Post by Svaena Voidspeaker on Dec 1, 2019 14:15:24 GMT
The walls of Sokh shook almost as much as the hearts of it’s people once the chaos warmachines were unleashed upon the city. Most influencial citizen were able to find temporary shelter within the keep, while less fortunate were left to fend for themselves as soon as the outer walls would fall. In the end, the hordes of beastmen, monsters and barbarians were destined to break through.
Amidst all that chaos, a grarled man made his way to a long closed tavern. Although abandoned by it’s owner as soon as the news of marching norscan broke out, now the establishment was guarded by two armed men. Despite their threatening demanour they let the crooked stranger through before going in themselves to barricade the door.
„Have you done all as I asked?” - the hunchback spoke out in a raspy voice.
„Wise One, everything is ready and waiting.” - the bodyguard responded, inclining his hand towards the basement stairs.
Wise One, as they called him descended down to the tavern’s basement. What once served as place of relief and revelry for the common folk has now been repurposed for the cult’s needs. While the armies of Chaos would run rampant across Sokh, that place would be their salvation from the perverse pandemonium brought by slaaneshi marauders.
Within the basement, the cultists have already prepared the ritual: A bloody summoning circle adorned the floor, surrounded by candles and intricate constelation of runes. Fragrant smell of burning incense completed the sacral impression of the place. Wise One thoroughly inspected the ritual site. Nothing could be left to an accident. Should the delicate process of summoning be distrupted by faulty runes or misspoken incantation, the howling hordes of Slaanesh would be the least of their worries.
„The time has come. Take your places around the circle, as I taught you.” - Wise One ordered his acolytes. - „The Whisperer will be your salvation from the ruin to come.”
„My lord.” - one of the acolytes spoke out as the rest made their way to their predestined spots one the runic symbols. - „The fire and blood are here, but where is flesh for the offering?”
The sage answered - „Lord Tzeentch shall provide us with flesh to offer.”
Within the realm of Ulthuan a lone figure meditated amongst the burning ruins of once beautiful asur town. Her druchii companions have already pillaged the place from all that is worth and the locals were dragged away as slaves for Malekith’s war machine. Now only the one, blind human witch accompanying Kar Khadath’s forces remained, kneeling in front of a broken foutain. A large, avian skull rested on the wall in front of her.
„We’re slaying these elven fools without rhyme or reason. The fragment I’ve dreamed of is nowhere to be found.” - Svaena Voidspeaker broke the silence - „Are we to scour the entirety of Ulthuan, hoping for a change of winds?”
„Patience, girl.” - the daemon’s words ringed within Svaena’s head - „The sorceress and her minions will take us futher into the land, as long as they think you useful. Another chance to venture that deep into the asur teritory might not repeat itself for years.”
The witch narrowed her mouth, turning her blindfolded face towards once beautiful square, now covered with ash and decomposing corpses.
„I hope you are right, old friend. We...”
Before Svaena could finish, a sudden pain stung her in the chest, forcing the feeble woman onto her knees. It was as if the flames of hated Sigmar were lit within her, searing the bone and consuming the flesh.
„What is this… Who dares?!” - Whisperer’s voice boomed furiously. The daemon must have felt his host’s affliction. Despite desperate efforts, Svaena could not bring herself to cast a smallest cantrip. To the power of True Name, she was as powerless as her infernal companion.
To speak the daemon’s name and survive, was to bind it to one’s will. The spawns of Chaos would do their best to obscure it from anyone’s knowledge. While names of lesser creatures were easy to learn and exploit, to recite a name of more powerful daemon was to challenge it’s might itself. Wise One knew it, as one by one his acolytes began to fall around him. Their tongues burning and their flesh torn asunder by the dark energies of Chaos. Time was running short, as the hosts of Slaanesh have already broken through the city walls. Ritual’s sheer interference within the Winds of Magic would soon lure them into the inn. Finally, a faint outline of Whisperer’s pathetic skull began to manifest itself within the ritual circle. The acolytes have served their purpose. Once the ritual was completed, one of them was to become the daemon’s new master. Shame they wouldn’t have much time left to enjoy it.
