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| Ultimate End Times Chronicler |
Joined: Wed May 25, 2011 9:10 pm
Posts: 577
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Aicanor wrote: Perhaps you could add some flavour to the Guide (time for Chrace and Nagarythe will come this weekend - at least I hope so). Hmmmmm, I don't have much to add that isn't in the stories.  Speaking of which, here's the battle with the druchii. Let's see, chronology is winter, late year 5. The wagon bumped and jostled its way down the narrow country path. The forest was thick in these parts, and the trail uncovered; every rut sent a jolt through the crude vehicle. In its back were crowded over a dozen elves; their crimson and silver armor, and fine white tabards, clashing with the crudeness of their conveyance. With each jolt of the vehicle, hands clutched at the careening sides. A few swears were raised.
The driver, another elf, but clad in the simple blues and greys of a merchant, turned to the figure immediately behind him: one wrapped in heavy, voluminous robes and cowl of bright burgundy and gold. A hunched figure, smaller than the warriors, the elf seemed isolated from the others in the back; it sat in silence with a hand resting on the back of the driver’s seat.
“My lord,” the driver said. “I apologize again for the meanness of your conveyance. But the road condition allows for little else. And the clouds speak of rain. We must beat the storm before it turns all into rivers of slime!”
“How much farther?” the robed figure asked, in a reedy voice. Within the cowl one could just make out in the fading afternoon light strands of long blonde hair, and pale blue eyes.
“Not much further, my lord. I was to the place just yesterday morning for trade. I know it well,” the driver answered.
The cowled elf grunted. “I am surprised we have not been met. Where are the Nagarathi?”
“Oh, I suspect they have been following our progress for some time,” the driver said nonchalantly.
“What? If they know we are here, then why not greet us? Or challenge us?” the robed lord said curiously.
“They watch. They wait. And they will only challenge when they feel the advantage is theirs,” the merchant answered. “They are not Caledorian, my lord. Not like us. Please remember this. They have no honor, and refuse to challenge openly. They use coward’s arts.”
Once more the cowled elf grunted, noncommittally. The wagon’s occupants fell to silence. Soon the long foreseen rain began to fall. It was cold, and laced with ice.
Then the wagon skittered into a low place in the trail. The water was pooling at the bottom, turning the trail there to muck. As the driver pressed the horses to pull the heavy carriage through the morass, a pair of elves stepped out into the darkening trail before them. Each bore a longbow slung easily upon the back. That in itself wasn’t unusual; the warriors in the wagon also were equipped with the tall Asur bows, and had quivers of arrows covered in waterproof waxcloth arrayed on their laps. But the two in the road wore no silver ithilmar armor. No matching tabards to identify their lord and fealty. They were dressed as vagabonds: brown and black tunics and leather breeches. Rough woolen cloaks, crisscrossed with patches. And where the elves in the wagon were fair of hair and complexion, these two were pale, almost sallow in skin. One’s hair was dark; the other light blonde. And both had half of their skulls shaved; though on opposite sides.
“What brings you out on the trail this evening, Trader Olayin?” the darker, and older of the two challenged the driver.
“Ah, Avyn’Ral!” the driver greeted and brought the wagon to a stop. “Its well met I’m sure!” The trader smiled. “And you too Avyn’Pol. I hope you liked the quivers I traded with you.” The two elves just continued to watch. “But I act as transport tonight. I bring travelers from my home, fair Caledor! Of majestic mountains, and warm southern breezes. Fellow warriors of the Phoenix King’s glorious armies! Who wish to meet with your Prince.”
“He is not our Prince,” the dark one, Avyn’Ral, answered. “He is Nagarythe’s.”
“Of course, of course. I meant no disrespect. Will you grant us passage?”
Avyn’Ral frowned. “You’ve come at a bad time. I… cannot make that decision.” He lifted his fingers to his lips and gave a short whistle. And then, like wraiths, a half-dozen more shadowy figures emerged out of the trees, identical to the two in the road. Except all of these held longbows at the ready, with arrows on the string, pointed at the cart’s occupants.
The cowled figure watched them curiously.
One of the newcomers, a young elf with skull completely shaven but for a narrow string of braids from forelock to long queue in the back, moved beside the two in the road.
