone's complained about my characters yet...
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#4 Post by Arondight »

Comment from a former fanfiction writer:

It's too early for me to give criticism, but you seem to run into the same problems I usually run into - sensory details.

What do they look like? Physical details? Give us clues to their personality through actions. Take the Phoenix King, for example. Does he pace about eagerly and gestures as he speaks to his followers? Does he stand still and glare with kingly eyes.

Plotwise: Why doesn't he send Phoenix Guard?

...Granted, I'm one of the PG's largest fangirls out there, but I was just curious.

Otherwise, looks quite good. Looking forward to the next bit.
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Dannaron
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#5 Post by Dannaron »

Does anyone ever "send" the Phoenix Guard? I thought they just turn up.
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#6 Post by Ruerl Khan »

Interesting, so far it looks to have potential.

I hope you continue with your focus on the different personalities and the tensions between them, the emotional and the things you can relate to as a reader always makes a better story than meredly battle scenes. :)
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#7 Post by Arellion Sapher »

Interesting! Thanks for the comments, guys and gals!
Arondight wrote:It's too early for me to give criticism, but you seem to run into the same problems I usually run into - sensory details.

What do they look like? Physical details? Give us clues to their personality through actions. Take the Phoenix King, for example. Does he pace about eagerly and gestures as he speaks to his followers? Does he stand still and glare with kingly eyes.
Funny you should say that... This intro was testing the water somewhat with regard to sensory detail... the irony is that I was trying to bring it down from my usual level, where I can happily spend a page describing how an Elf sage lifts a ladle of water from a lake into a bowl.

Looking back, it does seem a bit spartan on the old detail. You're quite right, and for the next instalment there will be more interesting descriptions. Thanks for pointing that 'un out.
Dannaron wrote:Does anyone ever "send" the Phoenix Guard? I thought they just turn up.
That's what I thought. I figured that the Phoenix guard would be less inclined to go to war against Naggaroth, as their main mandate is protecting Ulthuan and the Eternal Flame. I think perhaps Morvael is not a main chum of the Captain, being the political fellow he is.
Ruerl Khan wrote:I hope you continue with your focus on the different personalities and the tensions between them, the emotional and the things you can relate to as a reader always makes a better story than meredly battle scenes.
Oh, absolutely. :twisted:
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Arellion Sapher
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#8 Post by Arellion Sapher »

Right, here's part two. No bloodshed yet, but we're getting there.

Let me know what you think. I can think of a few things wrong already...

***
IX 2 2 32

Aletherim the Goldentongued lurched out onto the deck as the Spear of Aenarion's hull ground brutally against another iceberg. Barely able to open his eyes against the lashing rain and wind, he saw only a formless grey haze outside, broken by the gleaming gold and blue figures of the Seaguard and sailors desperately trying to keep the ship on course.

Aletherim trudged across the deck, pushing past the other elves too busy to make way for anyone, trying to force his way up to the prow. His robes provided no protection against the cold, and he was beginning to envy his White Lion bodyguards. At least they weren't in danger of having their blood freeze in their veins.

Admiral Bel-Mirriad, in full dress armour, gilded helmet gleaming, stood at the front of the Spear of Aenarion, gazing as far as he could into the fog. Aletherim shouted to him over the crowded voices of the sailors.

“I don't think the Land of Chill is too welcoming of our incursion, Admiral!”

Bel-Mirriad did not seem to hear. His attention was occupied by the Ice-field which their Dragonship was attempting to batter its way through. Seaguard were down aboard the Iceberg already, attempting to crack the freezing surface with long-handled axes.

The fleet was making slow progress. Since they first entered the Dire Straits, the ships of Ulthuan had had to force their way through increasing outcrops of icebergs, shoals, and concealed rocks. Now, the white ships of the Asur were sandwiched in an icy channel between two towering cliffs of black, jagged rock. The Spear of Aenarion was gradually pushing its way through, the sailors making the best of the harsh North Winds, but things were becoming ever more difficult. Now it was a case of hacking and slashing at every obstacle, wearily, inch by inch, making way through the frozen channel.

Bel-Mirriad began his own conversation.

“Aethos informed us that this channel would be clear. He stated categorically that this would be the only open passage. I smell trickery.”

Aletherim had had the same concerns himself.

“I sense the winds of magic moving against us. Aethos would not have led us intentionally astray.”

“Perhaps not. Viceroy Goldentongue, may I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“What do you really know of the Druchii? You do not share the Warden of Yvresse's confidence, or that of His Majesty. Why?”

Aletherim paused for a moment, leaning into the wind, looking out over the clashing ice before them.

“When I was ambassador to the Dragon-Emperor of Cathay, I travelled with the human armies to the far North many times. We fought battles, mighty wars, with the tribes of marauders that threw themselves against the mighty wall that the Cathayans call the Great Bastion.”
“Many times I lent my skills to the Cathayans, worked with their mysticists, and I was amazed at their knowledge of the Winds of Azr, of Hyish and of Ulgu. Their magics were self-taught – one might believe them to be a great people, confident in their might and wisdom.”
“And yet they remain superstitious and fearful, ever wary of attack. Not from the tribes of the North, but from over the sea. Always, they warned of black ships, of a constant threat from pale ghosts, who rode the backs of sea-serpents. One might think these apparitions the results of paranoia. But I know better.”
“They called me Ying-Sana. In Cathayan that means 'Lord of Balance'. I always wondered at that – that they would place such trust in a foreign emissary. I discovered, however, that their moniker was not due to my strength or ability to hold the Great Bastion against the shamans of Chaos. No. Because if I were an agent of balance, that suggests previous 'imbalance', does it not?”

Aletherim saw attentiveness, but no surprise, in Bel-Mirriad's grey eyes. The old elf was listening intently, but beyond that it was impossible to say.

“My suspicions were confirmed when I joined the tour of duty aboard one of the Emperor's great war-junks. We had been hunting pirates from Nippon and the northlands for several weeks, but it was not until we came to an inlet on the coast of Southern Cathay that we finally saw what I had heard rumours of for decades.”
“A Cathayan fishing village had been razed to the ground. Hung on the cliffs were the flayed, bloody skins of the men who had fought to defend it. The ground was littered with broken weapons of the Cathayans, but amid the wreckage I found a crossbow bolt which I recognised. It was not from one of the flimsy bamboo weapons of the Cathayans. It was elf-crafted wood. Wood that could only come from the evergreen forests of Ulthuan. And Naggaroth.”
“The captain of the Junk, for the first time since I had met him, was deeply unwilling to pursue the raiders. I urged him to follow what trail he could, and we set off after the enemy. I have no doubt in my mind that the Druchii were responsible for destroying that village, and many more besides. Regardless of what we believe about our dark cousins, they have been at work for many centuries, and if they have somehow managed to cross over the Ironfrost glacier in the far north, and reached the far side of Naggaroth, then they have grown far more powerful than we can have anticipated.”

Bel-Mirriad seemed to contemplate Aletherim's words. The wind whistled around them, the clattering work of the sailors behind them seemed distant, devoid of meaning. Eventually the Admiral spoke.

“I have suspected as much for some time. When I hunt pirates in the North or to the East of Ulthuan, I am always intrigued by their fear. For many of them the elven-kind are but a legend, a myth of monsters that live over the sea. They imbue us with the ability to command monsters of the Ocean, they claim that we eat their children, drag them into slavery. At no stage in the history of Ulthuan does this occur, yet myths persist. That, and the occasional sightings of Black sails following my vessels suggest that Ulthuan is not the only realm of Elven strength remaining.”

“How then do you regard this expedition?”

“Quite simply, Viceroy. I was right two thousand years ago, during the Battle of the Waves. I was right to urge my fellow captains to pursue the Druchii up to Naggaroth. I remember when we stormed across the Plain of Bones. The Druchii were fleeing, broken and unarmed, and we cut them down like dogs. We should not have ceased. Our King was killed by those monsters, and it took anther dead King to force us back into action. This is not simply an expedition, Viceroy. This is our destiny, our true path. It was your people, Viceroy, you scholars of Hoeth, that turned us from it in the first place. It is upon your heads that this doom should fall, but I will do my duty as a noble of Ulthuan and tie up the loose ends of two millennia past. Your reluctance to confront the enemy, in their strength or weakness, simply reflects your half-hearted loyalty to Ulthuan, let alone to the King.”

