The Curse of Khaine [Ulthuan in Flames]

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Cenyu
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The Curse of Khaine [Ulthuan in Flames]

#1 Post by Cenyu »

Some of you might remember Narza Scornsong, a Dark Elf commander during the "Hour of the Wolf" Campaign.
The awesome background provided by the campaign team prompted me to write a short bit on how he and his warband would end up in the rising conflict which will be "Ulthuan in Flames" - the first person to guess the proper faction will get an imaginary cyber cookie. Careful, though, all ye who are spoiled by VictorK's and Eldacar's mad writing skills: This piece of text is vastly inferior to the writing of the campaign team. :D

Homecoming

The dark shore of the Naganath bay was only sparsely illuminated by the light of Lileath and a casual observer would have spotted the single longboat only in the last moment as its sleek prow cut through the silent sea, its low silhouette with the triangular sail and elegantly curved masts seemingly slipping from the careless gaze of a less than alert watcher. At last, the black keel of the slender Corsair scraped over the sands of the Naganath bank. The sound was met with a wave of muted cheer from the Sea Witch’s crew, for it signalled the safe arrival on their home soil – even though noise discipline had been ordered Narza Scornsong let the collective offense pass for he himself could barely suppress an exultant shout at the landfall.
For all the campaigning in Elthin Arvan had cost him and his companions, for all that they had irrecoverably lost in the decade-long strife on the battlegrounds of the Old World, the feeling of homecoming was enough to stir even the hearts of these grizzled veterans of hundreds of bloody encounters. Even before another sailor’s or knight’s foot touched Nagarythe’s soil, Scornsong had lept from the fortress deck into the sand below. As his companions did likewise shortly after their lord, Scornsong was kneeling in the wet sand, oblivious to – no, welcoming – the ice-cold water soaking through his clothes, for it was the familiar surf of his home not felt for a time span which seemed only immeasurably prolonged through the hardship it had contained.
Narza barely registered how the others celebrated the safe return in their own individual ways as almost forgotten prayers of gratitude spilled from his lips. Khaine seemed such an unfitting patron to direct thankful prayers to in a situation other than the battlefield and part of him surprisedly registered how the long-suppressed names of Manaan, Lileath and the other obsolete Elven Gods of old surfaced in his overjoyed mind. The Dark Elf allowed himself only a few heartbeats of silent contemplation of this wonderment before he pushed aside the blasphemous thoughts and let his battle-honed routine take over. He rose from the sands, deciding to give his soldiers some more time to savour this moment, strolling on towards the rock-strewn hills beyond the Naganath shore. As his boots crunched over the gravel the crisp air of Ulthuan filled his lungs, invigorating him in a way that the blessing of Khaine could never accomplish.
The lightest brush of cloth over pebbles, almost imperceptible over the susurrus of the waves and the chatter of the sailors, indicated the approaching of his sister. Narza’s lips curled to a smile – even though she had every qualification to sneak up on him without him noticing she usually announced her approach ever so slightly to spare him the embarassment of surprise. He turned around, facing the cloaked figure before him. Soria drew back the hood of her shade cloak and regarded her older brother with inquiring grey eyes. Unlike Narza she wore no armour and was clad in the concealing robes of the nomadic Shade Hunters she had chosen to be a part of. This disparity of appearance was the superficial indicator which hinted the difference between the sibling’s characters: While Narza was a bold and inspiring leader figure, Soria was the more guarded of the two, ever ruminative and coolheaded. Narza knew that he had no better and trustworthy advisor who fearlessly pointed out flaws in his strategies and reined in his Khainite zeal on the battlefield than his younger sister.


“Welcome home, sister.” Narza opened his arms and in a rare moment of affection the two siblings embraced each other.
“Would that it were home, brother.” Soria’s voice was muffled as her face was pressed against the breastplate of her brother who was a full head taller than her. She stepped back and although Narza could sense that even his stoic sister was moved the inquisitive glint in her eyes had not vanished. She continued.
“Now is the time to disclose your knowledge, Narza. What has kept you in your cabin most of the time for the last weeks? What news have the seers wrought from the Warp? Why have we made landfall here at the Naganath and not at Tor Nerassim herself where our homeland truly lies?”
Narza’s smile vanished and his face took on a grim expression.
“You will know soon enough, sister. I did not want to betray you all of this small moment of joy before I confront you with the dire state of affairs.”

