Post by Khaine on Dec 1, 2019 20:00:43 GMT
The brilliance of the morning sun reflected upon the raised fist of the warlord, blinding for a moment all those who had gathered for war. This movement signaled the beginning of the campaign against Sokh, given by Erling as he mounted his palanquin of flesh in the courtyard of the Brass Keep.
The living mount was a testament to the craft of the tyrant. A charnel chariot of slaves, warriors, and discarded consorts, their bodies fused together in joined servitude. Limbs replaced by wicked blades and golden chains hooked into blind eyes, goading them into sadistic rage even as they drove forth the great construct. It was a sea of decadence, upon whose shores all would surely drown. However, the siren call of its aroused and pleading voices provided little more than entertainment to its master, who sat astride it imperiously.
The time had come, he thought. As it was etched, in prophesy, upon the very foot of the ivory throne of Slaanesh himself upon its making. As it was foreseen by wisemen, in feverish premonitions, the day that he was born. As it was written in the ruins of the very womb that had birthed him, as he tore his way out of its prison. And now, finally, as it was joyously declared by the unfurling of the flesh-banners of Brass Keep, and by the mellow whining of the trumpets that heralded his coming. Indeed, the time had finally come.
His mind returned to the present, as the sea of men, women, and beasts began flooding out of the courtyard and upon the mountain paths that would lead them, howling and baying, to Sokh. Without a word, his fleshborne steed too started to lumber forth, slowly making its way toward the doomed city.
A cannon ball whirred past him, crashing into the ranks of his marauders and evaporating their innards into bloody mist. His catapults answered in kind, unleashing a hail of stone towards the walls. A lucky throw destroyed one of the bastions; stonework, bodies, and a cannon falling to their doom below. Screams filled the air, a sweet cacophony that gladdened the heart of the warlord. It had been too long since battle was last met, and this would be as grand as any. Even though he had had little actual rest the night before – the rituals performed to curry the favor of the Prince had lasted long into the night – he was feeling as strong and lithe as ever, the power of his patron welling inside him, goading him to victory.
But it seemed that this victory would not be as simple as he had thought. Sokh was surrounded by walls of thick stone, and the town was prepared for assault. Farmers on the outskirts of the town had revealed that there were rumors of strange folk abroad, even as far in as Middenheim, which was why much of the population had already taken refuge behind the walls even before they arrived. It mattered not, of course, as their bodies would be added to the charnel pits and the flesh totems of victory, when the siege was over, and the Serpent had had His day.
More cannonballs flew past, as a single champion broke rank and headed towards the great gate.
The battle inside the town was fierce and raged all around. The air reeked of gunpowder, overpowered only by the stench of spilled innards. Fire consumed what it could, filling the streets with smoke. Through it, and under its cover, the great flesh-beast crawled towards the heart of the city, flanked by the warlord’s chosen few. Some members of his elite had gone on to lead assaults of their own, targeting points of vital interest. However, Erling’s own golden eyes had only one target in site: the central keep, where the flag of Middenland yet flew proudly, and from whence the commander of the city’s forces oversaw its defence. It would be upon that precipice that the fate of that land would be decided.
As the black heart of his army made its way ever onward, Erling stood at the pinnacle of his palpitating flesh-throne. He was as a god of old, his naked flesh, where it was not covered in daemonic plate or opulent fur, gleaming colourfully as the light of the fires fell upon it. Directing the power of the Serpent wherever the battle was thickest, he wielded his spellcraft masterfully in grand displays, casting the defenders into euphoria, enrapturing spasms, or even turning them against each other as his own hordes fell upon them, delivering the final blows through the radiant lights. At his foot, his mount and chosen fought off those who would strike against him.
These slaughtered all who wandered close, decimating unit after unit that attempted to arrest their advance. The graceful swings of the chosen decapitated foes in perfect synchronicity, while the flesh construct consumed or slew all in its path, luring its foes close with whispers of seduction and moans promising decadent pleasures. As the Serpent’s power waxed, the town devolved further and further into anarchy. Finally, the procession arrived before the central keep.
At the battlements above, an imposing figure showed itself. Clad in ornate steel plate, and wearing a stylish feathered hat, the well-groomed man stared below, his brow furrowed. “I see the northern scum have not been purged from my streets…” said the Lord Castellan to an invisible man behind him, “No matter. I will take care of this myself.”