Bel-Mirriad had not changed his facial expression, or the timbre of his voice. Aletherim's surprise had rapidly become irritation. The arrogant sailor's implications of treason were clear.

“Well, Admiral, I appreciate your honesty. I have decided how we will make our way through the straits. I would like you to order all your crew to the lower decks.”

The Admiral turned to Aletherim in surprise.

“What do you mean? You can't expect me to leave the ships unmanned!”

“They will not require crews. If the fleet cannot move through the ice, then we must move the ice itself.”

“Not more magical trickery. And certainly not that pariah Aethos! I will not trust the care of my ships to you.”

“Oh yes, Admiral. The Winds of Magic have caused this unnatural blockade, and the Winds of Magic will bring it down. Kindly give the order to batten down the hatches.”

I'll not do so!”, Bel-Mirriad shouted. The sailors nearby were silent as they stopped and listened to the two leaders. Aletherim felt the urge to use this to his own advantage.

“You will. I am in command of this expedition. If you had your way, we would still be here in a week, struggling through this channel, with supplies dwindling, and we would be inches away from slitting one another's throats.”

A few more sailors had gathered. The group was becoming a crowd.

“You are a fool, Viceroy! Do you think I would trust the fantasist Mages who led us to this frozen wasteland to lead us out of it? I will have you relieved of command!”

Suddenly there was a murmur among the sailors. One Sea Master shouted across the crowd.

“My Lord Admiral! You have no right to second-guess the will of the King, which is the will of Asuryan!”

There were shouts of protest from the crew of the Spear of Aenarion. The Sea Master was quickly suppressed, but Bel-Mirriad plunged into the throng and stood face-to-face with his subordinate officer. His calm, rational exterior had become a mask of rage and he veritably screamed into the face of the younger elf;

“What have you to say, warrior? Will you support the fools of Saphery in their attempt to smash our fleet to matchwood?”

The youthful Sea Master stared his commander directly in the eyes without wavering.

“I am Darethis of the Tor Brandir garrison. Your accuse Viceroy Goldentongue of disloyalty, my Lord. Why? Because he attempts to succeed where our approach thus far has failed. You let your pride get the better of you. My lord, I am for this expedition. We must succeed. But I, and I believe the majority of this crew, will trust the Viceroy and the Sea Mages who were given the task of leading us to Naggaroth. That is their role. Please, my Lord, remember yours.”

There was silence. Bel-Mirriad looked about him, saw how the other sailors hung back from him. Looking into each face, he saw only amazement and uncertainty. He turned back to Darethis, his face changed from red rage to grey ash.

“Admiral, I will not destroy your fleet, harm your sailors, or compromise the expedition simply by attempting to shift this ice,” said Aletherim. “You know what you must do.”

Bel-Mirriad stood up straight, took a breath, and seemed to regain some composure.

“Stand to!”, he shouted across the decks of the Dragonship. “All crew below decks!”

Aletherim turned back to look at the iceberg-filled channel. Now for the easy part.

***

“Alandor of the Eastern Mountains is here. The cycle is nigh complete. We bring light to the shadow, and the shadow will swallow us.”

Aletherim always found speaking with Aethos the Grey disconcerting. The enigmatic mage's deformities were beyond physical damage – Aethos had become a semi-intangible wraith, a chance miscast of one of Loremaster Forolaith's evocations fusing him partly with the winds of magic. Aethos' form shimmered and his skin seemed to partially blend with the air around him. Looking into the eyes of the Grey Mage was like looking toward the sun – one could not hold one's gaze too long. To make matters even more difficult, Aethos habitually spoke in riddles.

“The darkwind rises. Our dawn is that of the frosty season. We must melt the ice.”

Aletherim looked back toward the fleet. Here, atop the mast of the Spear of Aenarion, the rest of the Navy of Ulthuan was arrayed spectacularly behind him.
The icy channel was flecked with a thousand white sails, gilded prows cutting through the water, multicoloured flags fluttering in the chill air. The combined fleets of Cothique, Eataine, Yvresse, and the Eastern seas were laid out before them, challenging the land of Chill with their bright banners, taunting the black rocks with their grace and strength.
In each vessel's crow's nest stood one of the coven of Sea Mages who were tasked with guiding the fleet. Aletherim spotted the silver staff of Daraloth the songmaster, the flowing hair of Ninua of Avelorn, and heard upon the wind the chanting of the Lothern lighthouse keepers.

“Then let us begin, Aethos Shadowmantle! Let the Sea Mages of Ulthuan call down the Winds of Isha and blast the Dire Straits with the Fury of Khaine!”

Aethos stared at Aletherim, giving him pause.

“The winds are a kingdom like any other. To trespass therein without their ruler's permission is to invite doom.”

Aletherim's azure robes flapped in the wind, but Aethos, as always, seemed unaffected by any weather. His pupil-less eyes bored into Aletherim pejoratively.

“What do we wait for, Aethos?”

“The lords of the sky”

Aethos looked slowly upward, and from the bruised northern sky there swooped grey and brown shapes, the fluttering feathers of Great Eagles.

“Caiadai Silverwing, King of the Annuli updraft, is come.”

Aletherim barely heard Aethos' ghostly tones as a great grey-feathered eagle, wings spread a full fifty yards, landed upon the second mast of the Dragonship.

Hail, Aletherim Goldentongue, croaked Caiadai, in the keening language of the Eagles. Hail to you also, Aethos the half-wind.

Aletherim's Eagle-tongue was somewhat rusty, but he did his best.

Hail, Silverwing. I fondly remember the days I spent in study at your court.

Indeed, replied Caiadai. And here we are again, nearly a thousand years later. A shame it has taken so long.

Have the masters of the wind come ready to fly?, cut in Aethos.

We have, replied Caiadai. Twenty full flights of my people, ready to join the King of the Elves in his battle against the hawk-pluckers of Naggaroth. When we received word of this attack, we were more than willing to join you.

Silverwing's warriors will lead us through the straits when our winds take us into the Sea of Chill, Aethos informed Aletherim, uncharacteristically direct, for once.

Let it be so, nodded Aletherim.

The King of Eagles leaped into flight once again, and Aethos walked, across empty air, from his place with Aletherim to the crow's nest on the Spear of Aenarion's second mast. Aletherim shook his head in bewilderment, before turning back toward the ice-packed channel of Naggaroth. The chanting of the Mages on the other ships was beginning to blend with the wind, and hard gusts were beginning to fill the sails of the Asur. Hundreds of staffs, wands and enchanted blades were pointed forward.

Aletherim raised his hands toward the Frozen channel, and began to incant words of power.

***

Arkanos Sawtooth galloped up the slope, snow flying around his steed's hooves. There was a terrible cracking sound coming from the Black cliffs, and the earth was beginning to shake. Something was afoot, and it wasn't the work of his garrission.

Arkanos swung off his ebony horse, leaving the exhausted animal panting in the treeline. Seizing his repeater crossbow, he advanced, icy wind blowing his black cloak about him, up toward the clifftop. Snow crunched beneath his boots, and his armour seemed to weigh a tonne during this season.

Standing atop the mighty bastion of rock which overlooked the Straits, Arkanos stared down toward the channel, and blinked rapidly, as if an illusion was unfolding before his eyes.

Through the driving wind, the Dark Rider could make out a massive fleet of white-sailed ships, sleek, graceful vessels with tall masts and banners flying. Something was dreadfully wrong.

A moment later Arkanos saw what it was. The wind was filled with booming words in a magical tongue, and their results were made plain. Icebergs were lifting from the water, Whole rock faces thrown aside from the channel. The cliff rumbled again and Arkanos had to drop to one knee to keep his balance. The entire strait was being pushed open like a chest with stiff hinges. Levitating blocks of ice were held in mid-air, or smashed against the cliffside. And the wind was blowing stronger from the south by the minute.

One breath later and the mighty fleet began to move. The great hulls leapt forward, their sails filled with the powerful wind. The air in front of the ships was filled with swooping giant birds, flapping their great wings and calling out to each other as they soared northward, toward Naggaroth.

Arkanos fell prone, and fumbled in his pack for a spyglass. Raising the device to one eye, he focused on the gunwales of the ships. The voices that filled the air were nigh deafening, but Arkanos could not see any sign of crew members. However, he saw the Eagle Claw bolt throwers aboard the ships, and recognised the design.

