Return of Reckoning

I love the fan-fictions you folks have been sharing recently! I've been writing about my Shadow Warrior Freya since around 2009 (ongoing even now) and I thought I'd share those of her stories I could here. While not set in the time of RoR, this gruesome glimpse into Freya's twisted life comes with the unholy blessings of one of my wonderful writing partners. Be warned though, nothing good ever comes out of Sylvania...



What’s a Little Blood Between Fiends?


The foul serpent consumed her greedily as the battle unfolded before her eyes, wrapping her in its prickly scales and scalding her skin with a tainted mist that roiled beneath her skin and boiled her blood. Ageless custom dictated she abide the Margrave of Eichenwalde's request that she enjoy the display of prowess he wished to court her with, but her battle lust wanted no part of such a lonely forum and tamping down her desire to join in the battle was nearing impossible to resist. The massive sword came into her hand almost too easily, as though the copper blade had been drawn to her of its own accord, the leather laces that had contained it undone themselves in its desire for her touch. A tense whisper drifted off her lips; “Khadat eyl entho Drachau Eichenwalde.” [By your word Lord of Eichenwalde] The sweet scent of blood bloomed to complete the picture as she painted the entire length of the blade crimson in a single long stroke across her palm; the corroded runes upon the copper blade flared into gruesome life as they sipped at her sacrifice and offered a brackish glow in return. The dueling vampire’s growled hungrily at her submission to the fray, bringing a dark smirk of inane pleasure to her lips as she slicked the massive blade’s two handed grip with blood. The keen edge held before her glinted with a foul taint seeming to writhe and undulate with a faint crackling hiss of contained power as crimson rivulets seeped from between her delicate fingers, running down her pale hands and the heavy contrast of the black pommel to drip onto the table; mixing with the spilled wine in varied shades of crimson rain and driving the battle before her to a frenzy pitch.

“You have merely to say the word Drachau,” she purred, an intense hunger tainting her voice and teasing with its dual implications. Even as much as it rankled her that she was now compelled to follow his wishes, to merely watch in spite of the foul venom that consumed her to the point of pain, so too would the Drachau share her irritation. Perhaps it was a rash decision given the hunger he’d politely suppressed before the undead assassin’s unexpected arrival she mused in hindsight, but it was too late; she had bound herself to her host’s wishes, her frail sense of honor might not stop her, but the pact with the foul demon blade would. Rather like putting a sheath on a blade, twisting her flaws to control her blood lust was nothing new, but binding that blood lust to another person's word was disgraceful ... Nay, uncomfortable. She couldn’t help herself, the pitch of True Dhar before her was far too alluring to control herself. It would do your plans with him no good to have you lapping at his throat with your fawning. The blade hissed softly in her mind, tauntingly, like a soft caress that promised a reward for betrayals; its power snared her, drew her arms in close to her body, the thick fold of unsharpened copper at the foul swords base pressed to her nose as her tongue came out to curl around one of the thick spikes designed to smash joints and bore holes into skulls on the back swing. It was both unbecoming and odd, but she didn’t particularly care at the moment; she was lost in the now fully unbridled power swirling around the inn - her defenses to the foul blades perverse amusements were weak. The sword’s tip fell gracefully away from her face; twisting and turning in a smooth arc as though it weighed no more than a feather, the copper blade fluttering through the air like a wisp of cloth. Again her tongue stretched out, this time to lap a hungry stroke from the pommel and up through the rivulets of blood that escaped between her fingers. The foul daemon was quite keen to tempt the vampires to turn on her in Blutrausch - that only heightened the thrill for her.

Chaos winds swirled around her like a blanket, lifting her strawberry hair and rustling the pure white feathers of her cloak; her eyes went dreamy, sparked with clearly detached intentions as her hand came to her throat, releasing the clasp of her cloak and letting it slide unceremoniously to the floor, red dots painting her throat as her hand returned to its hold on the blade. She shook her head sharply, struggling to keep her focus on her perilous surroundings and shake off the sirens call of the daemon to divest herself of her protective runes. With effort the blade began to swing back to the ready, seeming far heavier, far more solid. Blue grey eyes hardened, her arrogant will bending the blade into a soft arc of resistance under her command; a soft ping sounding out as the tip finally snapped into place and victory gleamed in her eyes. This was her blade to command, it was hers and hers alone until she discarded it! The obsessive determined thoughts drifted through her mind even as she watched the Margrave’s would-be assassin in white. The blade runes pulsed faintly, trying a new tact; drawing her eyes to the gleaming silver blade that had impaled his hand in the trade of blows… her hand. Her brows furrowed a bit at the planted idea. It was true she would like to wield him. She shook her head. He was no weapon, nor slave… it was a partnership! The sword laughed, a soft hissing that quivered the copper length; her shoulders folded against each other again uncomfortably at the burning, writhing, aching itch of the scared mark between her shoulder blades. Her hand… Chaos whirlwinds swirled tighter, constricting and confining her thoughts; it was her hand… Anger flared, violent and vicious, tightening her grip on the sword and squeezing out a sudden gush of blood that wept to the table in a long stream.

“Say the word Drachau, I’ll carve her for our plates,” she snarled, her voice carrying a dark fury that lilted into highlights and rumbled growls in the lows. Her hand… Not just his hand, you could have all of him. Determination flushed the chaos winds around her at the idea, thickening the mists that swirled off her heated skin. Her hands shifted on the grip of her blade, the cut on her palm quickly painting her tongue in another thick coat of blood before clasping the dusky blade from her boot. The light was drawn from her surroundings as her fingers curled around it, black ribbons lacing her body beneath the purple mist as the dagger came to bare. This whelp in white would taste her vengeance, she was a distraction that had blundered into their pleasant meal… an appetizer, of sorts. She laughed aloud at the daemon’s addition, giving a hungry growl as the shadows swallowed her in their dark embrace. Her thoughts spiraled inward on the girlish face, dipping lower to her throat; the ebon blade spun in her fingers, flickering the shadowy cloak around her before settling into position for downward thrust into the soft flesh at the base of her throat, then shifted again to a backhanded position that could curl the girls throat from behind. The demon blade tilted sideways like a feather in her other hand, a forward thrust between the ribs, the spikey nubs could break her spine so deliciously on the heel of its penetration. The string was pulled taut, she had her target, he merely needed to release the string… Thrumming with anticipation she silently waited for his word, determination and fury keening her, desire and need fueling the Chaos that tightened their swirls around her lithe form like wispy armor, seeping into her to essence ready to be crushed and compacted under her will.