***

The remnants of the Children of the Curse had efficiently erected their camp at the beach of the Naganath around the landing site of the Sea Witch even before daybreak. Narza could not suppress a flashing anger and despair as he saw in the light of dawn to how few his company had diminuished. A meagre two-hundred souls were all that remained of the once proud warband of the Thaulkhaindar. He could still vividly remember the embarking of the Witch and his two sister ships, the Doom Siren and the Raksha from Kithanan alongside scores of other battleships. After the countless battles had taken their tolls, even with the reinforcements the Children had received in the course of the campaing, at time of the withdrawal a single ship had sufficed to accomodate the survivors and the Siren and Raksha had been committed to the flames.
Foraging parties had been sent out to hunt in the forests beyond the dunes but they had been instructed by Narza personally to avoid contact with other Elves. A ring of sentries had been posted around the site – more than any warrior had expected to see considering they had just arrived in the lands of their forefathers. The orders were followed without question but in combination with the strange place of landfall and the lack of a welcome committee it only added to the soldiers’ puzzlement. It was time to remedy this, Narza reckoned, and he had shirked the confrontation since he had learned about it on the Sea of Serpents two weeks ago. After the landfall there was no excuse left for further delay. Narza called a meeting of his lieutenants at noon.

***

The handful of Elves gathered in the tent fell silent when the flap was pulled back and their leader finally stepped inside. Narza’s appearance was met with barely concealed curiosity and anticipation by his inner circle. The Elven Lord shortly scanned each of his chief retainers. Besides Soria, who was in charge of the last remaining Shade scouts, the tent contained Zakhital Goremane, flame-haired master of the Cold One Knights; Hyrvan Ithial, entrusted with the supervision of the Spear Elves; Kruor Bladebane, successor of Kra’Yesh and last living Black Guard under Narza’s command; last, not least Nuryal, Witchpriestess of Khaine. She alone among the assembled Elves was privy to what Narza was about to disclose since it had been relayed to Scornsong through her sorcery. While the expectancy of the other lieutenants was almost palpable Nuryal maintained an expression of utter calm, her brass eyes betraying none of the conclusions the exclusive knowledge had led her to as Narza met her gaze. Finally, Narza settled in a chair prepared for him and beckoned his retainers to do likewise. Making sure that everybody had their goblets filled and ready Narza picked up his own chalice and raised it for a toast.
“Fellow Druchii! Brave Kruor! Cunning Hyrvan! Provident Soria! Bold Zakhital! Blessed Nuryal! Through all the battles fought and hardships endured together we have truly become brethren – if not by the blood flowing in our veins then surely through the blood shed in service for Khaine and our Lord Malekith.” As the words spilled from Narza’s mouth, he was met with acceding silence as the retainers hung on his lips. These were no empty words like those convincing warriors to throw away their lives in battles which could not be won, this speech expressed what every single one of them and the other survivors of the Curse of Khaine felt deep inside their hearts – they had each been tempered on the Lord of Murder’s merciless anvil, the battlefield. They had grown together into more than a mere well-drilled and experienced regiment or unit, their trail had forged them into something far more potent, a company of sword siblings each willing to give up their lives for the warrior next to him and the glory of Khaine. Narza’s words gave form to the sense of unity and dedication which had developed during the campaign and as he conjured the memories of their fallen comrades and past battles this special bond became painfully obvious. When Narza ended, the six goblets clanked together and each warrior drowned their fill in a single deep swig.
As Narza had expected, Hyrvan was the first to speak after him. Ithial wiped over his mouth with a gauntleted hand and eyed Narza before he raised his voice.
“Well spoken as always, Lord Scornsong.” the retainer spoke with the slightest hint of a smirk. “Hadn’t we all been ready and willing to follow you to the Chaos Wastes and beyond before already, this speech would surely have convinced us.” His small skit was met with good-humoured chuckle from the group. “But you did not gather us here to waste a perfectly good speech on the five of us when you could have lifted the spirits of all your subordinates with it. What is it that truly is on your mind, my Lord? Why have we not made landfall in Tor Nerassim? How come we have not sought contact to our people to inform them of our safe return?”
Hyrvan had spoken plainly but sincerely and his questions were accompanied by consenting nods of the other three lieutenants – Nuryal was simply staring into her goblet, tracing the last few ruby droplets of wine left at its bottom as if lost in trance. Narza’s brow furrowed as he answered.
“You are right, good Hyrvan. A mere sharing of praise and wine, however well deserved, is not the true purpose of this meeting.” Narza put down his goblet and tapped the fingers of his hands together contemplatively.
“As much as I wish that we were able to enter the city of our ancestors with pride and in triumph there are grave news which have led me to decide against a direct return. While we were fighting on the cursed battlegrounds of Elthin Arvan, spilling our blood on the blades of our foes for the glory of Ulthuan and Nagarythe, the Pleasure Cults, the very source of evil King Malekith sought to root out in the past, have risen to power again – even more so, they are mightier than ever.”