His heart filled with rage, and he remembered the legends he had heard, the tales of the usurpers of Ulthuan, and as the black hatred festered in his stomach he raised the glass to look at the crow's nest of one of the vessels. Beneath one of the flags was anther elf, robed in grey, with silver bracers, and a staff of ebony wood crackling with eldritch lightning.

A Mage of the Asur.

Arkanos looked from ship to ship – each one was being crewed by a single chanting Mage. Arkanos rolled to his feet, and began to sprint back across the snowy clifftops to rejoin his steed. He had to get word back to Clar Karond. This was not merely some raiding party. It was an armada, and Arkanos had no doubt that there was an army to match aboard those ships, hidden or not.

As he galloped back through the snow-covered black forest, Arkanos thought back to the old tales he had heard. The cruelty of the Asur all those centuries ago, those creatures who had slain his father at Anlec, would be repaid in full when they came at last to the dark cities of the Druchii.

Behind him the ice and stone of the Dire Straits was shattered and broken. And the Phoenix King's Navy pounded its way through.
Last edited by Arellion Sapher on Sat Jan 03, 2009 12:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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#9 Post by Ruerl Khan »

Very interesting, I love the tension in this, its almost ripe to explode :)
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#10 Post by fireblade »

Love it too, great work!
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#11 Post by Dannaron »

To get them out of the way, I'll start with some minor quibbles. These are both minor and quibbles, and in the spirit of being constructive: feel free to ignore them entirely, no disparagement is intended.

- Rain is mentioned together with wind in the opening lines, and then nowhere again afterwards. The dark elf watcher later notes snow. I didn't actually pick this up on my first read-through, but there you are.

- I'm a little uncertain as to the ages involved here. Games Workshop tends to avoid being drawn on the question but there was a passing reference in the last rulebook about elves only living to about two-thousand or so. Exceptions are usually because of black sorcery (Malekith and Morathi. One scribe in the dark elf book mentions being granted immortality by Malekith by eating fruit of the "black tree")

- I don't feel anything for Arkanos. So far you've done a very good job at making characters beyond just "elven mage" "elven captain" and so forth, which is a big and difficult trap for these kinda stories. Which may be why This poor guy jars a bit as the exception, being a fairly generic dark elf.
It's a good sign that I've managed to get this far, actually, because it shows that the other characters must be working.

Then there are more positive things:
- I really like Aethos. It's good that you're already showing off how dangerous and unearthly Warhammer magic is, plus having a mad seer type character is always fun! :)

- The sparring between Aletherim and Bel-Miriad was fun. I'm enjoying how political and snarky these elves are, and the fact that they're not all stout brothers-in-arms. Makes them much more interesting and sympathetic.

- The prose itself continues to be successful: it's succint and to the point without being too sparse.

I'm sorry if this is being too detailed or annoying, my uni course has made lengthy critiques my default response to any writing nowadays.

Looking forward to the future installments! When the squig really starts to hit the fan...
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#12 Post by Arellion Sapher »

Thanks, gentlemen, for your kind words.

Dannaron, it's excellent having a critique.
I failed to notice the rain thing completely... got too caught up in the verbal duelling. There will be more of that, for sure. Thanks, I will keep a closer eye on my meteorology in future.

Aletherim and Bel-Mirriad are old Elves. They were both quite young uring the Battle of the Waves, probably not even one hundred by that stage. Now they're fighting the ghouls of the past after long and illustrious careers of peace. You'll see later that for most of the Elves on the expedition, the Dark Elves are a scary bedtime story. It hasn't come across yet because I'm still writing about the commanders of the expedition.

Arkanos Sawtooth is a plot device. I'll admit this. He was never intended to represent any kind of major character, but your sympathy for his plight has persuaded me to include him again. One day...

Thanks for your comments. Next instalment up soon.
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#13 Post by Arellion Sapher »

An explanation
My friends, apologies to raise this thread from the depths of the archive. I wish to explain why, having recently joined the forum, I quickly ceased to post.
I am currently in the Mountains of Mourn, (more specifically Kazakhstan) on a voluntary project where Internet access is scarce. I have been writing the following instalments of this sporadic attempt to fill in a gap in elven history, but they are currently in paper format.
Come September, I will return to Ulthuan, where, probably after a three-week or so interval, I shall transcribe all that I have written. So once again apologies for the ridiculously long gap, I hope I will be able to make up for it with whatever is brewing here in the midst of the Ogre Kingdoms.
I can already see there's a load of good work by everyone else as well...
Cheers 'till the autumn,
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#14 Post by fireblade »

Good to hear again from you. I can't wait to read the next parts of this story.
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#15 Post by Ruerl Khan »

Looking forward to the next part then, and waiting is okay, your volunteer work is of more importance than your readers anyway. ;)
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#16 Post by Dannaron »

Most excellent! I'll have to make a point to return to the forums in triumph myself around that time.
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#17 Post by Arellion Sapher »

And we're back in Albion. Sorry for the wait, I hope it was worth it!
Before we join Aletherim and company in Naggaroth, let's see how Morvael is dealing with his first few months in office.

***

The Kingdom of Saphery shone beneath the sun. Birds sang in the deep, misted green woods, great mountain rivers roared their way downhill, and majestic cloud banks whirled in the grey-blue sky.
The little towns of the Asur were peaceful places, the High Elves used to making their living with livestock, crops, and the arts. Singing could often be heard in the meadows and forests of Saphery, and the idyll was surmounted by the great towers and mansions of the Lords, the protectors and caretakers of their surrounding lands.
Throughout Saphery, indeed throughout all Ulthuan, one fortress, one name, was best known. The White tower of Hoeth, heart of magic, wisdom, and scholarship thoughout the world. The air was rumoured to shimmer with the power lines of magic which filled the Sapherian sky, and the tower itself reputed to fade in and out of sight with the dawn and dusk.
And so it was now. While the sun blazed with pure light over the misted lands of The Inner Sea, the Tower stood, tall and seemingly flawless, a pinnacle of Elven architecture. Banners of all the Kingdoms of Ulthuan fluttered from the ramparts, for the White Tower was, now, the centre of Ulthuan's government.

Yet all was not right. The scions of the fortress were beginning to worry that all was not well with their master. It was hardly unusual for Morvael of Yvresse to have eccentric turns, locking himself in his chambers for days on end, but now, each hour spent in seclusion was an hour where Ulthuan had no King. For Morvael, High Loremaster and now Phoenix King of Ulthuan, had sealed off the Loremasters and, as usual, no-one could contact him.

“It's been long enough now!” Blurted out Bel-Hathor, Prince of Saphery and Finder of the Nine incantations. “He must see to the affairs of state! Knock down the door or something!”

“Indeed!”, echoed Ellyunnor, Archmage of the crystal peak. “There are embassages from across the Kingdoms waiting for His Majesty!”

Pellas, Captain of the White Lions of Chrace, clenched his fists beneath his desk for the third time that day. With the king in seclusion, and the silent, cold Swordmasters permanently acting as bodyguard and privy council the White Lions were very much the whipping-boys of the Princes these days.

The courtyard was filled with nobles. Preening scholars, indulgent traders, self-promoting politicians. The former court, in fact, of Aethis the poet, clearly unable to cope with the new King's sober, restrained approach to governence. Where Aethis' Jade palace had been a riot of colour and song, burning incense and endless, endless dalliances in the Royal Harem.

The White Tower was, by contrast, a cold labyrinth of scholarly quietude and academia. There were no tapestries, no sound of music and laughter. Footsteps echoed in the halls and chambers. Morvael had been haemorrhaging courtiers for weeks and Pellas was amazed there were this many aristocrats left in the Tower of Hoeth. He was a warrior – and there were precious few of those left in this part of Ulthuan.

“So you would like me to march a company of soldiers up to the Keep and parlay with the Swordmasters? Not to mention interrupt the King of our realm and the most powerful mage in Ulthuan without his permission? If you wish to try, be my guest – I will happily watch your folly, but I will have no part in it.”

The two wizard-Princes muttered between themselves irritably. A silken voice oozed into 's ears as the Sapherians were pushed aside by a tall, handsome elf in turquoise robes.