Release me. The silent words were repeated like a mantra in her mind, winding her up like a siege repeater; click… click… click… each repeat a notch that increased the tension and drew Dhar winds into her like a thirsty sponge, the Chaos taint seeping in on its heels and twitching her nerves with its seductive caresses. Her brows furrowed against the venomous kiss, a low continuous growl of denial answering the blades echoed requests, tempting her to grant her own desires; she may have pledged /herself/ to her hosts word, but Y’Ganth was bound only to hers… Release me. The dueling mantra continued. Shyish wisps shadowed the blue of her eyes painting the daemon’s retracted view of the scene – her battlefield. She could kill all of them. Feckless zombies stumbled around like disjointed pawns, intent on forward movement, but lacking the wherewithal to move as a cohesive unit; bumbling into each other in their mindless efforts to reach the Margrave. So many targets to choose from, but the white blur held most of her focus, lunging, twisting, and lurching from spot to spot with unnatural speed; the daemon hissing that he could catch her. Freya’s lip curled up in a silent snarl of rejection. Her target, her prey, her blood. She’d seen this type of movement, the witch hunters had similar abilities and she’d bled plenty of them. This assassin seemed to call upon a different vein, the feel of it was slightly Qhaysh in nature but despoiled and tainted with Dhar, perhaps the assassin could harness any of the winds, twisting them to her own designs. Regardless of what the girl controls I could easily tear it from her… Freya growled possessively at the fangs injecting the thought, her lips drawn back to expose her teeth for a brief moment; this was her kill, her blood, her feast.

The Margrave craned his neck as the toxic edge of sliver just traced the skin at his waist. Despite the fact that her opposing blade was still embedded in his flesh and the shallow cut in his shoulder bled little. Not as it truly should. The childe was forced a step forward by his pull on her blade, although the distance he'd gained in light of trying to avoid the other swift blade negated those gains. She was akin to living quicksilver. Not to mention very well trained. The talons of his left hand coiled to tear deep furrows across the waif's pretty face. She read the movement easily enough. The silvered knife went upraised to her side then shot forth like a viper at his side. The Margrave gave a sneer that made his face the thing of nightmares as he twisted his hand, tearing muscle and scraping bone across metal as the weapon was wrenched from her grasp. A step back as he leaned forward. He couldn't quite move fast enough to avoid her blade entirely. Another line of brackish crimson across his belly. But in retribution did his claws tear open the sleeve of her arm and wrist. There was a few drops of dark blood that painted his sharpened nails, and a few precious more here and there upon the floor. The assassin seemed to take only a step, but moved ten feet in an instant. The ranks of zombies now began to shuffle forward with her. Another flash of white as the girl charged him. His hand drew forth the knife embedded in its opposite number to slice through the air before him. Somehow. Somehow she had changed the direction of her momentum to the left, well ahead of his swing. By the time he'd reached his terminus and tried to twist his body away from her blade, the weapon was rapidly approaching the general location of his liver. His free hand's talons came down as he tried to pulp her head. Another shallow cut brushed against his back. Then her dress whirled about her like a dervish as that envenomed blade tore through the Achilles' tendon on his left leg. The Margrave’s frustration bubbled through his teeth as he collapsed backwards.

Damn her. Blood red suede drew along the bench she had risen from some distant seeming age ago, her calf slid against the wood as her toes curled around its edge; release me. She was no longer sure if it was her thought or the demon’s, but they might well have been one and the same. Click… click… click… He is waiting too long. He did her no good dead... Maybe he hadn’t heard her offer? Maybe he had forgotten about her in the heat of battle? Are you going to stand here and let him die when we could end this? The question paused her thoughts, the room seeming to freeze for a brief second; an almost silent chortle breaking her monotonous low growl. He’s already dead. Amusement flashed across her features at her answer to the daemon’s needling - and lit abruptly by the green hued fire that engulfed the white clothed woman. "Für mein Atem ist meine Leidenschaft!" The necromancer breathed out as he mixed Dhar with the Wind of Fire. Flames burst forth from his lips, a gout of green and scarlet like the dragons of yore. A heavy smirk of appreciation pulled her lips at the girls shrill scream of pain. A series of boards that made up the wall buckled as the girl in white impacted them. She'd dived in order to save what remained of her unlife. The pretty dress she wore was all aflame with tainted fire as she struggled to tear free from the garments, cutting large strips of flaming cloth. "Cut her as you like, mein lieber. Leave her head. I have need to see who wishes me dead." His chuckle as he arose on the heels of his cast was a vindication of her hold, and the exultation of the sweet musical scream turned the tides against the demon’s seductive draw.

