Post by Khaine on May 4, 2019 10:08:37 GMT
A trio of kyneath had just crested the hill. Two knights upon green-black beasts flanking a great albino monstrosity, upon which rode proudly the Dreadlord, surveying the fields where a great battle had been fought recently. Some dead still lay rotting on the ground, but their number belied the might of the forces that had clashed here. Great wooden stakes had also been erected, uncountable in number: a forest which could be seen from the very spires of the nearby city, to the inhabitants of which their purpose was yet unclear. The Dreadlord dismounted with a graceful leap, then helped the Asur slave alight upon the golden grass of the Ellyrian hillside. Ignoring the questioning looks the knights exchanged, he opened his arm towards the plain, as if showing the girl some grand display of his greatest masterpiece.
Debris littered the field, great stones under which blood and entrails had been splattered, shields lying shattered and spears broken upon the ground. The very air reeked of terror and death, and was filled by the buzzing sound of the myriad insects that had come to feast and procreate. Now and again, a horse’s gut would spill its contents, unable to resist the push of the putrid fumes that bloated its form from within. The girl was overcome by the sight and smells and fell to her knees, her eyes teary.
“Three weeks ago our host pushed through the gates of the griffon. A bastion your people had long thought unassailable,” he said, smiling cruelly. “Of course, as with many other things, they were wrong about that. We shattered their defenses and poured into Ellyrion, making haste towards Tor Ellyr, while the cowering armies of the kingdom fled from our host.” Duvaindir spoke with pride and arrogance, and the slave wondered as to the change that seemed to have come upon him. In the meantime, the head of a procession of captives peaked out of the siege camp, worming itself towards the site of the battle. The girl’s stomach sank at the sight, fearing for their fate.
“When we arrived here, atop this hill overlooking the ruins, a strange feeling overtook me as if I had been here before, though I had not set foot in Ellyrion all my life. A vision I had once seen in my minds-eye was then recalled to it, one I had witnessed when I first took up this sword. In the vision, a great battle had taken place here: what was promised to be my greatest triumph,” continued the Dreadlord. The girl was listening, yet her eyes were transfixed upon the long line of captives, who were now being brought to the forest of stakes. They were dressed in the uniforms of the Ellyrian Reavers, the traditional protectors of the land, clad in light armor, their heads adorned with colorful plumes. She tried to ask what would happen to them, but the lord continued his recounting of the tale:
“It was then I knew that battle would be had here. Your men had cleverly hidden themselves in the ruins, while the Reavers awaited on the other side of the river. A worthy plan, which could have led to our downfall. Yet, our army arranged itself atop this hill, even as the rear-guard burned all villages on the way. Our Bleakswords went to the front, an anvil upon which the enemy line would crash, flanked by the lighter witch elves and northmen mercenaries at each side. Amidst these stood the Hand of Khaine, Veszal, upon his cauldron of boiling blood. In the back, Darkshards strung their crossbows, with the command unit, myself, and the dreaded coven of sorceresses at their center,” recounted Duvaindir. Far below, on the open plain, the great stakes were being lowered by a group of darkly clad druchii commanding a system of pulleys.
“Of course, our greatest weapon would be the noble cold-one knights, under the command of my then chosen second, Yavwren. He had been instructed to take his unit into hiding, and reinforce the main army when the time was right, receiving our signal. It was soon after these preparations that the Ellyrian army made itself known and streamed out of the ruins to arrange itself below us, filled with false confidence in victory. These thoughts were perhaps banished, when a great infernal wave washed over their front ranks, summoned by the Supreme Sorceress of Kar Khadath and her seeresses. It was far too late for them now to retreat and so their archers unleashed their volleys into our ranks, as their spearmen crashed into them. Our Bleakswords braced for impact, inspired and protected by the prayers of the Hand of Khaine. And so the battle began.” As the Dreadlord made this announcement, the girl looked on in horror as the purpose of the stakes was made clear. The first of the Reavers was stripped, then laid down by force, the end of the long pike sliding into his body forcefully. Long ropes were tied around to keep the body from sliding downwards as the first of many stakes rose once more.