“All we ask is that you attempt to reach the Phoenix King while we are all here. Some of the Princes are becoming irritable – they did not expect to be kept waiting. We are his majesty's friends, we care for his well-being...”

Pellas stared bluntly at Sejanius Greenbow, Prince of Avelorn. The Elegant elf was, as usual, impeccably dressed, and his voice had the consistency of caramelised sugar. The Swordmaster captain did not trust the handsome Asur. It was rumoured that Sejanius was the Everqueen's new consort. He made his move quickly enough, thought Pellas.

“Nothing doing”, the Chracian said. “It's hard enough having two orders of guards here without making even more conflict out of thin air. My men are too busy on the Phoenix King's assignments. If you want to bother His Majesty, you'll have to wait.”

“I think you'll find that you're never too busy for the favoured of the Everqueen, Pellas...”, sneered Sejanius, glaring over the desk into Pellas' unwavering eyes.

“Leave the good Captain alone, gentlemen.”

Pellas looked past Sejanius toward the end of the guard-hall, from whence the booming voice had come. Everyone was silent as Mentheus of Caledor, resplendent in full battle-armour, swept across the hall with his fellow Dragon Princes. The lamps gleamed off the polished scale-mail of the Caledorians, and Pellas was impressed by the authority they carried, though stripped of royalty for millennia.

“It grieves me to trouble you, Pellas Mountainborn”, Mentheus announced, loud enough that the other Princes could hear his true courtly manners. “Yet I must announce the presence of myself and my entourage in the White Tower. We have come as per His Majesty's instructions, and your subordinates have placed us in the North Wing.”

“A pleasure to have you, My Lord,” nodded Pellas, marking down the seven Caledorians on his roster. “Sadly His Majesty is indisposed at present, but will no doubt call you for an audience in a day or so.”

“Know you what ails his majesty?”, inquired Mentheus, refined yet humble. Sejanius and Bel-Hathor both spluttered with indignation at the audacity of the Dragon Prince.

“I do not, my Lord”, admitted Pellas, glancing briefly behind him and out of the window, toward the inner keep and its spire.

***

Morvael, Ninth Phoenix King of Ulthuan, was seated in the centre of his chamber at the peak of the tower of Hoeth. He thought that coming here, his pure, solitary study, might perhaps ease the constant, crushing responsibility of kingship, but to no avail.

The walls seemed to close in around Morvael, and the Phoenix King was paralysed. He could not rule Ulthuan – he would never be able to contend with rulers like Aenarion the Defender, Caledor the Conquerer, Bel-Korhadris, the Scholar King... all were wise visionaries, not bookish, depressive politicians.

Morvael knew that below him, in the rooms and halls of The Tower of Magic, the council of Princes were waiting to hear his rule. Morvael knew that whatever he said would not, could not, please them. He knew...

Morvael's mind began to flash with the images of two thousand years before. They had remained with him throughout their study, they had dogged him as he rose through the ranks... it was the memory of the Battle of the Waves, when he was just a young officer in the ranks of the Yvresse Archers of the Guard, that followed him still.

“Forward! For the Slayer!”

Thandos, Hawkeye of the Senlathain Regiment of Archers, leapt into the bloody foam from the bow of the schooner. Morvael plunged in after him, the other warriors of Yvresse rushing up behind them.
Lightning danced overhead in the cruel sky and Morvael was nearly blinded by spray, foul-smelling from the stench of blood and Elven waste. The cliffs of the Blighted Isle loomed before them, and the clash of steel was never-ending.

The whirring of arrows sounded in the sky, and Morvael saw his men begin to fall before a rain of crossbow bolts which seemed to fill the air. The warriors of Yvresse began to fall, and Morvael, inexperienced princeling that he was, had no idea how to keep them going.

“Rally!”, screamed Morvael. “Give them a volley! Load and fire!”

The soldiers of the Senlathain regiment were struggiling to reach shore, their robes quickly becoming sodden with the bloody saltwater, their scalemail weighing them down. Morvael was even worse off, his Prince's armour dragging him down into the sandbank.

One of the Elves, splashing forward, tore his bow and quiver from his shoulder. The strings and arrows were soaked, and useless. He was struck by at least six crossbow bolts at once, falling without a sound.
Morvael did his best to keep his troops moving, but his words were drowned out by a clap of thunder. Morvael continued to push on, and saw the sinister form of a Black Dragon circling above the battle. He fell over the corpse of a soldier and suddenly felt the foul water close around him, paralysing him.

Arms gripped Morvael and pulled him back upwards. He coughed and retched, and barely heard the shouted words;

“Careful, my lord, you have to keep steady! Come on now, for Yvresse!”

Morvael wiped his eyes and heard the terrible shrieks. He suddenly saw the forms of Druchii warriors, tearing through the foam, wicked blades hungry for Asur blood.

Morvael and the other Archers fumbled for their swords, and battle was joined...


Morvael, on the floor of his chamber, began to scream up at the ceiling. Something terrible was happening in his memory.

The Druchii lunged at Morvael, screeching something in his dark perversion of Eltharin. Morvael barely parried the stroke, and was not fast enough to defend himself as the Druchii smashed his shield into the young prince's face. Morvael went down again, dragged into the gory depths of the sea.

He burst again to the surface, and everything was different. The black cliffs were different, above them towered the silhouette of a dark, viciously barbed tower.

The foam was red with elven blood, but there was no fighting. Instead, there were merely hundreds of floating bodies. Floating bodies clad not in the plain, functional armour of Tethlis' army, but in the plumed, gilded uniforms of Morvael's own royal expedition. Everything was silent. The sodden squelch of despoiled seawater was all that remained of the vicious melee upon the Blighted Isle. Morvael's Ears were ringing. Slowly, so slowly, he looked down at himself. The plain white robes he wore as King were a deep crimson. His simple linens were weighed down with gore, fluid, and sputum. His hair was sodden with the stuff. The stench pervaded everything.

The King couldn't breathe. His muscles contracted at the horror of it. He was up to his waist in death. He felt the bile rising in his throat and with a tortured retch vomited forth his disgust. Morvael fell to his knees, sinking deeper into the foul mass about him. He sobbed weakly. This was wrong, dreadfully wrong.

Something was happening. The air was coming alive again. There was a buzz. Morvael looked up, blinking slime out of his eyes, and saw, against the unnatural sky, a rapidly swelling black cloud.

The buzz became a roar. A cacophany of croaking.

The croaking of millions of carrion crows.

Morvael's eyes widened and he jerked backward, turning, running. As fast as he could throught the repulsive stew of bodies he half-waded, half-swam. He could hear himself gibbering wordlessly. All his knowledge, all his spells had gone from his mind and he could not even turn as the cackle of the birds rumbled up behind him.

There was a pattering like falling rain which grew into an ominous splatter as Morvael stumbled desperately forward. The screeching crows were crunching bones, tearing flesh.

Morvael had to escape. Had to get away.

Suddenly his feet were arrested by a mass of fabric in the water, a blood-soaked Asur Banner which tangled itself around Morvael's legs and plunged him head-first down into the gory brew. Morvael spluttered, swallowing some of the vileness and retching again.

The crows descended on him. Morvael screamed in terror as the crooked, black-winged monsters tore at his skin, ripped out his hair, devoured him where he stood.

As the rotten creatures engulfed him, Morvael could just make out the roaring laughter of a Black Dragon, the dark heart of the whirling mass of crows, its unnatural serpentine body a looming shadow above the rout of the Asur.

Morvael's world was nothing but screaming. And the malevolent cackle of a reptilian, yet all-too-elven voice was the last thing that the Phoenix King knew.

“This is just the beginning, your Majesty...”


***

“Your Majesty...”

Bladelord Celedrin hesitated. Seeing the Phoenix King in this state was highly irregular to say the least. But he was King.

“Your Majesty. The Council of Princes calls for your presence. There are matters of governance to attend to.”

Morvael raised eyes weary and bloodshot to stare at Celedrin. The Swordmaster captain saw abject defeat congeal and turn to white-hot fury.

***

“You dare? You dare?”

Within seconds the Sapherian sky had turned black and thunder was rumbling on the horizon. If the council of Princes had been agitated before, now there was a palpable layer of panic among the robed cohorts. The assorted courtiers gabbled nevously amongst themselves, and as Pellas stood to attention, he felt a mild pang of satisfaction to see even Mentheus and the Dragon Princes looking twitchy.