“I thought we’d agreed meat was better uncooked Drachau,” she spoke breathlessly on the heels of his command… Nay, his allowance. "If she were still amongst the living, I would have certainly preferred her fresh and uncooked. But I thought that you might prefer dead meat cooked some, Frau Freya. T'would be most embarrassing as the host, if you were to sicken from my serving you spoil'd meat." The Margrave had a point… The shuffling horde had turned now, milling around to protect the assassin as she attempted to free herself of the arcane flames. The chaos snake stretched luxuriously at the frantic exposure of weakened pale flesh; her flesh, her blood, her snack. “Lathain!” Freya’s sharp command was flung from her lips like a vile dagger, Dhar rushing forward in a tornado of pitch black blades that ripped through the rotten flesh and crumbling bones in a cacophony of sickening sound. The bench shot backward from the force of her launch over the table, the frayed ancient black and silver banner on her bow arm offering a crisp snapping salute before clattering to the floor and slipping beneath the bench with a few hollow thumps against the elegant curved arms. Shadow’s consumed her lithe form as though they had inhaled her, only to belch her forth in an eruption of silver and red glimpses within the pitch whirlwind’s center. The path wasn’t completely cleared by her foul cast, but the fire lit white robe was so near she could feel it’s heat; her mouth salivated at her audible whiffs of singed flesh, bubbling like the freshly fed Hag’s cauldrons. Her ebon blade found a leathery sheath ambling in her path, hilting into the creatures shoulder with a scrape of bone and a tearing sound like paper as it plunged deeper still; until her hand cracked the brittle collar bone like a hammer. Using the metal grip like a lever she pushed through, sending the annoyance to the ground in a upended arc that ended in the bottom of maggot holed shoes and glints off silver scales that crouched low, then darted and curved graceful arcs between rancid flesh and torn muddy clothed legs.

Strawberry hair floated upward over the milling undead crowd, drawn into medusa like curls by the ebbing black whirlwind tight on her wake. More stood in her way, crowding the younger vampire as she grimaced and stripped, exposing even more weakness to Freya’s Dhār stained eyes. Her grip on the foul blade was secured with both hands, thick copper waving and undulating like a silk scrap for a split second as it rose high over her head. The blade runes flashed a sickly maroon of aged blood pacts, a coppery gleam of containment tracing the thick crimson painted edge as she gracefully arced her sword downward in front of her, leaving a fluttering cloud of deep purple chaos that dragged behind its cleaving stroke. The massive demon blade easily slid through two of the ambling frames; separating one body cleanly to fall to the wayside of Freya’s passage. The second was nearly hewn in two as well, its upper body folding over itself toward the girl; still ambling and pushing it’s useless head along the floorboards. A crinkly grip wrapped her ankle with undead strength to be dragged along with her determined focus a step before she noticed how it hampered her movement. She let out an inhuman snarl, turning on the hindrance with an animal wrath; a downward thrust of the vile blade splitting it’s face and carving open its skull to release dusty remnants of its brains. The blade didn’t stop at the floorboards, sinking through them in a splintering crack that squealed in non-compliant friction as it was withdrawn like a pounded nail. The embedded section of copper that had been wiped clean of its crimson paint bent into a curl like flexible ribbon as she spun a low circle with the blade, swathing the legs clean off a few more zombies as she rose up in the cascade of abruptly tilting bodies.

There now, the scraps of burning cloth lit the cleared path to her target; a howl of glee escaped in a swirl of smoke that caressed and melded to her curves. She leapt with the grace of a dancer wrapped in the speed of a wild animals skin, the silver scales of her mail tinted purple by the chaos swirling off the demon blade's vicious thrust. Her snack had seen her coming, but perhaps underestimated the speed of the viper strike; the copper blade parted the edges of the white blur even as it shot away in a misty haze of blood and fire. Demon tainted eyes tracked the assassin’s escape even as the blade sank through the wooden structure of the building like it was tender meat; the force of the thrust pressing her body flat to the wall with a solid thunk that was sure to leave bruises upon her pale flesh. Not that she looked at all concerned about that. No, her head tracked the white blur, turning even as it impacted the wood. Her blood, her meal, her appetizer. Stalking; there was really no other way to describe her body language as her lanky form turned with the girls retreat. A hungry smile overtook her, purple sparks lighting in her eyes as she extracted the blade like a thin sheet of parchment from the hewn slice to the exterior of the building; muscles rippled under the blood red suede, foretelling a launch millisecond’s before it occurred. Her keen nose guided her just as much as the demon’s sight, the vampire’s fresh blood painted the tip of the daemon’s tongue with warmth and pulsed the sickly glow of the vile symbols with hunger. Silver scales flashed like the pale underbelly of a snake as she launched the starved blade into a zombie in her path, lance like the blade carried the slow squirming bulk forward a step; a flick of her wrist carving outward from the center along the bottom curve of its ribs before breaking free of its dead flesh.

Freya cut an angle across the small room, putting herself between the Margrave and the assassin’s new position, between the necromancer and her horde of undead slaves. Not the throat. The new mantra echoed in her thoughts as she pounced at the girl again, pulling her slice to barely carve a path into wooden wall as the girl zipped off back the way she’d come from; the flaming edges of cloth sliced off fluttered to the floor even as Freya turned, hungry eyes still tracking the frustratingly elusive prey. The Margrave’s irritation with the waif had become her own now as well it seemed. Her tongue came out snake like to taste the air, the vampires blood is thick and sweet… The copper tip met her tongue as she moved, a sweet coppery spice that drew a deep rumbling purr of pleasure and hunger. No doubt if the girl had any chance of fear, the sultry hunger of her stalker would have either frightened her or attracted her, but the girl seemed immune to such Slaanesh whispers, no emotions seemed to reflect in her eyes at all. No matter, Freya didn’t need to hear her terror, the taste of her blood was enough to fill her with the desire for more. Again she cut an angle, seeking to herd the smoldering girl into the corner of the room; I’ll bring her straight to your sweet lips… The hissed seduction was a bit more appealing this time, there was less of a possessive reaction, less anger, and a faint weakening of determination. What good was her hunger if she couldn’t catch the white wisp to sate it? Her head shook like that of an agitated horse, the muscles on her shoulders twitching beneath the strawberry flare of her mane as though to dislodge a fly. She turned to regard the margrave with a feral glance; the girl was their appetizer and somewhere cowering in fear was the main course, then… “dessert,” the thought slipped off her tongue like a siren’s song clouded with seduction, “Eyl oriour,” [Your blood] she whispered, winking at him before spinning back to narrow her eyes on her victim.