“What say you, Narrin’Tim?” Avyn’Ral asked. The newcomer pursed his lips and studied the elves in the wagon. His face was grim and serious as he did so. Across his back was strapped a straight longsword. Upon his hip sat a curved falchion. And, strangest of all, the bow he carried was white as ivory, and delicately carved with figures of swans.
“Take them to the Shadow Lord,” Narrin’Tim finally said. “You will be watched,” he added to the occupants. And then he and the others slipped back into the darkness. The wagon continued down the trail slowly, with the two young elves walking along either side.
“Those were….?” The robed elf in the wagon asked, curiosity in his voice.
“Yes. Those were Shadow Warriors. Of the Host of Nagarythe. We are almost there,” the trader Olayin replied.
The trail opened into a clearing filled with the glow of blue lamps, and the ruddy reds of watchfires. Tents were being broken down about the clearing, by the rapid hands of scores of elven warriors. Crates were being packed, and horses saddled. Warriors were fixing armor to torso wherever the eye looked.
Only one large pavilion stood untouched in the center.
“The Shadow Lord waits within,” Avyn’Ral said. “Only one may enter. The rest can wait, and take their sup, over there.” He added and pointed to a campfire nearby.
The occupants of the wagon alighted. Lastly came the cowled figure. As he did so the watchers were struck by the differences. He was almost a head shorter than the other Asur. And his body seemed….slouched. He climbed down gingerly, and ungraciously, from the wagon. At the bottom he shouldered a metal canister-tube upon his back.
“You are….?” Avyn’Ral asked.
“I am Talossar. I will speak with the Shadow Prince.”
***
Talossar walked to the large pavilion, adjusting his wire-frame spectacles as he did so. He was painfully aware of the eyes following him. His limping gait made him stand out amongst the tall and fit soldiers all around. He cursed his malformed shoulders - not for the first time - and tried to stand more erect.
The Nagarathi warrior walked with him, and called out to the tent as they approached. With the word ‘enter’ he pulled open the tent flap for Talossar to stoop under.
Once inside Talossar saw two elves standing about the sole piece of furnishing: a table bedecked in maps. One of the elves was tall and slender, in the way of the northerners, with a mop of braided white hair. He was most remarkable for the many scars etched onto face and throat. He was chewing on something as he watched Talossar enter.
The other was even more tall, and gaunt, with long raven hair that fell loose about his pale face. He wore a set of archaic black and gold armor.
The Shadow Lord! At last….
The War Prince of Nagarythe’s black eyes were studying Talossar as the young elf came further into the light. Talossar was very aware of the massive great sword strapped to his back. That would be the blade ‘Spite’, he mused. The one his uncle mentioned that time in his cups….
Talossar pulled back his cowl, revealing a face that while not exactly handsome, was only seriously marred by the metal spectacles he wore; something unknown to most Asur.
“I am Talossar. I bring you greetings and warm salutations from my uncle, Lord Malossar of the High Reaches!” Talossar began. “He has sent me…us… here as a recompense of honor.” Silence as the two elves continued to study him.
“Us?” the Shadow Lord finally asked.
“Yes, I bring a contingent of Caledorian archers to serve within the Host.”
“Caledorians know archery?” the scarred one muttered drolly. The Shadow Lord raised his hand for silence.
“And I put my spellcraft at your service as well,” Talossar continued as if he had heard nothing. “Until such a time as the debt is paid.” He produced a letter from within his robes. “I bring your missive from the White Tower….” He offered it to the Nagarathi prince.
The Shadow Prince barely glanced at the letter of introduction from his masters at the Tower, instead continuing to study his face. Finally he said,
“You are the brother.”
“Yes,” Talossar admitted, and tried to meet the ebon eyes. He couldn’t hold the stare for long, and looked instead at the maps. He noticed the many fresh writings upon them.
“You are welcome amongst us. Go wait outside with your comrades. But be ready to move. Battle will be upon us shortly,” the Shadow Lord instructed.
Talossar left the tent, his heart pounding in his chest. Battle! He had no idea! So soon! He hoped he was ready…. He hoped he was fit….
The same laboratory accident that had ruined his eyesight and damaged his knee, had curiously enough, sharpened his hearing. And as he limped over to his fellow Caledorians he could hear the voice of the scarred one within the tent mutter:
“Does someone at the Tower not like us?”
But then a rider burst into the camp, and chaos ensued!
“They have landed! Two miles hence!” the rider shouted. “Near the village of Hoth’Gren!!”
The Shadow Lord stepped out of his pavilion.