Duvaindir had removed his helmet, and paused for a moment, looking at the scene below him. Screams filled the valley, not only from the one that had been impaled, but also from the long line of prisoners who would soon be joining him in his final vigil. Even Erialla’s voice finally broke free from her throat, unleashing a scream of terror and disgust that seemed to echo from the depths of her beaten soul. Unphased, the Dreadlord continued his story: “The asur seemed to be gaining the upper hand, their arrows and spears felling many of our warriors. While our witch-elves and mercenaries stood their ground in the flanks, the Bleakswords seemed to be getting the worst of it. From a nearby peak, even the eagles joined the fight on your side, casting large rocks from above, crushing our men. Finally, a war-horn sounded from across the river: the pride of Ellyrion had arrived,” said he with a cruel smirk.
Below, the work of filling the forest of stakes with squirming prisoners was continuing, screams of terror mixing with rumbling moans of pain, as the wooden pikes pressed against the still living lungs of the impaled. Ignoring this, the Dreadlord spoke again, his tone darkening: “The flower of the Ellyrian army charged across the bridge, loosing arrows before breaking through the lines of the northmen’s flank with their long lances. So our lusted for vengeance, that their eyes seemed aflame with hate, or some eldritch power of old that now was reborn. All seemed lost, until the signal was given. Cruel lances and leering kyneath emerged from the far side of the plain. Their own horn was sounded in return, its whining cruel to the ears as they now came upon the foe, biting and thrashing as their unfeeling riders cut down their foes. This then was the answer to the terrible wrath of the Asur, an ancient hatred, cold and fell in the fruition of its vengeance; our vengeance.” Duvaindir clenched his fist, his face hard.
“Even then, the battle seemed to hang in the balance. The tally of the dead was great on both sides, while the Reavers were broken: slain or captured by our own knights, who now pushed deeper into the enemy formation. Yet, your kind still fought on, trading blow for blow and death for death. It was then that the coven played their hand. Sacrificing their lesser members, they loosed a terrible spell upon the field. Dead hands now clamored to raise themselves up, as the legions of flesh rose at the bidding of our sorcery. It was then that your kind proved worthy of the name ‘Kuyl’, for, pressed from every side and faced with their risen brothers, they broke and fled the field in disgrace.” He motioned dismissively, then turned to look at her, his eyes fiery.
“Do you understand now? Do you understand why you are Kuyl, and not Erialla as you profess to be? You cower and grovel, seeking my mercy and sympathy. Your people think you high-born, but you are a slave, born of slaves, fit only to serve us. There is no hope here left for you. The light of Ulthuan fades under the shadow of the Druchii. The true-born have returned to take their rightful home, and there is no place left now for weakness to hide. The grasp of the Witch-King has reached you, and we are its claws-“ And finally she understood. Between her sobbing, her eyes red with burning tears as her gaze clung to the ground, unable to look up, to face this monster that had come to take everything from her. Akin he looked to the lords of her own people, yes, and there was much of their majesty in his grace, but his heart lusted only for dominion; his will wholly set to the destruction of her people. What horrid and ancient wrong had twisted these creatures so, she wondered, before her thought was interrupted:
“This was the Battle of the Fields of Mourn, and here the draich fell upon Ellyrion. Remember this lesson well,” he said, unsheathing his sword. Then, she was filled with dread, and was unable to speak once more, or do anything but beg wordlessly as he towered above her, the black blade hissing. Then, he brought the blade down, undoing her bindings: “The reavers shall have the honor of enjoying the fall of the city from their vantage point, but you... are free to enter it, and await its final fall. Go now, Kuyl, tell your kind of what transpired here.” He spoke no more, and sheathed his sword, turning his attention to the fields below, where the torturers were continuing their work on the forest of pikes. ‘Kuyl’, cowardice, the word repeated itself in her mind as she was lost in thought. She did not realize that her legs had already carried her away from that fell lord, that she was already scrambling down the hill and towards the perceived safety of the city. She ran through the battle-field, feeling the cold corpses stiff beneath her feet. She remembered the rotten smell of the overseer’s mouth, the leering gaze of the guards, the darkness of the blade. She ran through the artificial forest, the sounds of the moaning elves above filling her with their anguish as they cast their over-long shadows at the dying of the day, and she kept running: Kuyl, Kuyl, Kuyl.