The hissing blade rose up over her head like a purple wrapped battle standard, grazing the ceiling with her leap across the shortened distance between the demon’s kiss and the girls delicious singed flesh. A disappointed hiss of the blade parted the air as the blur darted off again, a snarl of irritation escaped Freya, angry eyes glancing toward the bench and her bow; there was more than one way to skin a whelp... Her body lurched slightly under the demons violent rejection of her thoughts, but she would not be denied the prize of the Dachau’s taste, dashing back to the table she flipped the bench off her bow. The demon blade fell from her hand in an audible snarl of putrid purple smoke that dissipated abruptly as the sword bowed the sturdy tabletop as thought it had taken on a heavy weight. The light blue wing of the bow arm flew gracefully upward even as an arrow hit its curve and slid down and back; drawn by Freya's finger. Pale blue eyes washed clean and drilled down the pure white shaft, the bow arms curling into taut arcs as she lined up her shot. "Vengeance," she whispered, Dhar wisps staining the sharply curved bow arms to charcoal tones as it rode their curves to spiral around the arrow head and collect in a writhing snarled black knot at its tip; one... two... three... beats of her heart as she honed her dark focus in on the girls core. A soft breath was released and lost in the shattering crack of the bow arms release; the arrow exploded off the string with a sound more akin to a cannon, parting the air in a sickly black stream of Dhar and narrowly missing the waif who's spin tore another shred off the few remaining scraps of cloth she wore. The arrow rent a fist sized hole clear through the wall. Freya had already notched a second arrow, this one lofted high to barely graze the ceiling and fall abruptly, its path guided by tendrils of Dhar to penetrate unnaturally deep in the girls shoulder with a delightful squish; the clean white fletching wicking blood upward like the roots of a tree.

They are indeed still soft on the inside. Freya smiled toothily as she notched another arrow and drew back the string. The Drachau wanted the bitch alive she mused, staying her fingers further releases with a lethal confidence to await a better opportunity. As if sensing hesitance, the girl became an inhuman blur as she darted to the side then abruptly ricocheted off the ceiling at an angle coming toward her. Awkward. A wall of zombies now separated her and the Margrave and her quiver was not placed for speedy retrieval. None the less two rapid twangs punctuated the girls blurred movement and left feathered shafts vibrating in her wake; one in the wall and another in the ceiling, both rather handily missing their rapidly moving target. It knocked her confidence down a faint notch. The girl was even quicker than she had surmised, throwing off her aim without the assistance of the daemon and turning the tides against her. It was too late to correct her arrogant mistake now; without arcane guidance it wasn’t likely she’d hit her with arrows. Freya dropped abruptly, her bow clattering to the floor as she made to tuck herself under the shield of the tabletop; the girls speed might actually be a disadvantage in a situation of cluttered close combat.

"Mors ultima ratio!" Her need for cover was unnecessary it seemed. Her host abruptly loosed a torrent of black wind that froze her hand on the grip of her Glaith in a momentary daze. The white blur halted, soon enough to not be blasted to death by the potent cast, but not quite fast enough; she howled in pain as a necromantic bolt met the pale flesh of her leg. Where the dark energy touched the zombies melted, even wood rotted and fell apart before their very eyes. The assassin’s flesh was no different. Her shin withered, turning black as it peeled away to reveal the bone beneath. Khaine! The shocked curse didn’t even have time to leave her lips as her thoughts and vision stalled out. She’d been around some impressive masters of True Dhar in her time, the Sorceresses trained in Naggaroth channeled it to most destructive ends, however, she wasn’t at all expecting to find usage that potent in the Old World. The human’s mastery over the winds was typically limited to toying with a single vein, even the Dhar whisperers she’d observed hadn’t had the strength to bend True Dhar’s potent mix to their wills. Her eyes finally focused on the scene left behind in the pitch; the girl was horribly maimed and the opportunity to strike was too fortunate for her to pass up. The second bench flipped down like the shutter of a window, crashing onto the floor then slamming back into the table, which lurched upward as her back grazed it. It certainly wasn’t her most graceful move, an oddly arched three legged lope that pushed off her hand, holding the flipped bench as she hopped the short hurdle rather frog like. Perhaps it would be made up for by the draw of the golden curved blade that touched the floor before pushing her body upright and into a somewhat more graceful spin that flared out her red tresses, and drew the inner arc of the sacrificial blade around the girls midsection with precision - the inner ring carving a neat wound from the girls bellybutton to her spine in passing. She’d had liked to follow the maneuver with a swift flick of her black dagger to the throat, but she’d left her dagger somewhere in the throng of fallen undead bodies yet to rise again to their feet. Instead she pulled the spinning momentum of her body in tight around the girl and, with a tilt of her wrist, curled the sickle blade up under the girls ribs; the thin golden point finding a glinting brackish red hued escape between a couple of high ribs as the honed outer curve sliced through the lung. She was rather disappointed not to hear the tell-tell hiss of escaping air, the soft whispered sigh of an unnaturally extracted exhale, but it was what it was. Ducking she slammed her shoulder into the girls knees, pulling down hard on her Glaith to send the urchin face down on the floor.