Wise One turned to the stairs and left his remaining servants alone in the basement. As he ascended, his hunched back straightened, accompanied by snaps and cracks of bones. His saggy, ragged robe transformed into an elegant doublet and a pair of blue, woolen pants. At last, a feathered hat materialised on top of his head. The once presumed Wise One pushed the inn doors open as if they were never opened and disappeared amidst chaos on the streets.
It wouldn’t take long before a band of marauders stumbled upon the inn on their path of carnage. Howling and laughing, they broke inside. Seeing no living soul on the ground floor, they made their way into the basement. Where they expected huddling civilians, the warriors found the remaining acolytes, feeble and drained by the ritual.
„Look what we have here, brothers! Featherless ravens!” - one of the hulking norscans laughed out cheerfully, playing with his bloodied sword. His pitch-black eyes were staring at the prey hungrily.
„Pathetic imperials. They won’t even do as entertainment” - one woman among the marauders walked closer to the circle, looking around for any worthy spoils. - „Don’t waste time on them. There are far better playthings still hiding from us.”
The statement seemed to be shared by rest of the band and the acolytes met a surprisingly merciful demise. One by one, their heads fell down from their necks, chopped by norscan axes. Once the last of them was slaughtered, the ghostly image of the daemonic avian skull fully materialised itself within the circle. The summoning was complete, and as the Wise One promised, Lord Tzeentch provided flesh for the offering.
„Look what they have here. This will be a fine gift for Lord Erling” - the female marauder noticed the skull and stepped into the bloody circle to retrieve it. As she held the intricately runed object up, grinning wickedly, a sudden surge of magic poured from it upon her, causing the woman to stumble.
„What… What is this…? Gods!” - she managed to shout out before piercing pain spread itself across her entire body. Surprised by their companion’s sudden situation, rest of the marauders stepped back towards the stairs, content on watching what fate befalls her. The woman’s blonde hair quickly blackened until it reached the dark colour of raven’s feather. Her spine cracked, forcing her town to a slight hunch. Even her proudly exposed muscles diminished, giving her a much slimmer figure. As she screamed in agony, her voice became hoarse and deeper. Final burst of change forced the marauder down on the floor as her face distorted to fit a new shape. At the very end, the colour of her eyes shifted from aluring green to pale and cold blue. The woman let out a whimper and passed out once the pain subsided.
From the far reaches of Ulthuan, Svaena Voidspeaker has found herself once more among the tribes.
Amidst all that chaos, a grarled man made his way to a long closed tavern. Although abandoned by it’s owner as soon as the news of marching norscan broke out, now the establishment was guarded by two armed men. Despite their threatening demanour they let the crooked stranger through before going in themselves to barricade the door.
„Have you done all as I asked?” - the hunchback spoke out in a raspy voice.
„Wise One, everything is ready and waiting.” - the bodyguard responded, inclining his hand towards the basement stairs.
Wise One, as they called him descended down to the tavern’s basement. What once served as place of relief and revelry for the common folk has now been repurposed for the cult’s needs. While the armies of Chaos would run rampant across Sokh, that place would be their salvation from the perverse pandemonium brought by slaaneshi marauders.
Within the basement, the cultists have already prepared the ritual: A bloody summoning circle adorned the floor, surrounded by candles and intricate constelation of runes. Fragrant smell of burning incense completed the sacral impression of the place. Wise One thoroughly inspected the ritual site. Nothing could be left to an accident. Should the delicate process of summoning be distrupted by faulty runes or misspoken incantation, the howling hordes of Slaanesh would be the least of their worries.
„The time has come. Take your places around the circle, as I taught you.” - Wise One ordered his acolytes. - „The Whisperer will be your salvation from the ruin to come.”
„My lord.” - one of the acolytes spoke out as the rest made their way to their predestined spots one the runic symbols. - „The fire and blood are here, but where is flesh for the offering?”
The sage answered - „Lord Tzeentch shall provide us with flesh to offer.”
Within the realm of Ulthuan a lone figure meditated amongst the burning ruins of once beautiful asur town. Her druchii companions have already pillaged the place from all that is worth and the locals were dragged away as slaves for Malekith’s war machine. Now only the one, blind human witch accompanying Kar Khadath’s forces remained, kneeling in front of a broken foutain. A large, avian skull rested on the wall in front of her.