Duvaindir slowly climbed upon his kyneath, wearing his helmet once more. Through the holes, his violet eyes peered at the city, his city, his prize. It was in his grasp now, yet the defenders were numerous, and the Regiment had taken severe losses. As he looked on towards its grand marbles, painted red by the dying sun, towards the girl in tattered clothes, running to the home with which she would soon burn, his eyes lingered for a moment, before he steered his mount to begin its descent.
Debris littered the field, great stones under which blood and entrails had been splattered, shields lying shattered and spears broken upon the ground. The very air reeked of terror and death, and was filled by the buzzing sound of the myriad insects that had come to feast and procreate. Now and again, a horse’s gut would spill its contents, unable to resist the push of the putrid fumes that bloated its form from within. The girl was overcome by the sight and smells and fell to her knees, her eyes teary.
“Three weeks ago our host pushed through the gates of the griffon. A bastion your people had long thought unassailable,” he said, smiling cruelly. “Of course, as with many other things, they were wrong about that. We shattered their defenses and poured into Ellyrion, making haste towards Tor Ellyr, while the cowering armies of the kingdom fled from our host.” Duvaindir spoke with pride and arrogance, and the slave wondered as to the change that seemed to have come upon him. In the meantime, the head of a procession of captives peaked out of the siege camp, worming itself towards the site of the battle. The girl’s stomach sank at the sight, fearing for their fate.
“When we arrived here, atop this hill overlooking the ruins, a strange feeling overtook me as if I had been here before, though I had not set foot in Ellyrion all my life. A vision I had once seen in my minds-eye was then recalled to it, one I had witnessed when I first took up this sword. In the vision, a great battle had taken place here: what was promised to be my greatest triumph,” continued the Dreadlord. The girl was listening, yet her eyes were transfixed upon the long line of captives, who were now being brought to the forest of stakes. They were dressed in the uniforms of the Ellyrian Reavers, the traditional protectors of the land, clad in light armor, their heads adorned with colorful plumes. She tried to ask what would happen to them, but the lord continued his recounting of the tale:
“It was then I knew that battle would be had here. Your men had cleverly hidden themselves in the ruins, while the Reavers awaited on the other side of the river. A worthy plan, which could have led to our downfall. Yet, our army arranged itself atop this hill, even as the rear-guard burned all villages on the way. Our Bleakswords went to the front, an anvil upon which the enemy line would crash, flanked by the lighter witch elves and northmen mercenaries at each side. Amidst these stood the Hand of Khaine, Veszal, upon his cauldron of boiling blood. In the back, Darkshards strung their crossbows, with the command unit, myself, and the dreaded coven of sorceresses at their center,” recounted Duvaindir. Far below, on the open plain, the great stakes were being lowered by a group of darkly clad druchii commanding a system of pulleys.
“Of course, our greatest weapon would be the noble cold-one knights, under the command of my then chosen second, Yavwren. He had been instructed to take his unit into hiding, and reinforce the main army when the time was right, receiving our signal. It was soon after these preparations that the Ellyrian army made itself known and streamed out of the ruins to arrange itself below us, filled with false confidence in victory. These thoughts were perhaps banished, when a great infernal wave washed over their front ranks, summoned by the Supreme Sorceress of Kar Khadath and her seeresses. It was far too late for them now to retreat and so their archers unleashed their volleys into our ranks, as their spearmen crashed into them. Our Bleakswords braced for impact, inspired and protected by the prayers of the Hand of Khaine. And so the battle began.” As the Dreadlord made this announcement, the girl looked on in horror as the purpose of the stakes was made clear. The first of the Reavers was stripped, then laid down by force, the end of the long pike sliding into his body forcefully. Long ropes were tied around to keep the body from sliding downwards as the first of many stakes rose once more.
Duvaindir had removed his helmet, and paused for a moment, looking at the scene below him. Screams filled the valley, not only from the one that had been impaled, but also from the long line of prisoners who would soon be joining him in his final vigil. Even Erialla’s voice finally broke free from her throat, unleashing a scream of terror and disgust that seemed to echo from the depths of her beaten soul. Unphased, the Dreadlord continued his story: “The asur seemed to be gaining the upper hand, their arrows and spears felling many of our warriors. While our witch-elves and mercenaries stood their ground in the flanks, the Bleakswords seemed to be getting the worst of it. From a nearby peak, even the eagles joined the fight on your side, casting large rocks from above, crushing our men. Finally, a war-horn sounded from across the river: the pride of Ellyrion had arrived,” said he with a cruel smirk.