The booming voice rolled around the courtyard and echoed through the halls of the White Tower. Sheet lightning flickered overhead and the sun had been blotted out.

The great gates of the central keep were hurled open and the Phoenix King swept into the courtyard, Swordmasters and White Lions surging in his wake. Morvael, face white with fury and eyes blazing with magical power, roared at the crowd of nobles, making them visibly recoil.

“You dare to summon the Phoenix King of Ulthuan? To call him as one of your servants? Ingrates! Sycophants! You known nothing of leadership, nothing of responsibility! Decadent, indulgent, complacent parasites!

This was a change. Pellas had never seen Morvael in this kind of rage before. He had fits of anger, to be sure, but even the Swordmasters of Hoeth were looking scared.

Bolts of electricity were now flashing around the peak of the White Tower. Morvael was glowing, his voice filled the sky with a cavernous resonance.

“No more will you pollute my court with your intrigue and politic. Henceforth all nobles of Ulthuan are banished from the confines of the White Tower! I will call for your presence when it is required! As to the policy you are so desperate to hear, you will be informed of it by my messengers if and when I choose to involve you in any government whatsoever! And now, you may leave! But be warned, I know your thoughts and your plots. Each one of you, look to himself, for I have seen every act of corruption, every impure urge which runs through your weak souls. The days of excess have passed, Princes of Ulthuan. Putrefying in your fine silks, with your fine wines, your gaudy jewels and your painted mistresses, you think yourselves safe... you think your wealth and your ignorance will protect you from the tide of filth which rises even about your throats! I have seen the darkness which hangs upon our lands! I have seen the rotten hearts who even now degrade this court with their very presence! And I will see it burned out! A new Ulthuan is rising! An Ulthuan of might, strength, reason and purity! And those who stand in my way will be hurled back to their ravening masters in the Realm of Chaos! Hear my words, filth of Ulthuan! You are the withered limb, and you will be amputated!

The cowed council dared not move under the glare of the King. Morvael's invective was augmented by the gale which blasted the White Tower and the actinic discharges which crackled far above. One prince, however, was not to be intimidated.

“Your Majesty, the Knights of Caledor come to pay a late embassage to the Phoenix and offer our support for the expedition to the north...”

“Mentheus?”, Thundered Morvael, drawing himself up, fists clenched and veins protruding from his neck. “Your dead Realm has no place here! Hence, lackeys of Caledor! Keep your offers of aid! Soon many present here will need it more than I! When Naggaroth is hurled into ruin and the army of Ulthuan returns, we will have a reckoning! Get out of my sight!”

Morvael spat out the last words like a poisonous draught. Black hatred twisting his face, he turned back toward the tower. Mentheus maintained a surface calm, but his eyes had become dark and brooding. There was offence there, and obvious anger. Pellas could not help thinking a more royal bearing than the King.

Morvael's stride broke down after about a yard. The Eldritch storm which loomed over the White Tower was abating. The King seemed to slump, hunch, and, raising a hand to his brow with a sharp intake of breath, collapsed, sprawling before the doors to the tower.

Pellas, the White Lions and Swordmasters crowded swiftly around the fallen King. A few of the council of Princes joined them. Pellas and Bladelord Celedrin raised Morvael's head. He was breathing raggedly, and his vengeful demeanour had crumpled. He looked sickly, debilitated. All was not well.

“Your Majesty”, Pellas urged, seeing the King's eyelids flutter.

“Pellas...” The King murmured. “I fear... I am not well. I must retire to my study... would the Swordmasters assist me?”

“Of course”, answered Celedrin. Pellas set his jaw.

The Guards attempted to raise the king, but Morvael brushed them off testily. The young Prince Bel-Hathor and Sejanus Greenbow pushed their way through Swordmasters and White Lions. The rest of the courtiers, those who were not debating in earnest whispers, were swiftly evacuating the courtyard. Pellas did not imagine he would see many of them again. Too many outraged faces, too much indignation. Already horses were being saddled.

Sejanus attempted to place a fraternal hand upon Morvael's shoulder as the King began to walk stiffly back toward the White Tower. His voice, as ever, trickled rather than sounded.

“My Lord, my King... you have overexerted yourself... such is the life of a monarch... your evident skills are wasted upon the petty affairs of state, it is high policy which a ruler must attend to... delegation is they key, even the greatest of the Phoenix Kings have suffered far more after taking the throne, you have carried it remarkably well...”

Morvael slapped Sejanus with the back of his hand so hard that the Turquoise-clad elf staggered. The Avellornian suddenly started screaming, clutching at his face. Where the Phoenix King had struck, a glowing rune had been burned into Sejanus' cheek, the flesh charred and cauterised as the magical light faded. Two Swordmasters roughly grabbed him, forcing the elf to look upon Morvael's haunted, but adamant visage.

You, Greenbow, you may never come within my sight again. And you shall tell your whore in the Everglades that she too must look to herself. There is no part of Ulthuan my cleansing will not touch. Nothing is inviolable, as you yourself have proved on many an occasion. Now, libertine, go. My watch and my mark be upon you

The Swordmasters bundled Sejanus away, whimpering, the traitor's mark of Sentha seared forever upon his face.

But something had changed. As Morvael looked back, utterly spent, toward the remaining Princes in the courtyard, the offended expressions had given way to fear, consternation, and rage. Mentheus had gone, as had his Caledorian associates. The few who remained were Morvael's colleagues, Elves of Saphery, Yvresse, Eataine, Elves with whom he had studied and consulted and honed his wisdom and his policy. There was no sympathy.

Bel-Hathor, one of Morvael's less promising students, prostrated himself before Morvael, tears in his eyes.

“Your Majesty! Let this not be the reign of Morvael! Let not the High Loremaster of the White Tower fall to such folly! My lord, you must pardon us – for we cannot pardon your actions this day.”

The sun was out again. Many mounted Elves, with large entourages, were leaving through the outer gate of Hoeth.

“But I am no tyrant.”, Said Morvael, simply. He was obviously bewildered. Pellas could not imagine why. “I wish only to strengthen our people. To remove that which has brought us to corruption and indolence. Surely you cannot condemn me for that?”

The King looked about him. The White Lions offered no support. The Swordmasters were dutiful but silent. There was no understanding among the Scholars of Hoeth. Archmage Ellyunnor looked with pain into Morvael's eyes, shook his head, and walked from the courtyard. The other mages drifted away to other realms of academia. Morvael was left in the shadow of the White Tower, ringed by guards, pale and wan, with Bel-Hathor weeping at his feet.

“But”, He repeated, to no audience, “I am no tyrant...”
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#18 Post by fireblade »

Another great part of this fascinating series...
Keep up the good work
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#19 Post by Dannaron »

Woo! Good to have you back Arellion Sapher!

I don't really have the energy for another of my usual pineckity critiques, so the only thing I'll draw out of this one is that calling the Everqueen a whore is a big deal. To my mind it'd cause a lot more consternation amongst the elves than anything else Morvael did. Clearly the elves are pretty flabbergasted by the end of the whole tyranny thing, but I just felt like that line in particular should draw more attention than it does. An archmage will rage every now and again, as will a king: it might be shocking, but insulting the Everqueen...

Other than that, this was a good read! It's still good to see high drama and politcking with the elves rather than them all buddying up perfectly. Give me Finubar over this guy as Phoenix King any day...
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#20 Post by Arellion Sapher »

Thanks guys,
Interesting comment about the Everqueen stuff. There was uproar, but I'll grant you I didn't communicate it so well. My basic premise is that Morvael and the Everqueen don't get on so well, he being a neurotic bookworm and she an indulgent tree-hugger. There will be more of this clash later. Believe me, it isn't going to drop just yet.

I didn't actually write Morvael's outburst originally in Kazakhstan. He got angry himself and the writing started carrying me with it. I hope that's a good sign.

As for Morvael's competence... he worked well as a High Loremaster and it takes a while for an old dog to learn new tricks. Finubar isn't a manic depressive, or being haunted by Malekith. Give the poor fellow a chance! He's got another millennium of his reign to adapt and learn, though. We'll see.