Disgust was painted on his face as his eye falls upon the great abomination that now lurked below his walls, upon which stood the obvious author of his city’s plight. The brown eyes of the noble locked with the mocking, hungry golden orbs of the sorcerous barbarian, but he spoke no words. Instead, he brings his fist down swiftly, a hail of crossbow bolts, arrows and gunfire erupting from the central tower and showering the invaders below. Two of Erling’s chosen fell dead on the spot, struck in the weak points of their heavy plate, but the sorcerer himself was shielded by the rising tide of interlocking bodies that obeyed his command. He points towards the keep’s pinnacle, and the beast moves forward, crawling upwards like a colossal centipede. Fire thundered from the keep, slaying many of those enslaved to the construct, but the bodies of those struck are merely unbound from the whole, falling limp and drained to their final deaths below.
Below, the chosen put ram to gate, as they sought to penetrate the final layer of the city’s defence. While some fell to the gunfire, their numbers were being continually bolstered as fighting in other parts of the city concluded, releasing more of the tribesmen to join the final assault. Finally, the crawling horror crested the highest tower, the first of the bodies squirming hungrily forward to be the ones who first feast on the noble’s sweet and scented flesh. But the moment the sorcerer came into sight, the Castellan’s guards put flame to powder, igniting a cannon that had only been seen by the mindless flesh-slaves of the great construct. Realization dawned in the golden eyes of the northman, as the cannon ball hurled itself through the air, crashing through his prized creation and casting it backwards. At the last moment, he leaped forward, gaining purchase upon the old stones of the keep with his working hand. He looks down, watching the swarm of pleasure-addled slaves tumble down into the ruined city.
Pulling himself up, he took a moment to catch his breath, before addressing the commander: “Joseph… It has been a long time.”
The man narrowed his eyes, looking left and right to his bodyguards, who assumed a defensive stance, unwilling to go against the gigantic and terrible man. “Am I supposed to recognize you, barbarian?”
“You can drop the act now, old friend. The witch hunters won’t have an interest in you, once I am done here. Or have you truly forgotten me..?” he asked, his form seeming to slightly shift, from terrifying barbarian to a more civilized version of himself, his elongated and unnatural razor-toothed maw receding, leaving behind a beautiful young man. “How about now?” he chuckled.
The old man’s eyes widened, and terror seemed to take hold of him: “Asterius?!”
“Yes… I was called that once.” said the sorcerer, moving lithely towards him. The guards brandished their halberds, but with a sorcerous command, they instead headed, ensorcelled, towards the edges of the terrace, casting themselves below, “One of many names,” he added. The Castellan now began to panic: “But the witch hunters took you… all those years ago…” he said, walking backwards, until his back was against the ledge.
“Something you and Salazar did little to obstruct, if memory serves. Still, their company was amusing, for a while at least. However, you could not expect that I would not return to take what is mine?” said Erling, who had now reached the terrified man. With his working hand, he caressed his cheek lightly, the black snake beginning to slither out of his armour and around his arm, making its way to the man, who now began to tremble. “Please…” he begged, his knees buckling beneath him. But he was held up by the warlord, who now assumed his heinous form once more.
“Where is the blade?” he asked, as he tightened his grip around the man’s throat. The serpent slithered towards him as well, but stopped at the end of Erling’s gauntlet, and rose up, hissing. “He stole it from me! It was his idea to report you as well! Do you not see that he betrayed us both?!” spouted the man, even now trying to escape his fast approaching fate: “Please, do not kill me…”
“Kill you?” cackled the sorcerer. From below, the sounds of fighting in the Keep began to die down, the heavy, iron-shod boots of northmen clanging up the flights of stairs to the highest balcony. As the door flew open, the serpent struck twice, taking the old man’s eyes. The warlord threw his limp, yet heavy, steel-clad body to the feet of his men. “As promised, I deliver you Sokh” he cried to them, waving his arm towards the city theatrically. They in turn hasten to raise the flesh banners upon the fallen keep’s battlements, even as the maimed man is dragged off into the depths. The sorcerer puts one foot upon the battlements, raising his golden fist towards the sky, howling in victory. Beneath, the victorious hordes chant joyously, as they head off to find their own debauchery: “ER-LING! ER-LING! ER-LING!”