“Soldiers of Nagarythe assemble! We march for battle immediately!”
***
Talossar looked up at the great multi-headed monstrosity bearing down upon him.
So this was a battle, he thought. The way his uncle described it- soaring through the skies; the feel of the dragon’s muscles rippling below; the terror in the eyes of the foes as the majestic ancient tore into one’s foes; blade singing from the sheath…. Was nothing like this. Standing in the cold rain and mud, trying to not wet himself while he watched some nightmare blasphemy nip at the air, and lumber towards him with the intention of feeding.
No this didn’t seem glorious at all.
He wished his brother, Calossar, was here. His baby brother: tall, handsome, the light in his parents eyes. From childhood he had known it. Even before the accident he was always a disappointment to his father – his misshapen body, and frail health, were nothing of the Caledor ideal. And his book learning. The late nights of tinkering in his room. Infuriated his father! Why couldn’t he be more like his brother? His brother knew the magic; but it came effortlessly to him. He still had time to race horses, and go to jousts….and woo the maidens. Yes, handsome and athletic Calossar had always been popular with the girls. He remembered how just after his 30th birthday, young Cal had found him in his study to inform him that he had bedded his first. “I’m a man now, brother,” he had said with a smug smile, knowing full well that the only attention that Talossar received in that way was bought with coin or favor. Not even the castle maids would look twice at the lord’s twisted son if it weren’t for some…encouragement.
And now Calossar was dead. Killed by some Druchii blade in a house of ill repute on the shores of the inner sea. And Talossar found himself missing him….
The culprit was dead at the Shadow Lord’s hand. No chance for revenge. So, at his uncle’s urging, he had come here to repay the debt. No way their family could tolerate that obligation! Not to the Nagarathi!!
He needed to concentrate or nothing would be accomplished. He focused on the Druchii war beast, and reached into his robes producing a pipe. He blew into one end of it, creating a brilliant quicksilver bubble out the other. Then calling upon the winds of magic, he sent the orb flying towards the beast….
Only to see the orb stop in midair, and burst like the bubble it was.
The Druchii witch was smiling at him then. She was very attractive…raven hair tied back in a bright scarf. She blew a kiss at him….
Aaarggh!! She is mocking me?? How dare she mock a Caledorian lord!!!
Talossar unslung the large cylinder upon his back. He placed it end up upon the ground, and produced a sealed beaker from his satchel. Breaking the seal, he poured the liquid red contents into the tube. Then bracing it against his foot, he tilted the contraption towards the witch’s detachment….
And lit the fuse.
There was a whoomp! And sparkles white and red flew out of the tube in a dazzling array of light and motion! They came down upon the small band of Druchi corsairs with a fury: burning skin and eyes wherever one of the embers touched. He could hear the screams from over here.
That would show her, Talossar thought, and smiled.
***
Palin’Tanith gazed up at the boiling storm clouds overhead. The Chaos winds were creating ghost flickers of green light among them, that swirled and dodge like will-o-wisps. But every so often, the thunderstrike! In the flash of white, he could see the spectral forms of the winged beasts circling overhead. They flew through the clouds like fish swimming through the seas. And they watched. Like predators. Hunger in their eyes. Waiting for a sign of weakness.
When their pale faces emerged from the cloud and darkness, he was struck again by the twisted contrast of the beautiful visages, with the raptor bodies. In the northern islands where he was from it was said that the beasts were once elves; corrupted and blackened during the first war with Chaos. It may even be true. He did not know. Or care. As long as he could kill them.
Tanith looked downwards, towards the small graveyard. He could see a small group of Druchii shades, lurking in the crumbled walls there. They were using their mechanical crossbows to fire deadly darts across the field, at the Shadow Lord’s unit, crouching on the other side.
“Ready your blades, boys,” he whispered, his voice throaty and raspy; it had been that way ever since the Hag’s knife, all those centuries before….
Spread across the Druchii alter. The hymns to Khaine. The laughter. Her beautiful face. And then the wicked gleam of the curved blade, slicing through the skin of his throat like ice fire….
He shook his head and broke the memory. “There’s our target.” He indicated the shades.
One of the young elves beside him swallowed, and said, “But Tanith! Those crossbows! They’ll cut us down before we even get close!!”