I'll try and get the next update up by Tuesday, it's quite a long one and it started running away with me again. Thanks again for the kind words.
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Arellion Sapher
Posts: 106
Joined: Mon Dec 08, 2008 6:40 pm
Location: Albion

Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#21 Post by Arellion Sapher »

Here you are lads, by popular demand (from Druchii.net of all places) I knocked this latest instalment out quicker than usual. Here we have 'First contact', if you will. See what you think.

***
Black clouds roiled in the bruised Naggaroth sky, and freezing spray drove into Darethis' face as the Thunderhead battled through the Sea of Chill.

The grey skiff with its guttering lamps was barely visible in the heaving mass of black water and white ice. The Lothern Sailors constantly trimmed and reset sails in order to offset the fickle winds, which had whipped at the Fleet of Ulthuan constantly since their arrival in the frozen north lands.

“Master Darethis! Tholtan in the crow's nest has lost sight of the Eagle! What are your orders?”

“Again, Cassin? Damn this wind!”, Darethis bellowed in reply.

“Master Darethi...”

Another wave gave the boat a mighty lurch which threw the entire crew off-balance. Darethis was flung off his feet like a rag doll, sprawling across the starwood deck, cloak wrapping itself around his legs, one arm almost crushed under the weight of his armoured torso.
Darethis clawed at the rain-slick boards, cursing Naggaroth and all its weather. The Skiff listed wildly – there was no-one at the tiller, and they were at the mercy of the cruel North Wind.
Cassin plunged forward, and hauled his spluttering Captain upright while another sailor wrestled with the tiller. This was more or less a minute-to-minute occurrence out here.

“There's an end”, shouted Darethis. “Cuirasses are not to be worn unless at battle-stations” He jokingly rapped on his breastplate. “Portable coffins.”

The other elf did not smile.

“Sir, I fear our craft is too light for these seas. We could have been dashed to pieces on an iceberg more than a dozen times in the last hour alone.”

Darethis sneered as the icy water cascaded around the busy crew, busily regaining control of the boat. They were bailing out as fast as possible. It was the third time they had been thrown adrift today.

“Know your place, guardsman. We will follow our orders. My Lord Aiecar would not have abandoned us to the elements – follow our current heading until we catch sight of him again.”

Cassin saluted, wincing in the salt spray.

“Very good, sir”

The Skiff shook again and this time Darethis shook with it. He edged along the sea-slick deck, leaning against the movement of the tide, and an awkward few yards stood beneath the mainmast. The drenched and weary sailors did not bother to salute him.
Darethis latched on to the mast as the ship gave another lurch. His sword clattered about his legs. He ignored it.
Finding the first foothold, he began to climb. At each step his boots slithered on the rungs, but he doggedly held on through the freezing blast.

Inch by painful inch Darethis ascended to the tiny platform atop the mainmast where Tholtan Farsight was crouched precariously, robes encrusted with ice and salt.

“Tholtan! Get below deck and dry out, I will take observation!”

“S-sir, the Eagle...”

“I know, I shall find him. Go, by Isha!”

Tholtan stiffly clambered past Darethis, who gripped the mast for dear life. If the deck was dangerous, up here it was deadly.

“M-master Darethis.” Called Tholtan, above the roar of the sea. “Watch th-the fog. There is an-nother vessel in the water, I know not what, but we are n-not alone!”

“Don't worry yourself with idle speculation,” Replied Darethis. “Get below. It is too cold to talk of your imaginings”

“Right you are, sir”.

Tholtan descended. The skiff crashed on through icy waters, foam bubbling around the prow.
Darethis scanned the horizon, if it could be called that. The sleet, fog, and perpetual heaving tide made reasonable vision impossible. But it wasn't the first time Darethis had done this. Endless times, pursuing Araby pirates into Great Ocean, battling through tropical storms on the way to the Dragon Isles, Darethis was accustomed to keeping balance up here, leaning into the wind, weathering the weather itself.

And then, there had been the Northern patrols. Aside from fending off the longships of the fur-clad human barbarians, the coastal sweeps around the Land of Chill were often regarded as a drudge by mariners of Darethis' generation. The featureless, frost-bound archipelago which marked the Western border of Naggaroth had always reminded Darethis of the battlements of some long-deserted fortress.

Oh, he had imagined the Druchii. He remembered the nursery rhymes, the nightmare legends he had heard as a child. And the memories of seasoned warriors still fighting for Ulthuan millennia after the great enemy was vanquished.
But for all the Daemonic visions of black-cloaked monstrosities eating elven flesh, gnawing on raw fish after centuries degenerating in the chill wasteland of the North, Darethis had never seriously believed in the Druchii as a threat. Few in the Navy of Lothern, even in wider Ulthuan, thought that the dark days of the Witch King would ever overshadow elven culture again. Lothern was the new city of Ulthuan, the beginning of a new, commercial elven Kingdom. A city of light, communication and trade, not a haughty mountain castle or a sorcerous academic's tower. Soon Eataine would be the first realm of the Elves, standing wealthier and stronger than proud Yvresse, enigmatic Saphery, sacred Avelorn. As for Caledor, it was a Kingdom whose glory days were past. The fire of the Dragons was all but extinguished. The Elves had no need to rule the skies when they could rule the seas, and it was Lothern, glorious, shining Lothern, Which led the change. Ulthuan was at the height of a golden age.

Which is why the death of King Aethis had come to the Asur as such a surreal, world-altering shock. Darethis' whole permissive, cosmopolitan culture had been called into question by many lords of the Kingdom. Public opinion had swung in favour of the High Loremaster who had been fighting the Cult of Pleasure for so long. Darethis suspected it had cost Sea Lord Bel-Mirriad the Kingship. It had been a perfect time for Eataine to take her place as the first Realm of Ulthuan.

But the young Sea Master was loyal. And thus he had gone to Naggaroth as a faithful warrior.

Naggaroth. And stormy seas was all they had found. The Druchii were as he suspected, a pariah race, sinking to extinction, a shadow of their former sel...

A shadow. That was different. A shadow in the water...

“Look out below! Man overboard!”, Darethis called down though the howling wind. The crew leaped into action.

“We need poles!”

“A billhook, a billhook!”

“Pull it in, by Loec!”

“I... By Isha! My... my lord!”

The Thunderhead listed once again, and the deck was doused with freezing water as the weighty carcass of Aiecar Cloudflight, Eagle Prince, was hauled aboard, his feathers utterly sodden, wings crumpled and useless. He was quite dead. The Great Bird's throat and breast were porcupined with black shafts, and his blood had long since drained away in the cruel waters.

Darethis, heedless of the risk, almost jumped down onto deck. As he rushed down the ladder he slipped several times, bruising his shins and almost ripping his gloves apart as he dangled in the raging storm.

“Damn your eyes! Get back to bailing! Do you want to sink us?”

The crew responded mechanically, but as Darethis slathered across the deck to lean on the bulky avian corpse, he could quite realise why they were numbed. Aiecar's beady eye was fixed in an empty, lifeless stare. What had happened?

Darethis ignored the stinging breeze in his eyes and tugged at one of the wicked-looking bolts, eventually cutting it free of the body with his dirk.

The sailors and Seaguard were watching him. He could feel it, even as they tenaciously kept the skiff afloat.

He stared down at the barbed weapon, now staining his gloves with watered-down gore. It was Elven. But it was alien.

He looked up at the mad, angry sky, and looked around at his weary crew. And the decision was clear. He would not leave this be. Lothern would not leave this be.

“This is what we face!”, Darethis shouted, tempest whirling around him. A race of pirates! Leeches on the underbelly of the world! You have heard the stories at your parent's knees, from the Loremasters and Pedagogues – they drink blood, live in darkness and build their civilisation on theft and plunder! This foul murder is the work of the Druchii! Traitors and regicides! Their time on this world has passed – let us send them into the next! For vengeance! Death to the Druchii!”

The exhaused, beaten eyes of the Sailors of Eataine glimmered with a new fire. Raggedly, they cheered.

“Death to the Druchii!”

“Bring us West by North-West! My Lord Aiecar was last seen flying thence! Onwards!”

Darethis gritted his teeth and steeled himself. There was no way the skiff could go on with this burden. The frosty heap of bones and feathers would see them at the bottom of the Sea.

“Cassin! Sandriolis! Some aid, here!”