The living mount was a testament to the craft of the tyrant. A charnel chariot of slaves, warriors, and discarded consorts, their bodies fused together in joined servitude. Limbs replaced by wicked blades and golden chains hooked into blind eyes, goading them into sadistic rage even as they drove forth the great construct. It was a sea of decadence, upon whose shores all would surely drown. However, the siren call of its aroused and pleading voices provided little more than entertainment to its master, who sat astride it imperiously.
The time had come, he thought. As it was etched, in prophesy, upon the very foot of the ivory throne of Slaanesh himself upon its making. As it was foreseen by wisemen, in feverish premonitions, the day that he was born. As it was written in the ruins of the very womb that had birthed him, as he tore his way out of its prison. And now, finally, as it was joyously declared by the unfurling of the flesh-banners of Brass Keep, and by the mellow whining of the trumpets that heralded his coming. Indeed, the time had finally come.
His mind returned to the present, as the sea of men, women, and beasts began flooding out of the courtyard and upon the mountain paths that would lead them, howling and baying, to Sokh. Without a word, his fleshborne steed too started to lumber forth, slowly making its way toward the doomed city.
A cannon ball whirred past him, crashing into the ranks of his marauders and evaporating their innards into bloody mist. His catapults answered in kind, unleashing a hail of stone towards the walls. A lucky throw destroyed one of the bastions; stonework, bodies, and a cannon falling to their doom below. Screams filled the air, a sweet cacophony that gladdened the heart of the warlord. It had been too long since battle was last met, and this would be as grand as any. Even though he had had little actual rest the night before – the rituals performed to curry the favor of the Prince had lasted long into the night – he was feeling as strong and lithe as ever, the power of his patron welling inside him, goading him to victory.
But it seemed that this victory would not be as simple as he had thought. Sokh was surrounded by walls of thick stone, and the town was prepared for assault. Farmers on the outskirts of the town had revealed that there were rumors of strange folk abroad, even as far in as Middenheim, which was why much of the population had already taken refuge behind the walls even before they arrived. It mattered not, of course, as their bodies would be added to the charnel pits and the flesh totems of victory, when the siege was over, and the Serpent had had His day.
More cannonballs flew past, as a single champion broke rank and headed towards the great gate.
The battle inside the town was fierce and raged all around. The air reeked of gunpowder, overpowered only by the stench of spilled innards. Fire consumed what it could, filling the streets with smoke. Through it, and under its cover, the great flesh-beast crawled towards the heart of the city, flanked by the warlord’s chosen few. Some members of his elite had gone on to lead assaults of their own, targeting points of vital interest. However, Erling’s own golden eyes had only one target in site: the central keep, where the flag of Middenland yet flew proudly, and from whence the commander of the city’s forces oversaw its defence. It would be upon that precipice that the fate of that land would be decided.
As the black heart of his army made its way ever onward, Erling stood at the pinnacle of his palpitating flesh-throne. He was as a god of old, his naked flesh, where it was not covered in daemonic plate or opulent fur, gleaming colourfully as the light of the fires fell upon it. Directing the power of the Serpent wherever the battle was thickest, he wielded his spellcraft masterfully in grand displays, casting the defenders into euphoria, enrapturing spasms, or even turning them against each other as his own hordes fell upon them, delivering the final blows through the radiant lights. At his foot, his mount and chosen fought off those who would strike against him.
These slaughtered all who wandered close, decimating unit after unit that attempted to arrest their advance. The graceful swings of the chosen decapitated foes in perfect synchronicity, while the flesh construct consumed or slew all in its path, luring its foes close with whispers of seduction and moans promising decadent pleasures. As the Serpent’s power waxed, the town devolved further and further into anarchy. Finally, the procession arrived before the central keep.
At the battlements above, an imposing figure showed itself. Clad in ornate steel plate, and wearing a stylish feathered hat, the well-groomed man stared below, his brow furrowed. “I see the northern scum have not been purged from my streets…” said the Lord Castellan to an invisible man behind him, “No matter. I will take care of this myself.”