Even considering the assassin defeated at the feet of her host, there was still the matter of the hoard of undead. A great majority in the inn had wisped to an ashy dust that choked the air in the wake of the margrave’s spell, but more came through the shattered windows and doorframe like a rotten river of riddled flesh and exposed bone. “Relinquish thine minions. Thou shalt fall not if I remove thine limbs, no? Mayhaps thine pretty eyes as well?" The Margrave’s words were not intended for her. She discarded them, drowned them from her ears. Arrows, she presumed, would not be as useful against these creatures, at best she could attempt to sever knee sockets and slow their advance, the sword was a far more effective a weapon to cleave the legs from their bodies. Her blue eyes flicked hesitantly to the table; her foul blade would be most displeased with her abandonment of it… The daemon was excessively jealous of her bow and the sense of rage when she’d dropped it was still quite fresh in her mind. No doubt the foul creature would demand a far higher payment… a price she was not inclined to pay without the absolute necessity of being at deaths door. It was best to let the sword lay for a while to cool its temper. Words flowed from her mouth, vaguely familiar yet as foreign as they were poetic; lingua praestantia, the magick language of her kin came forth like a song that drew in a misty purple wisp and, in stark contrast to the sweet prose, brutally twisted it into a blasphemy of Chaos taint. Her brows furrowed in concentration even as she squared her stance to the approaching bodies of rot, bending amethyst curls to her will and grasping onto its haft with both hands. A sizzle of burnt flesh was buried in a yowl of pain; the scorch on her palms didn’t deter her at all, it only irritated her and drew her lips into a scowl of displeasure at its willful disobedience. She would not accept its rebellion, smashing it flat into a scythe even as it seethed against her control and shot arcane lances at odd angles from the fast forming blade. She snarled and gave an awkward slash through the closest bodies in the pressing mob. The arcane blade reaped through the front rank and sent rotting flesh flying in all directions, a veritable shower of squiggling maggots falling like rain off the arc of writhing Shyish. “Back,” she barked, finally gaining full control of the amethyst veins and spinning a tight circle to heave a second mighty slash. Farmers work did not come naturally, but she’d oft watched the Black Guard’s train with their bladed pole arms and did a decent impression of their art, save the thrusting strikes that would impale and hinder her with the weight of bodies. No, the reaping sweeps were far more effective to sow these vile fields. Again she spun the arcane blade through their ranks, the din of shattering bone was delightful and brought out a cackle of amusement that bordered on the insane.

This was what she lived for, it lacked the delicious splatters of warm living blood, but the bits of rotted flesh and leathery internals that squished out were a close enough facsimile. A third sweep splattered her with bits of gore causing an abrupt pause to her mentally unhinged cackle. Putrid. The taste of the freshly risen flesh made her want to retch and she spat on the floor in a wholly unladylike manner. “Filthy chaff,” she snarled in disgust, clamping her mouth shut and pressing on in silence. Slight progress was made across the room, the length of the weapon well suited to its vengeful masters task, but still more bodies came. A brief flicker of concern was reflected in a spiral of Shyish that shot off to singe the wall. Forward, it was the only direction that made sense. Gritty determination drew her into a fourth circle with a bit less aplomb, none-the-less taking down more of the foul creatures. The winds were harder to maintain without the daemon’s assistance, but she could manage it a while longer, perhaps long enough to clear the room. Were there more outside? Her teeth ground together at the thought; if there were then she’d need another weapon for this one wouldn’t hold. Was this what had happened to her father? Overran by mindless sacks of rot that never stopped coming… Another spinning sweep came with an angry upward arc that rained down cascade of gore. “Ceyl charoi daroir thanan!” [By my blood I’ll not befall the fate of my Father!] The words were spat like a retort in a heated argument, and in a way they were though the disagreement was fully internal. Drowning in an ocean of undead was nowhere near the end she imagined for herself. She demanded, at least, to draw fresh blood for the sacrifice of her life. Her jaw set in abject refusal. The only option then was to survive until a more glorious defeat stole her last breath. “Elu!,” [I will not fall!] the new mantra in her mind was verbalized into a chant that seemed to echo and feed into each repeat, building in a horse crescendo that drove her forward. Every one of them would fall before her, she was sure of it. “Elu!" The chant of denial continued unabated. Even as the shambling bodies fell lifeless from the Margrave’s defeat of their master behind her she reaped through them; a mere shift in the angle of the writhing scythe to follow their tumbling corpses to the floor. Abruptly she was distant; a millennia’s dream away and cast into the mental trappings of possessed blood lust fury.

The blood had fallen down upon her from the walls like rain, a streaming black and silver banner of Nagarythe gave a loud snap, drawing her eyes as it fluttered to the ground and crumpled there in a blood soaked pile before her eyes. The dishonor of these kin-slayers, the keening wail of defeat as the hydra that had loyally stalled them crashed to the ground; also hacked to pieces before her eyes. And from somewhere in a distant dream a tortured scream from her master shook the very foundation of the fortress in a violent earthquake of unleashed magicks. Impotent rage claimed her then. A desperate frenzy surging through her to snap acid bitten chains, the vile metal snakes twisted and deskinned by her ragged bloody nails. She stumbled through the broken bodies… So many bodies... gutted and groaning, screaming and crying, begging pathetically for an end to their torment; her brothers and sisters, her people, lay in pieces all around her and the pitch battle yet continued on the battlements above. A blade found its way to her hand, silver scattered with blotches of blackened blood and flesh, ruined rusted chains lashed its hilt to her hand as she ascended. “House Freya is with you Caladai Malekith!,” her fury choked scream had filled the tight spiraling stairwell.

The foul arcane scythe in her hand had one more taste of the fallen zombies as she charged through the shattered door, then fractured under her loss of focus and flew off haphazardly in all directions; a wisp having a bite of her arm in passing, kindly cauterizing the wound. She didn’t even flinch, no bodily pain could ever match the agony consuming her mind’s eye.

The black sea gave a vapid belch from its hefty meal, drawing her eyes to the distant coming end of her pride. All of it was consumed, slabs of earth stood upright for a moment before falling at odd angles with a distant rumble. A sound emitted from her, there were no words, only a vapid wail of pain as she crashed to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. Qhaysh flowed on the crests of the waves and Dhar boiled black beneath - they had destroyed it rather than accept the humiliation of their mistake, they would rather kill the every last Nagarythe than admit they were wrong to deny the true Phoenix King… A hatred unlike anything she’d ever felt roiled through her, shattering her honor, her fury, and even her will. So be it, she thought darkly as she turned upon her unsuspecting kin in a violent tantrum that tore gaping wounds through their shocked expressions and filleted their skin from bone; spattering the palisade beneath with a thick coat of blood. The last of them, the Lothern Captain, Kamerd, gave her no quarter; nearly taking off her head and spitting at her even as he fruitlessly tucked the long string of his entrails back inside himself. The worthless bastard couldn’t even finish the job. No, there would be no peace for her from this hellish betrayal. Even on the waning tail of her joining her house, as her blood roiled down her chest from the grievous wound and she heard the distant horns of Khaine’s army calling her to join his regiments, there was only a boiling fury in her heart.