„We’re slaying these elven fools without rhyme or reason. The fragment I’ve dreamed of is nowhere to be found.” - Svaena Voidspeaker broke the silence - „Are we to scour the entirety of Ulthuan, hoping for a change of winds?”
„Patience, girl.” - the daemon’s words ringed within Svaena’s head - „The sorceress and her minions will take us futher into the land, as long as they think you useful. Another chance to venture that deep into the asur teritory might not repeat itself for years.”
The witch narrowed her mouth, turning her blindfolded face towards once beautiful square, now covered with ash and decomposing corpses.
„I hope you are right, old friend. We...”
Before Svaena could finish, a sudden pain stung her in the chest, forcing the feeble woman onto her knees. It was as if the flames of hated Sigmar were lit within her, searing the bone and consuming the flesh.
„What is this… Who dares?!” - Whisperer’s voice boomed furiously. The daemon must have felt his host’s affliction. Despite desperate efforts, Svaena could not bring herself to cast a smallest cantrip. To the power of True Name, she was as powerless as her infernal companion.
To speak the daemon’s name and survive, was to bind it to one’s will. The spawns of Chaos would do their best to obscure it from anyone’s knowledge. While names of lesser creatures were easy to learn and exploit, to recite a name of more powerful daemon was to challenge it’s might itself. Wise One knew it, as one by one his acolytes began to fall around him. Their tongues burning and their flesh torn asunder by the dark energies of Chaos. Time was running short, as the hosts of Slaanesh have already broken through the city walls. Ritual’s sheer interference within the Winds of Magic would soon lure them into the inn. Finally, a faint outline of Whisperer’s pathetic skull began to manifest itself within the ritual circle. The acolytes have served their purpose. Once the ritual was completed, one of them was to become the daemon’s new master. Shame they wouldn’t have much time left to enjoy it.
Wise One turned to the stairs and left his remaining servants alone in the basement. As he ascended, his hunched back straightened, accompanied by snaps and cracks of bones. His saggy, ragged robe transformed into an elegant doublet and a pair of blue, woolen pants. At last, a feathered hat materialised on top of his head. The once presumed Wise One pushed the inn doors open as if they were never opened and disappeared amidst chaos on the streets.
It wouldn’t take long before a band of marauders stumbled upon the inn on their path of carnage. Howling and laughing, they broke inside. Seeing no living soul on the ground floor, they made their way into the basement. Where they expected huddling civilians, the warriors found the remaining acolytes, feeble and drained by the ritual.
„Look what we have here, brothers! Featherless ravens!” - one of the hulking norscans laughed out cheerfully, playing with his bloodied sword. His pitch-black eyes were staring at the prey hungrily.
„Pathetic imperials. They won’t even do as entertainment” - one woman among the marauders walked closer to the circle, looking around for any worthy spoils. - „Don’t waste time on them. There are far better playthings still hiding from us.”
The statement seemed to be shared by rest of the band and the acolytes met a surprisingly merciful demise. One by one, their heads fell down from their necks, chopped by norscan axes. Once the last of them was slaughtered, the ghostly image of the daemonic avian skull fully materialised itself within the circle. The summoning was complete, and as the Wise One promised, Lord Tzeentch provided flesh for the offering.
„Look what they have here. This will be a fine gift for Lord Erling” - the female marauder noticed the skull and stepped into the bloody circle to retrieve it. As she held the intricately runed object up, grinning wickedly, a sudden surge of magic poured from it upon her, causing the woman to stumble.
„What… What is this…? Gods!” - she managed to shout out before piercing pain spread itself across her entire body. Surprised by their companion’s sudden situation, rest of the marauders stepped back towards the stairs, content on watching what fate befalls her. The woman’s blonde hair quickly blackened until it reached the dark colour of raven’s feather. Her spine cracked, forcing her town to a slight hunch. Even her proudly exposed muscles diminished, giving her a much slimmer figure. As she screamed in agony, her voice became hoarse and deeper. Final burst of change forced the marauder down on the floor as her face distorted to fit a new shape. At the very end, the colour of her eyes shifted from aluring green to pale and cold blue. The woman let out a whimper and passed out once the pain subsided.
From the far reaches of Ulthuan, Svaena Voidspeaker has found herself once more among the tribes.