Tanith spun and gave the young warrior a sharp slap across the face. “None of that coward’s talk, Teth’Lyth!! You are Nagarathi! Act it!!” He grabbed the back of the whelp’s head and forced his eyes towards the Druchii scouts. “Those Druchii bastards are taking shots at our Prince. We ain’t going to let that happen.”
He released the boy’s head and then said to the others, “Now draw your blades! And follow me!”
They ran down the hill slope in a half crouch, all the while praying that the thunder would not come, allowing the darkness to hide their advance.
Just a few more seconds….
And then they were upon the Druchii! It was close. It was dark. Breath on breath. The stink of sweat. It was no sword fight. It was knives this close. The first he encountered barely knew he was there before he buried his blade in the bastard’s kidneys. He turned to dodge the next. Kneed him in the groin, and then brought his knife down upon the back of his neck.
The spine crunched under the blow.
It was over. No. Avyn’Ral was wrestling with one final shade upon the ground. Each one with knife in hand, but not able to make a telling blow.
Tanith strode over and then threw his knee down upon the Druchii’s long braid, pinning his head to the ground. Then he drew his knife across his throat.
As he did so, as ever, his thoughts returned to his first wife. That time, coming into his home after the raid. And there she had been, lying in the middle of the kitchen floor…. Her belly slit open. And beside her…. the pool of gore and blood that had been their unborn child….
It was said that one should serve in the Phoenix King’s army because of duty and pride. Because of love of country. And love of family.
Palin’Tanith did it because he liked killing Druchii.
One day, perhaps, Lileath, the Goddess of Renewal, would forgive him.
***
Narrin’Tim crossed to the far side of the graveyard. He could see the bodies of his fellow Shadow Warriors, pierced and mangled, strewn about those of the Druchii. Young Avyn’Pol gave a cry of anguish, and fell to the ground, weeping over the body of his brother. A spear-like bolt transfixed Avyn’Ral. His eyes were glassy and still as the rain pelted his face.
It was the brothers’ first battle. They both had just joined the Host.
Tim staggered forward, stunned, and in disbelief. He heard cursing. He looked over, and then moved quickly, kicking the body of a Druchii out of the way. Beneath it he saw Palin’Tanith, face gritted in pain, one hand wrapped about a dagger buried into yet another Druchii’s chest.
“Damn Druchii took my arm!” Tanith snarled. Tim looked: the old elf’s left arm ended just above the elbow. Blood was everywhere.
“The bastards took my arm!!” Tanith howled.
The Shadow Lord stepped forward. “Help him,” he commanded the others. The elf lord’s face was writ in fury, as his eyes lingered on the broken body of Palin’Tanith.
His hand suddenly reached out and seized Tim’s arm. Through bared teeth, the Prince said, “Sound the retreat.”
“But…the village. Hoth’Gren.” Tim stumbled out.
“Signal the evacuation,” the lord ordered, eyes now covered in the night. His voice though was as cold as steel.
“Then burn it! Burn the crops! Burn everything!! Leave nothing for the Druchii!!”
***
Epilogue
The interior of the healer’s tent smelled of sickly-sweet poultice and mud. The tent had been set up quickly, with barely enough time to spread some straw on the rain-soaked earth, let alone pack it down enough to be covered with woven mats. Narrin’Tim’s boots made sucking sounds as he walked across the tent, and then in relief, threw himself onto a canvas stool.
He was exhausted. He had spent the rest of the evening arranging the bin’tel; the Nagarathi practice of escape and evasion. In the millennia of warfare with the North, the people of the Shadowlands had adapted their lifestyle to being one that at any given moment the community could be disassembled; the people would flee into the forest and hills to an array of prearranged meeting sites, and all the while, appointed archers and shadow warriors would break off into teams to harass and watch the raiders. The whole system of bin’tel was designed under the principle of constant aggression. But also sensible aggression. A place can be lost. A town could be rebuilt. As long as the people survived, Nagarythe survived. “Our blood is our most precious resource”, the elders always said.
It was strange that Tim was one of the few Nagarathi to never have experienced a full bin’tel. His home among the skystones of the Western Hills had not been threatened by raiders in his lifetime. Consequently he had struggled to help organize the people of Hoth’Gren in the precious few minutes they had before the Druchii advance. And then he helped send out teams of Shadow Warriors, in pairs and small groups, to watch the Druchii army, and attack the pickets when possible. And then there were messages sent to the clans and other nearby villages. Warnings, as well as requests for warriors. And then the official letter sent by horseback to notify the commander at the Unicorn Gate to apprise him of the situation, and be the first impetus to starting the massive machinery of Ulthuan at war; all on the off chance that the raid was more than a mere raid, and was actually a beach-head for a full-scale invasion.