Abruptly she tipped forward like a hewn tree, no attempt at all made to catch nor cushion her fall, though the crack of her head on a partially flesh bound skull did well enough to snap her out of the vision’s torment. A deep breath was taken, and a few blinks of confusion made, before she lurched up from the mattress of rotted flesh, brushing off writhing maggots in an a half panic before containing her immediate disgust. For a few brief moments she was free of the vile snake’s claims, temporarily expunged by the fervor of her blood lust and the tempest of her nightmares; she savored it, staring up at the dark cloudy sky in longing silent prayer to Khaine. Then slowly, inevitably, the chaos insanity slithered back in to reclaimed her in its coils. Twisting, writhing, and burning her under her skin; whispered hisses of glory and the enhanced exultation of victory. A smirk took her lips as she surveyed the swath of undead corpses strewn outside the door, and shortly, with arrogant strides, those that lay inside in inn as well. “Ya know…,” she drawled, stalling out as her eyes drifted over the headless body under the Margrave’s foot and further up to his rather casual inspection of his gruesome trophy – perhaps considering eating it… It was rather apparent that he’d torn her head free with his bare hands and her earlier presumptions of his immense strength were quite poignantly proven. “I’m afraid that even cooking this meat would not make it palatable to me,” she chuckled a moment later, plucking the antiqued ivory glint of a splinter of bone from her scale mail and inspecting it briefly before tossing it to the floor with a flick of her wrist. The movement came with an after effect - a rounding of her lips and a drawn exhale of unexpected pain. Gingerly she turned her arm to inspect the burnt gash with a furrowed brow, then gave a small shrug of her opposite shoulder. It wasn’t the first time she’d acquired random battle markings; nearly half of the trails on her body had little to no memory of their making.

Her trek resumed as she picked and forged her way to the general vicinity of her first contact with the foul creatures, grunting softly and struggling mostly one handed to heave over a few bodies; darkness shading her as she reclaimed the dusky blade with a triumphant smile. This toy was not one to lose, shadow walking was ever so useful to ply her trade. She came closer the Margrave, shadows dragged along as she peered at him obliquely and sheathed the dusky blade. Her blue-grey eyes alit with curiosity; what to do with this creature, this vampire… “Your guests are most rude,” she mused adopting a pragmatic regal air, “and here I was embarrassed for Estain’s barbaric table manners,” her face broke into a smirk of barely contained amusement. With feline grace she side-stepped and pressed her body against his shoulder, the irregularity of the medals prodding here and here on the swell of her breast. “Are you always required to dismember your guests to keep them in line Drachau?,” she asked in a nearly inaudible whisper, rubbing her cheek against his arm as she turned to study the girl’s expressionless face for a moment. “I will not accept such a fate you know,” she said, her voice falling between a hiss and a purr, between a warning and a teasing comment. Abruptly she stepped away and to his fore, turning a militaristic about face that flared her hair and set the hair strung red beads at her shoulder to clicking. She met his eyes, studying the amethyst swirls a moment, her eyes icy and hard, decisions and consequences flitting through her thoughts; her body stiffened and she raised her chin in a haughty manner. She wanted more from him...

“The noble blood of a Naggarothi warrior has flowed in your name today,” she said with a hint of accusation. “A rivers course is carved into the flesh of the land and bound to its passage, but it is a restless and temporary truce easily breached by a storm.” Her expression tightened as she presented her cut palm to him, blackened and with smeared with drying blood. “The blood of the Nagarythe is such a river Drachau, such minor truce’s in the skin do not bind it to any permanent course. Without confluence each river meets the sea alone,” she mused, curling her fingers down over the cut and into a tight fist and pressing it, somewhat gingerly for the wound on her arm, to her chest as her head dipped in elvish salute. Her eyes met his briefly again, unasked questions painted clear on her face, then she turned stiffly on her heel and returned to the table. "My most sincerest of apologies, most esteemed guest." She caught the Margrave’s formal bow of apology from the corner of her eye, "Alas, they brought some entertainment but t'would seem that they have brought some blemishes upon your..." There was a brief pause, a faint hungry growl, "...pleasing form. It seems that my Kindred are not so learned in their manners as I had assumed. How disgraceful." She smiled internally, appreciating his humor despite not showing it. Swiftly she worked to straighten out the mess of their ruined meal’s. Both benches were flipped upright, her bow lashed back to the quiver, and some reverence was paid to the ancient Nagarythe banner; snapping it gently clean of any dust and threading the bow arm back through an ink stained loop of sinew. Her eyes fell on her blood stained sword with hesitance, its dimmed runes still snarled and spat with a furious malevolence; she’d not risk its vengeance quite yet. She worked around it, discarding the semi-coagulated remains of their dinner, plates and all, into the pile of bodies. The spilled bottle of wine was probed with her tongue, a remaining drop smacked on her tongue before it too found a resting place with the fleshy refuse. Her feathered cloak was laid with her crimson silk scarf over the bench, and the wooden chalice was retrieved and set upright before her as she resumed her prior seat. A sweep of her arm slid the angry sword down the table, purple tendrils lashing out against a soft Chamon glow from her bracers; the gold inlaid patterns shaping ancient runes of protection against the demon’s angry teeth.