Kruor interrupted Narza. “We all have heard rumours of the cabals’ activities, my Lord. Where do you get the intimate knowledge of the situation on Ulthuan – how do you know it is as dire as you make it sound?”
The question roused Nuryal from her silent reverie and it was her, not Narza, who answered.
“It was Ruhven, the chamberlain of House Scornsong, who contacted me through magical means just three weeks ago after we had crossed the Sea of Claws. The rituals to maintain a connection over this distance were quite time-consuming and straining.” The Priestess pulled back the sleeves of her coat to reveal long, barely healed slashes criss-crossing her forearms. “Considering that there were no proper sacrifices to spare I had to make do with what was available.” The remark was enough to stifle further inquiries – they all knew that the divine magic granted by Khaine was best infused with life-blood. While it was easily called upon during battle or on a sacrificial altar an isolated ship was a conceivably bad location for a ritual. Narza, who had a similar set of cuts adorning his arms, continued to speak.
“The Pleasure Cults are sprawling over Ulthuan like never before. Nagarythe is no exception – it rather seems to be the epicenter of their activity. Queen Morathi does nothing to keep their foul influence in check – dark rumours have it she herself is orchestrating the actions of the cult. The taint runs deep in Nagarythe; in fact Tor Nerassim herself has fallen to the depraved Cultists.”
Narza’s revelation was met with unbelief and helpless anger. They all had suspected complications after the circumstances of their return but learning of the true extent sent them into shock. None could fathom how their home, beacon of Khaine worship, could have fallen to the cancer of Cultism.
“How...” “By Khaine...” “When...”
Scornsong stalled the inquiries with a raised hand.
“It was not by storm that our city was taken. No army of Cultists laid siege to it from the outside. It was rather by subterfuge and slow corruption that the doors to debauchery and blasphemy were opened. Ruhven commented that the first signs seemed perfectly innocuous to the Khainites – wandering priests who preached a more fervent form of the Aspect of the Serpent Lord. Self-inflicted pain as a form of devotion, a way of cleansing body and mind. It was the key to the faith of our people. Initially it started off as a wave of self-mutilation and scarification to show one’s dedication to Khaine. Gradually this descended into more sinister rituals involving forbidden drugs and poisons. Under the guise of Khaine-worship within a couple of years most of Tor Nerassim had fallen to the Snake Cultists. Only then did the true extent of their machinations become apparent: Through assassinations, denunciations and intrigues agents of the pleasure cults had infiltrated the Temple of Khaine on nearly all levels – including the inner council, until their hold over the populace was firm enough to issue forth and order the ‘purification of the faithful’. All those still resisting the thinly veiled worship of Chaos were purged – enslaved, sacrificed, slaughtered.
Were we to return to Tor Nerassim, we would find ourselves overwhelmed by the spiritless husks of those who once were dear to us. They are puppets of the Dark Prince now - either that or they are dead. It would have been Ruhven who would have told you this but his hideout, one of the last pockets of resistance of the truly faithful, was overrun three days ago and we have lost contact to Tor Nerassim since.”
Stunned silence had accompanied Narza’s account of the situation in Nagarythe – it was Kruor who broke the stillness.
“What would you have us do, Lord Scornsong? With Nagarythe beset by cultists, our very homesteads occupied and corrupted, the Queenmother allegedly in league with the dark powers we set out to destroy – what would you have us do?”
Narza eyed his warriors, his gaze seemingly absorbing each one of them in its fierce intensity.
“For now, we bide our time. From Ruhven we learned that not all the realms are affected as gravely as Nagarythe. There are others who still are true to King Malekith’s cause and who strive against the taint. We just have to find them and join forces with them. Then we do what we are best at: We fight. We fight until Ulthuan is cleansed or Khaine has called the last one of us into his Realm.”
Last edited by Cenyu on Tue Feb 03, 2009 7:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.
[i][size=75]Narza Scornsong - 14/13/9
Swordsaint of the Thalukhaindar[/i][/size]
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DarkTyrany22
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#2 Post by DarkTyrany22 »

Loyalists. Gieb cookiez! Ok, so I cheated...

Nice fluff, I like the scene you've set for Tor Nerassim especially.
Jyrus Yenlukhaesrath, High Prince of Tiranoc - 211 Slain; 26/4/6
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Elaithnir
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#3 Post by Elaithnir »

Very nice...much better than my own effort! I like Narza...he has honor...for a Druchii...:P I'm sure he'll be a credit to Ulthuan's defence!
Si'anelle of Avelorn
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#4 Post by Si'anelle of Avelorn »

I enjoyed that, - great characterisation.
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Bob of Beleriand
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#5 Post by Bob of Beleriand »

Don't sell yourself short Cenyu, it was an enjoyable fiction.
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