***

It was another three hours before they found the Druchii Vessel in the midst of a fog-bank, heading west. The long, sleek Galleon loomed out of the mists like a ghost ship. Its oars moved in perfect time, the skeletal fins of a great dark whale.

The Thunderhead slipped into the frigid mist astern of the vessel like a spry fox on the trail of a deer many times its size. The Asur had done it often before when stalking the savages of Norsca. The grey hunter of Lothern blended in seamlessly with the fog on the Sea of Chill in a textbook shadowing action. The enemy craft, ironclad and black as night, could be followed with impunity.

One sailor muttered to Darethis about the faint chorus of tortured moaning which could just be heard on the wind. Darethis told him the wind played tricks.

***

Night fell.

It was a bold plan. They would not be able to summon help. Darethis suspected the hulking, bullying crags of Naggaroth had already blocked our the Thunderhead from the open sea. In any case, The fleet did not know where they were. Aiecar had been their only chance to send word back to the Sea Lord.

There were six Seaguard in the landing party, Darethis included. Cassin, Sandriolis, Gwthor the agile, Talandil Sharksbane, and Kentenerian of Tor Bellico. Also with them were Tholtan, who volunteered to stand with Darethis despite the risk of frostbite, and Atharion the silent, an experienced mariner with a strong sword arm.

Darethis had made the risks clear. The eight elves were armed with swords and the composite bows of the seaguard. The Seaguard in the party had blackened their scale armour with the frost-hardened silt which packed the shoreline of Naggaroth. Spears and shields were far too unwieldy to take with them.

“My friends, we may well be about to die. We are going to launch a raid on the greatest enemy our people have ever faced. Horrors we cannot imagine are waiting just beyond that cliff.”

He pointed to the mighty crag below which the Thunderhead clung. The black rock was silhouetted against the light of a thousand unseen, alien lights.

“No fear! We are the inheritors of Caledor the Conquerer, Tethlis the Slayer! We have brought the fire of Asuryan to Naggaroth and we will set this dark world ablaze! At last, after all these centuries, we will strike the first blow!”

The Grey-cloaked High Elves stole up the beach, boots crunching upon the Naggaroth soil. It was bitter cold, but the storm had abated and now it was merely the Elves, the black rock and those lights beyond.

Darethis' hand wandered to his haversack, where the glass vial of deep red fluid was stored. Intricate little device; Liandrus the Alchemist had never intended that his unique storm flare be used as a weapon. But Darethis had taken it from the hold, and perhaps doomed them all...

***

It was a cold night. The wind moaned around the mighty pinnacles of Karond Kar, and the watchfires far below the balcony were a yellowed, rotten reflection of the stars twinkling above.

The Ancient elf hunched over the parapet. His body was scarred, an eyepatch bisecting his face. His armour was as black as night and as pristine as when it was first enchanted. Millennia ago now.

Nobody frequented this apartment. The Sorceresses shunned his unorthodox power, and the Lords of this lonely fortress feared his world-spanning knowledge. He had fought with their great-grandsires against Caledor the Usurper and seen Ulthuan fall into the sea. They were wise to fear him.

Of course he knew about the eight fools scuttling to their doom only... what was it now... a mere league away. Soon, the hunt would be on.

Furion of Clar Karond smiled in the blackness of the tower. Somewhere far beneath the earth, A Hydra roared with the madness of a hundred years' torment.

***

Naggaroth was a forsaken land. As Darethis' little party passed over the cliffs toward what lay beyond, the twisted, blackened forest lowered over them. Menacing standing stones dotted the skyline. Their unease grew more with every stride. But the full horror was not revealed until they staggered out onto the madly exposed cliffs of the island coast, with the wind roaring in their ears, and the sea thundering against the shoals below.
It was a sight no Asur had ever wished to see again.

“Master Darethis...”

“Aye, Talandil.”

“It's... vast!”

“It is but a fortress. It is made of stone and wood and steel. It can be broken.”

“But... look there! Those towers are as those of a city in Ulthuan! Those causeways, spires, portals... I have seen them a thousand times! But here? It cannot be true! It must not be true!”

“It is true, curse it all! Our enemies... do not ask me how, but the Dark Kin have built their own foul world here! A pale shadow of Ulthuan! A mockery! We must go on. We must bring word of this outrage to Viceroy Goldentongue.”

Darethis resisted the urge to retch. The tower thrust into the sky above like a dagger handle in a corpse's back. It was a nightmare. Something within him saw a pattern, a horrendous geometry to the great Druchii city... paintings, murals and tapestries in the wharves of Lothern often depicted the fabled Black Arks of Naggaroth, indestructable floating fortresses which sowed doom wherever they sailed. There was something similar in the design, the alignment...
Darethis forced down his thoughts and his bile. Now was not the time.

The Asur advanced. But each one of them felt his skin crawl as he saw the embodiment of every folk tale, every cruel, bloody children's story brought to life. It was not merely a fortress. It was a city, a mighty metropolis, a jet reflection of the great towers of Ulthuan. Suddenly, there was no more pretence. No more delusion. When they had dragged Aiecar aboard, when they had followed the galley they had been able to imagine that it was merely a simple hunt for pirates.
But the fleet which lay in the bay was no mere pirate flotilla. It was an armada. There were raiders like the Thunderhead, sharp and wicked like daggers, and the cutting hulls of true men o' war, the size of Eagleships. While Ulthuan's Royal Navy blazed with dash and majesty, the fleet of the Naggarothi had a barbed and predatory aspect which made Darethis' spine tingle. More indistinct were the long, featureless galleys which cruised across the bay, unnaturally quickly for rowed ships. But with the wind down, there was no hiding the wails which reverberated around the Druchii Fortress.

“Sir... listen to that sound? Can you not hear it? Voices! Humans... thousands of them! Screaming! Go no further, sir! Go not there! There is something there... terrible! That place... evil, sir, evil and depraved! Send us not there!”

Sandriolis had gone white, his thin features appearing even more spectral in the icy darkness. His hands shook. Darethis realised his control of the party was slipping. They could not tarry here.

“We will see for ourselves. We must. I had thought... but it is too late. It is now our duty to do what we can for those who will come after. Let us pray we shall return to Ulthuan.”

The raiding party stoically marched on, each elf whispering his own litanies down the icebound scree, through the rocky landscape of Naggaroth. Toward the tower. Darethis put a fatherly hand on Sandriolis' shoulder and guided the shivering elf down the path. He could not leave him behind.

The dread, unreal city lay ahead, almost beckoning them with its hypnotic display of oh-so-alive torchlight. Windows into a world the High Elves had thought long ago destroyed.

***

They ghosted through the woods before the killing ground of Karond Kar. The great stone flanks of the tower were as spiny and hard-edged as everything else the Asur had seen in this blighted land. Blades seemed to lance out from the wall at every conceivable angle, and Darethis briefly wondered if the Druchii had been as unaware of an impending assault as the Asur had been of their long-lost kin's very existence.

They had gone perhaps half a league, and the cold was beginning to set in. Feet were numb, lips blue. Darethis was at the head of the group now, and as he scoured the walls for weak points, keen elf-eyes focusing on individual ramparts, slight movements of fabric...

Nothing was to be seen. The fortress seemed deserted. For a brief moment, Darethis dared to hope that the Druchii had truly abandoned this great city... that the lights which burned in the windows were simply a dark sorcery, a deception...

But something had changed in the air. There was movement in the forest – and not their own.

“They are here... the dark kin. Can you feel it?”

Warily, the Asur closed, back-to-back, nocking arrows and easing blades from sheaths. The woods were thick, and even for keen-sighted warriors difficult to penetrate. They were being watched, and when the signal blade fell, it was too late to escape.

Tholtan shouted a warning as a hail of black crossbow bolts sliced into the Asur. Atharion died as he fell, four shafts in his torso. Sandriolis was hit in the throat, blood gouting from the wound and a strangled cry gurgling into silence.
Curses in an all-to-comprehensible tongue could be heard all around them. An alien accent despoiled the ears of the High Elves, but the worlds were familiar enough.
“Death to the traitors of Ulthuan!”
Hurling themselves at the Asur from the shadows were a swarm of spry warriors, all black cloaks and curved blades and murderous glares. Cassin dropped one of the Druchii assailants with an arrow through the eye socket, but the rest ducked and swooped under the Seaguard's missiles.