Shadows consumed her features again, partially concealing a twitch of pain that deepened as she drew her uncut palm ruthlessly across the ebon blade; the rasping scrape of metal on bone loud in the still silence of the room and prefacing the somewhat strangled growl of the Margrave. The resulting gush of crimson was caught by the wooden chalice and she smirked at the irony of the symbolism it invoked. The royal kissed chalice of such a disloyal clan as the Asrai could not hope to hold her blood honorably. No, she vindictively drenched the whole of its interior surface, forcing the traitorous carved wood to drink and taste true nobility on the eve of its complete defilement. As she bled into the cup the shadow dagger was stabbed into the table directly across from her, a bit weakly, but deep enough to stand upright and waggle on its embedded tip. An indication was made at his prior seat as she silently watched the sway of the blade until it stilled and the waves on the formed red puddle at its base gave no more ripples, then turned her eyes to the stream of blood that fell into the chalices maw. Pride of ancient rituals clenched the tips of her fingers repeatedly, drawing her blood out in uneven torrents as she considered. It had been a century or more since she had accepted the blood pacts of her tribe in the shattered wasteland of her old homelands. A slab of stone jutted forlornly out of the hungry sea, washed over by the waves of the Council’s insanity. It was there on the vestige foundations of House Freya’s fallen battlements that they had bound themselves to her - had offered up the bindings of their blood to her. She wanted none of it… at first, but it was also there that she had discovered her unquenchable taste for the life essence of her own kin. She couldn’t help herself, she had quaffed it all greedily, staining her lips red with delight and feeling the strength of her tribe with every drop offered up to her, not as equals, but as extensions of her will. Falun, the most trusted of her allies and closest of her friends, had not been content to merely offer his weapon hand to her guidance, he’d slit his own throat and offered his very breath to her; pushing away her hand as she’d reached out to stem the unexpected flow, declaring himself her chattel. A sneer of insult took her lips at the memory.

She’d rejected his offering, pouring his blood into the sea and rebuffing him for dishonoring himself. No disciple of House Freya would be a slave to anyone, not even to her. Disciple. The word left a bitter taste in her mouth even now. Falun had knelt before her in acceptance of her judgement of his weakness, patiently waiting for her blade hand to fall, he was always so pleased to obey her commands. A chance parting of the clouds had stilled her sword from cutting his frailty from her legacy, bathing them in the rusty glow of the moon; forcing her to see the strength of a different will in him – piety. The foul binds of the Slaanesh snake had overtaken her. She’d drawn his blood straight from his throat to her lips, and coiled their lives together right there in front of the entire tribe. He’d drawn her blood too, with his teeth like some kind of… vampire, the thought curled her lips in irony. He’d taken her blood from her by force; and she had allowed it, had let their blood and breath mix into one river lost in their passions. He’d taken more than just her blood though, he’d taken her tribe and made it his own as well. That confluence guided the tribe thereafter, for it was as one that they had led the tribe; not in marriage, but a perhaps deeper bind of wills. They led not as husband and wife, but as a combining of blood, breath, and loyalty - he led her tribe as her self-proclaimed priest, refusing to be considered her equal. His flattery got him nowhere. It shamed her that they were not strong enough to stand alone by their own wills and sought her some kind of supernatural being, but the pacts were made and that respect and honor could not be broken. House Torlain had not been enough for her though, even their abject worship of her wasn’t enough to hold her restless tides. It was always for her ancestors, for House Freya’s clotted bloodline that she fought; even while House Torlain flanked her, even when they had followed her to Naggaroth to slay the daemons that spew forth endlessly from the vile gut of chaos, even as the fell lifeless beside her, she had left them – traded them in for the foul daemon blade.

“The sea is an outlet of many rivers, and nobility appeals the loyalty of all of them. House Freya was such a noble sea, but it was a lifeless dead sea with no shores to wash upon,” she mused cryptically. Somewhere in the vast expanse of this world was the resurgence of House Freya, and Khaitan Maibd, last cloth of House Freya, Bride of Khaine, General of Nagarythe, would find it, and she alone would tear it back from the clutches of death. Then, and only then, would House Freya be a sea upon which her kin would set sail and flood the entirety of the world; until their tide grew so high that even the chaos maw was drowned by it. Then, freed of chaos’ vile scaled brands upon her flesh, she would rule it all as a pure goddess. Every town, every city, everything her eyes laid upon would be hers, and hers alone. Her fist had balled tight with her egotistic insanity, reducing the rivulets into slow drips that struggled free of her iron grip and fell with splashes amplified by the wooden bowl. The sounds refocused her eyes on the vessel, a rather cruel smile expressed as she cupped it in her hand and spun it; painting the intricately carved vines that adorned it in a sheen of red. “It is the custom of my people that the giving of blood is worth more than a mere offer of words,” she said finally, reaching across the table to place the cup next to the upright dagger. Her hand withdrew to tuck up under her chin and regard him as he, a bit hesitantly reclaimed his seat, “House Freya offers more noble blood to you Caladai of Sylvania. A truer token of our trust, to allay any concerns you might have of my intentions, and demands. I desire to be more than a... mere guest.”

Amethyst eyes flashed at her words and consumed her with an amused hungry gaze, she hoped he found enticement in her sudden expansion of his realm of control. "For my Kindred...," there was a pause as he reined in bestial tones and smoothed out his voice, "...it is a very solemn thing, to offer Vitae," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around the thin neck of the chalice with some effort and breathing it in like a sommelier sampling the bouquet of a fine vintage wine. The cup was raised in a toast of sorts. "To your good health Frau Freya." A slight tilt so that a crimson wave just lapped against his palate before it was lowered again. The effect of his sip was unexpected, his eyes widened, an electric silence crossing the distance between them as the Shyish turmoil of his eyes fell hard onto the ocean of her own. His hand abandoned the barely sipped offering and went to his own chin, a finger tapping against his lips as he studied her with feral intensity. Perhaps she had made a mistake offering the beast a taste of her essence… She held her expression in check with effort. A prize gained without risk was likely not worth having and she was determined to bend this formidable weapon to her will. "I...accept this. As truth," he said finally, “I would be... most honored to play more than the role of host to you." She remained silent still lost in the intensity of his gaze; it was as though… as though he knew something she knew not. Irksome. "I do not know the ways of your people Frau Freya. This custom of yours..." The nobleman’s lace entrenched hand momentarily flourished in the direction of the knife; her own eyes widening slightly as the flash of skin was revealed to be healed of their wounds already. "…is it reciprocated?," he continued with an inviting loft of his dark eyebrow.