Disgust was painted on his face as his eye falls upon the great abomination that now lurked below his walls, upon which stood the obvious author of his city’s plight. The brown eyes of the noble locked with the mocking, hungry golden orbs of the sorcerous barbarian, but he spoke no words. Instead, he brings his fist down swiftly, a hail of crossbow bolts, arrows and gunfire erupting from the central tower and showering the invaders below. Two of Erling’s chosen fell dead on the spot, struck in the weak points of their heavy plate, but the sorcerer himself was shielded by the rising tide of interlocking bodies that obeyed his command. He points towards the keep’s pinnacle, and the beast moves forward, crawling upwards like a colossal centipede. Fire thundered from the keep, slaying many of those enslaved to the construct, but the bodies of those struck are merely unbound from the whole, falling limp and drained to their final deaths below.
Below, the chosen put ram to gate, as they sought to penetrate the final layer of the city’s defence. While some fell to the gunfire, their numbers were being continually bolstered as fighting in other parts of the city concluded, releasing more of the tribesmen to join the final assault. Finally, the crawling horror crested the highest tower, the first of the bodies squirming hungrily forward to be the ones who first feast on the noble’s sweet and scented flesh. But the moment the sorcerer came into sight, the Castellan’s guards put flame to powder, igniting a cannon that had only been seen by the mindless flesh-slaves of the great construct. Realization dawned in the golden eyes of the northman, as the cannon ball hurled itself through the air, crashing through his prized creation and casting it backwards. At the last moment, he leaped forward, gaining purchase upon the old stones of the keep with his working hand. He looks down, watching the swarm of pleasure-addled slaves tumble down into the ruined city.
Pulling himself up, he took a moment to catch his breath, before addressing the commander: “Joseph… It has been a long time.”
The man narrowed his eyes, looking left and right to his bodyguards, who assumed a defensive stance, unwilling to go against the gigantic and terrible man. “Am I supposed to recognize you, barbarian?”
“You can drop the act now, old friend. The witch hunters won’t have an interest in you, once I am done here. Or have you truly forgotten me..?” he asked, his form seeming to slightly shift, from terrifying barbarian to a more civilized version of himself, his elongated and unnatural razor-toothed maw receding, leaving behind a beautiful young man. “How about now?” he chuckled.
The old man’s eyes widened, and terror seemed to take hold of him: “Asterius?!”
“Yes… I was called that once.” said the sorcerer, moving lithely towards him. The guards brandished their halberds, but with a sorcerous command, they instead headed, ensorcelled, towards the edges of the terrace, casting themselves below, “One of many names,” he added. The Castellan now began to panic: “But the witch hunters took you… all those years ago…” he said, walking backwards, until his back was against the ledge.
“Something you and Salazar did little to obstruct, if memory serves. Still, their company was amusing, for a while at least. However, you could not expect that I would not return to take what is mine?” said Erling, who had now reached the terrified man. With his working hand, he caressed his cheek lightly, the black snake beginning to slither out of his armour and around his arm, making its way to the man, who now began to tremble. “Please…” he begged, his knees buckling beneath him. But he was held up by the warlord, who now assumed his heinous form once more.
“Where is the blade?” he asked, as he tightened his grip around the man’s throat. The serpent slithered towards him as well, but stopped at the end of Erling’s gauntlet, and rose up, hissing. “He stole it from me! It was his idea to report you as well! Do you not see that he betrayed us both?!” spouted the man, even now trying to escape his fast approaching fate: “Please, do not kill me…”
“Kill you?” cackled the sorcerer. From below, the sounds of fighting in the Keep began to die down, the heavy, iron-shod boots of northmen clanging up the flights of stairs to the highest balcony. As the door flew open, the serpent struck twice, taking the old man’s eyes. The warlord threw his limp, yet heavy, steel-clad body to the feet of his men. “As promised, I deliver you Sokh” he cried to them, waving his arm towards the city theatrically. They in turn hasten to raise the flesh banners upon the fallen keep’s battlements, even as the maimed man is dragged off into the depths. The sorcerer puts one foot upon the battlements, raising his golden fist towards the sky, howling in victory. Beneath, the victorious hordes chant joyously, as they head off to find their own debauchery: “ER-LING! ER-LING! ER-LING!”