Darethis brought his sword to bear and immediately was fighting for his life. The Dark Elf moved like quicksilver, riposting as fast as Darethis could parry. Suddenly all the myths, tales, and half-belived history was made flesh! An elf... but not an Asur!
Darethis' enemy fought with a furious energy which the Sea Master, half-frozen to the bone, could not resist. He found himself retreating at every blow which the Druchii half-stabbed, half-punched toward him. The draich in the other Elf's hand lashed out like a whip, sending sparks from Darethis' gold-chased longsword. Their eyes locked – two millennia of lore and fear was exchanged in a few brutal killing strokes.
The Captain of the Thunderhead had not been sent out in the vanguard for nothing, however. Three centuries of pirate-hunting had been a school of hard knocks and dirty fighting. As the killer lunged forward again, Darethis dropped to the ground, rolling under his enemy's guard and severing his left foot with a hard, clinical chop.
The Druchii howled in agony, and Darethis used the falling elf's momentum to ram his sword into the unarmoured abdomen.
He had no time to rest. Kentenarian was being gutted by two shades, his shrieks seeming to sound throughout the entire wood. Cassin and Talandil were fighting back to back, and had dispatched one Druchii, but were flagging as their cloaked opponents rained blow after blow, bouncing off both Asur sword and Ithilmar mail. Tholtan was nowhere to be seen, through a crazed trampling of tracks could be seen moving West, back toward the coast.
Curse it all, thought Darethis. The boat! Do not lead them there!
And the woods were alive. Elves could be heard running through the brush, and there were other sounds... something larger, faster, rapidly approaching through the night with a strange, many-voiced gurgling growl which froze Darethis' blood. They had to escape.

The two shades were finished with Kentenarian and charged. Darethis found what he was fumbling for just in time. As they leaped, the lone Asur crushed the ignition on the glass storm flare, and bellowed in agony as his hand was scorched by the superheated surface. A burst of flame rocketed from the translucent bulb, immolating the Druchii and sending their blackened corpses crashing to the ground. The bright flames cast a hot, crimson glare across the scene, half-blinding all the elves, and fizzled away into the air.
A roar of fury went up from the remaining shades, and Cassin and Talandil broke away, cutting past them and into the woods. Darethis began to run, blindly, into the trees. With his men free and his right hand temporarily unusable, he had no reason to stay and die.
The burst of Alchemical flame seemed to have let all hell loose. Darethis sprinted with a mix of focused desperation and blind panic. The Druchii pursued with blades and bolts and vengeance. Suddenly, Naggaroth, the land of evil fables, was chasing him through this twisted, dystopic landscape. The roaring of a beast that was anything but a fable was becoming louder. Not one creature, surely, but many...

Darethis ran as he had never run, his agile legs carrying him through copses, over rock formations, through thorns, bracken and the impenetrable night. Snow was falling again, and the wind was up...

On and on, as the snow began to fall, and Darethis' half-frozen limbs did not allow him to stop. On, as the gale tore at him, on and on...

The murky black sky yielded no stars. Darethis, heart thundering in his ears, vainly hoped for a moment that he had outstripped his pursuers as he halted on a rise. A stolid crag of rock provided an even blacker backdrop to Darethis' exhausted gasps of sharp polar air. Cradling his damaged hand, the last warrior of Lothern almost fell to his knees in exhaustion.
But then the roar of his blood died away in his ears and was replaced by another.

From the woods, on four taloned, scaled legs, loped an unnatural, impossible abomination that kept Darethis rooted to the spot. Its six heads snapped and growled, as a clutch of Druchii, swathed in no less bestial scales and cloaks, drove it on with whips and barbed spears. The beast roared as the metal sank into its flesh, yet its malformed, reptilian heads shied away from its cruel tormentors, and fixed their remorseless, burning gaze one by one upon Darethis.

Everything seemed to occur in slow motion. Back to the cold Naggaroth stone, Darethis unsheathed his bow. With his charred right hand he drew an arrow, fingers numb with pain and cold. He clumsily nocked the arrow as the Hydra began to amble toward him, a growl building, smoke pouring from its many nostrils, heads thrashing in serpentine delight.

With arms so weary they could barely lift the weapon, Darethis took aim. His shaking hands, bruised and burned as they were, could not hold the bow steady and Darethis inwardly cursed his frailty, despairing that he had wasted his flare and was now about to die.

As the Hydra sprang at him, jaws slavering, fangs sharp as razors, a mass of heads and scales and claws, Darethis released with a prayer to Asuryan.

And as if the god himself was watching over his children, Darethis' arrow was joined by a hail of blazing, flaming projectiles, each one seeming a beacon in the icy, petrified forest. The arrows sliced into the Hydra as it released its own fire, blazing flame shooting in all directions with a roar of agony. Arrow followed arrow and the vile creature was riddled with shafts, screeching in its death throes, dying by inches.
Darethis threw himself to the ground and cowered, pulling his cloak about him to avoid the terrible bilious Hydra-flame. Heat had seemed to drive all the cold from the air and the hard-packed snow now seemed a salvation from the burning world.

Through the fire and flames new shadows were leaping. Running past Darethis, almost silently amid the death throes of the Hydra, were figures as ethereal and tense as the assassins that had murdered his warriors. Battle-cries of “By Khaine!” “For Vengeance!” “For Nagarythe!” wailed out in the crowded night, and steel on steel was heard through the trees. There were Druchii words, Asur words...

An elven voice in an accent which he knew spoke to Darethis in a hissed undertone.

“We heard tell of your expedition three moons ago. You are fortunate that we caught your friend before the Dark Kin did. Return to your commander. Tell him of the tower of Karond Kar. I pray you will be able to take it where we have so often failed. Asuryan be with you, and Khaine will stay with us.”

Darethis raised his head and caught a glimpse of a death-pale, haunted face half-obscured by a hood, saw a flash of Ithilmar armour and a swirl of deep grey cloak, before the burning carcass of the dead hydra obscured his vision again.
The sounds of war and death sounded in the woods; though no fighting was visible, there were elves dying. Elves killing elves. Darethis had never heard the sound before – not like this. This, then, was what their precursors had tried to forget. Twisted creatures of the night; the dark kin; this... unfamiliar metropolis in the harshest land known to elvenkind.

“Master Darethis – we must get back to the Thunderhead. There is no more for us here. We have our intelligence.”

Darethis did not even look upon Tholtan's haggard face as he pulled himself upright, and staggered after the other elf into the wood, sword gone, hand shattered, whole body aching with the weariness of days.

As the heat of the unseen battle gave way to the unending cold of the frozen isle, Darethis and Tholtan each thought they heard a call from far behind them, a last message from their dreadful saviours, though afterward neither mentioned it, each believing it was delirium induced by the biting wind and their fatigue.

“Let the new King know that the Shadow Warriors of Aenarion are with him still!”
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Dannaron
Posts: 67
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Location: Australia

Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#22 Post by Dannaron »

Wooo! Take THAT you druchii scum! Reap the fury of the Nagarythe!

...

*ahem*

Sorry, but my thoughts were going something along those lines after I first read this, which was a week ago. An action-packed chapter, this'un, and I do approve.
Sorry for the lack of a full critique, I have to be gone in a couple of minutes, just thought I'd reassure you that there are still people reading and appreciating your hard work.
Avorndril enlui! Soeth et ellesius Avorndril!
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Ruerl Khan
High Executioner
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Joined: Mon Jun 07, 2004 4:43 pm
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Re: [History] Assault on Naggaroth (The Day of Blood)

#23 Post by Ruerl Khan »

Here you are lads, by popular demand (from Druchii.net of all places) I knocked this latest instalment out quicker than usual. Here we have 'First contact', if you will. See what you think.
We know how it ends eventually, we can wait and savor the road as we read on. ;)

Seriously though, I love reading your story, its well thought-out, the characters are relateable, its possible to "lose yourself" into the story, something so very very rare in fan made stories. And one of the most important things, that even GW tend to forget: You give each side credit, its not simply a one-sided brawl, its two bitter and equeal enemies fighting. It would quickly be a boring story to the druchii player if the high elf was not given any credit, something that is true too when he dark elf is'nt either.
I love pushing around my small delicatedly painted dolls together with the rest of you.
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