Below, the work of filling the forest of stakes with squirming prisoners was continuing, screams of terror mixing with rumbling moans of pain, as the wooden pikes pressed against the still living lungs of the impaled. Ignoring this, the Dreadlord spoke again, his tone darkening: “The flower of the Ellyrian army charged across the bridge, loosing arrows before breaking through the lines of the northmen’s flank with their long lances. So our lusted for vengeance, that their eyes seemed aflame with hate, or some eldritch power of old that now was reborn. All seemed lost, until the signal was given. Cruel lances and leering kyneath emerged from the far side of the plain. Their own horn was sounded in return, its whining cruel to the ears as they now came upon the foe, biting and thrashing as their unfeeling riders cut down their foes. This then was the answer to the terrible wrath of the Asur, an ancient hatred, cold and fell in the fruition of its vengeance; our vengeance.” Duvaindir clenched his fist, his face hard.
“Even then, the battle seemed to hang in the balance. The tally of the dead was great on both sides, while the Reavers were broken: slain or captured by our own knights, who now pushed deeper into the enemy formation. Yet, your kind still fought on, trading blow for blow and death for death. It was then that the coven played their hand. Sacrificing their lesser members, they loosed a terrible spell upon the field. Dead hands now clamored to raise themselves up, as the legions of flesh rose at the bidding of our sorcery. It was then that your kind proved worthy of the name ‘Kuyl’, for, pressed from every side and faced with their risen brothers, they broke and fled the field in disgrace.” He motioned dismissively, then turned to look at her, his eyes fiery.
“Do you understand now? Do you understand why you are Kuyl, and not Erialla as you profess to be? You cower and grovel, seeking my mercy and sympathy. Your people think you high-born, but you are a slave, born of slaves, fit only to serve us. There is no hope here left for you. The light of Ulthuan fades under the shadow of the Druchii. The true-born have returned to take their rightful home, and there is no place left now for weakness to hide. The grasp of the Witch-King has reached you, and we are its claws-“ And finally she understood. Between her sobbing, her eyes red with burning tears as her gaze clung to the ground, unable to look up, to face this monster that had come to take everything from her. Akin he looked to the lords of her own people, yes, and there was much of their majesty in his grace, but his heart lusted only for dominion; his will wholly set to the destruction of her people. What horrid and ancient wrong had twisted these creatures so, she wondered, before her thought was interrupted:
“This was the Battle of the Fields of Mourn, and here the draich fell upon Ellyrion. Remember this lesson well,” he said, unsheathing his sword. Then, she was filled with dread, and was unable to speak once more, or do anything but beg wordlessly as he towered above her, the black blade hissing. Then, he brought the blade down, undoing her bindings: “The reavers shall have the honor of enjoying the fall of the city from their vantage point, but you... are free to enter it, and await its final fall. Go now, Kuyl, tell your kind of what transpired here.” He spoke no more, and sheathed his sword, turning his attention to the fields below, where the torturers were continuing their work on the forest of pikes. ‘Kuyl’, cowardice, the word repeated itself in her mind as she was lost in thought. She did not realize that her legs had already carried her away from that fell lord, that she was already scrambling down the hill and towards the perceived safety of the city. She ran through the battle-field, feeling the cold corpses stiff beneath her feet. She remembered the rotten smell of the overseer’s mouth, the leering gaze of the guards, the darkness of the blade. She ran through the artificial forest, the sounds of the moaning elves above filling her with their anguish as they cast their over-long shadows at the dying of the day, and she kept running: Kuyl, Kuyl, Kuyl.
Duvaindir slowly climbed upon his kyneath, wearing his helmet once more. Through the holes, his violet eyes peered at the city, his city, his prize. It was in his grasp now, yet the defenders were numerous, and the Regiment had taken severe losses. As he looked on towards its grand marbles, painted red by the dying sun, towards the girl in tattered clothes, running to the home with which she would soon burn, his eyes lingered for a moment, before he steered his mount to begin its descent.