It was a mess. With the Shadow Lord writing, writing, and writing. And Narrin’Tim running this way and that, trying to instill confidence, and stop panic, and answer a thousand questions at once. And it was all the more confusing, because he knew that in the past it wouldn’t have been his responsibility. The old warrior lying in the cot before him would have managed all of it with a well-practiced eye and calm resolve.
Palin’Tanith lay there completely still. His right arm draped across his chest. The stump of his left, now covered in white gauze and green poultices, lay next to him. He must be sleeping, Tim hoped; probably under the effects of the powerful narcotics the healers used.
If only Anna’lis was here, Tim thought. With her magic she could help him more than any herb lore. He desperately wished she would walk through the tent opening right then….
“It’s over,” Tanith’s gravelly voice startled him from his reverie.
“Tanith!” Tim said relieved. “You are awake. You should rest. The healer said you should rest.”
“It’s over,” Tanith repeated.
“What is?” Tim asked concerned.
“Me.”
“What are you talking about?” Tim smiled. “You’ll be fine! The healer said so.”
“Don’t be stupid boy! I’ll never be whole again!” Tanith snapped. “I can’t be a Shadow Warrior with only one damn arm!! I can’t shoot a bow! I can’t fight! I can’t…. I can’t…”
“Tanith, please.”
“It’s over. I’m over.” Tim had never heard Tanith sound so broken. It frightened him.
“You could…. You could take a leave. Some time. Go home to rest,” he tried to reassure.
Tanith turned his head then, and faced away, towards the back of the tent. “It’s over. There is nothing left for me….”
“There will be no leave!” the Shadow Prince’s voice suddenly erupted in the tent. Tim started and stood. Tanith’s head swung around, and the old elf tried to sit up.
The Prince was standing there, silhouetted in the morning light drifting in through the open tent flap. His mouth and eyes were hard.
“Palin’Tanith! You have oaths to uphold! Oaths to me! Oaths to Nagarythe!” the Prince snarled, eyes holding the Shadow Walker’s. “You. Will. Hold. Those. Oaths.” He finished firmly.
Tim turned. He saw the flush of color in Tanith’s cheeks. The light return to his eyes. Tanith was nodding now.
“Yes, my prince! I will not let you down,” he barked.
“Good,” the prince turned to leave. “Rest now. Soon you will have work to do. Warriors to train. Campaigns to plan.” And then he slipped out through the flap.
And Tanith was still nodding, obviously deep in thought. Planning….
***
The hydra blood that she shared with the marsh lord, Syldra, was burning her tonight. The acidity in the blood – the virulent life it represented – had kept her from passing over to Khaine’s embrace all those years ago. But the pain was never truly gone. And tonight, in the rain, it burned.
But she was Druchii. Pain was of no concern to her.
“Get the shovels,” she snapped, and wiped the rain out of her eyes. In the distance she could see the light of the flames consuming the little fishing village nearby. The fool Nagarathi were burning it to keep her corsairs from sacking it.
Idiots! As if she would come all this way to steal wheat and fishing nets!
“Captain,” it was one of the new corsairs, just signed onto this trip. Her reputation was building in the ports of Naggaroth. It was now said that the marines and sailors under her command, more often than not, returned from a voyage with more coin than when they left. She had notoriety now. That was good; and bad.
There were eyes to be avoided.
“Shouldn’t we send parties into the village?” the new recruit pressed.
“No,” Reina snapped. “What we want is here.” She indicated the muddy graveyard. “Start digging.”
“But Captain-“
She drew her falchion with lightning speed. The tip a hair’s breath from severing the sailor’s jugular.
“Pick up a shovel and dig! Or I’ll have you on all fours digging with your mouth, cur!” she snarled.
Properly motivated, the corsair grabbed a shovel and disappeared among the tombs with his fellows.
Good. It was here. She could feel it. Soon the chalice will be found. And then, things would be…interesting._________________ Seredain wrote: Headshot, you are wise like Yoda
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As I feel it, hope is a virtue almost as good as sense of humour. 
Just some rubbish about Teth'Lyth being Tethlis said with a lisp. 