She grinned heavily in response, a thrill of victory and hunger lighting her eyes. “Indeed it is Caladai,” she purred, rising from her seat and reclaiming her blade as she rounded the table to claim her prize and formalize their unholy pact. Sylvania would serve a decent surrogate residence until Khaine beckoned her home, and the Margrave seemed a fine caretaker of such a temporary province, not to mention a worthy partner with which to enjoy clearing the chaff from their new domain.

Well done!

I hope ya'll enjoyed. There's more to this tale, and other tales as well, but I have to edit it to fit a less "forum role play" read. There's nothing quite like parsing down 100 pages of verbose prolific RP to fit into 10 pages heh

Amazing!

While I've not finished parsing for a culmination to What's a Little Blood Between Fiends, I decided to offer up something set in the RoR timeline for G.P.


For Khaine, my Brother
(2518 IC)

Moonlight danced over olive hued curves, casting shadows into the smooth sloped valley that milk white fingers traced. Taut skin twitched under the teasing passage, fine hairs catching in the fast fading light as they rose unconsciously to do battle with the pale invaders trespass. A sighed breeze emitted from the prone woman’s burgundy stained lips, her body curling into the warmth of her mistresses before falling back to her sanguine meditation. Freya’s lips were curved into a faint smile, eyes still closed as her fingers idly wandered across the now goosebump scattered terrain of her bloodied companion. The added texture was refreshing to her war trod fingers, like a relief map of a clear nights sky; peppered through with delight and intrigue until dawn drew nigh and stole away the darkness that shrouded their illicit trysts. Her fingers drifted into long black tresses, curling into the strands and reveling in the scant remainder of time she had left to enjoy her company. The woman’s name was Shalen, a foolish young cultist who’d fallen under her seduction some ages ago.

~ “You will own me no more,” Freya whispered, the steam of her breath rising from the snow kissed earth of hazed recollection. Her words had drawn his eyes to her position, his twisting neck narrowly evading the streaking arrow she had fired upon him. He’d regarded with impartial eyes for a brief moment before a snarl shattered the dam of his emotional control; an ocean white agony engulfing her in his reply. The blast had thrown her into a tree truck, dazing her long enough for the white haired Asur to arrive and throttle her prone throat beneath the arcane bleached butt of his staff. His bellowed fury and a bruising kick to the ribs had awoken her from her stupor far too late for any evasive action. ’Traitorous urchin!’ ~

Her brows furrowed lazily, the pointed tips of her ears laying back in their strawberry nest in irritation at the memory. It wasn’t the former of his spat insult that bothered her, that was merely a reflection of her actions when she’d let loose the string of her bow; but the latter was akin to pouring salt on the wound - she’d shot him precisely to escape his slavery and reclaim her noble birthright. He was Bel-Anaroh of Saphery, the self-appointed keeper of her chains… as though she were a pet to be paraded around, a twisted symbol of the Asur’s supposed mercy for the ‘heathen’ tribes, intended to prove their fictitious acceptance of Nagarythe loyalty. She’d killed him for the insult. Though the details of the battle were obscured by her awakened consciousness, she clearly recalled Khaine’s rejection of Bel-Anorah’s prayers, and the shadowy arrival of the raven haired beauty that presently entwined her fingers and her form. She trenched her fingers a bit deeper in Shalen’s hair as if her grip upon the strands it might stop the flow of time; she found herself reluctant for the inevitable parting to become reality. Alas, she too keenly knew she was running late, and that knowledge defied her desires and tore her relentlessly from the dusky web of memories; nettling her with its sense of propriety and duty. She let out a quiet ceding groan of displeasure before opening her eyes and facing the reality of the coming twilight. She was supposed to be in the Chaos Wastes at sunrise, a journey that would take at least a few hours, and already the glowing disc of the moon had sunk behind the spear tips of the trees to drape them both in toothy shadows. A faint snort came to her ears from the darkness, her steed was growing restless and fearful as she stirred; no doubt displeased at having been left overnight in his barding by her haste to catch the Tulluch. She laughed faintly, disentangling from her ultimately captured prize and setting herself to the task of reclaiming her equally as hastily discarded clothes.

“Sleep well love,” she whispered, softly brushing her lips over the edge of the elf’s ear; a suede muffled pop of her knee sounding quite loud as she rose to her feet and made her way over to her mount. “Three moons Freya?,” Shalen’s chasing whisper paused her in her steps. She frowned slightly at the question, fidgeting with the woman’s long ago gifted glaith that was sheathed opposite her issued sword. “I make no promises,” she replied coolly, twisting to regard the woman’s dark profile and noting the immediate downward twitch of her dark lips. Shalen’s white seeming eyes searched hers intently, hopefully… Freya’s heartrate increased uncontrollably at the silent plea; the woman’s scent was fresh in her nose and her tongue vividly recalled the metallic salty delight’s the ritual blade in her hand had drawn forth for her tongue. “I will try,” she murmured, turning quickly away, not wanting to recognize the woman’s likely smile. Their continued relationship was uncomfortably dangerous, especially with her promotion - though try as she might she’d had little success resisting the woman’s allure. Her insatiable desire for the Druchii’s blood was a weakness that irked her perhaps more than it should have… no t’was a reflected reaction to the constant temptation of the woman’s desire to lure her to Naggarothi; as if by some miracle her kin would ever accept a blood starved seeming Asur to survive their inner circle. Freya was keenly aware that they would tear her apart in their desire to gather intelligence on the war plans of the newly allied armies of the Empire. Shalen’s blind naïve emotions precluded her from accepting the harsh reality that they were enemies - and Freya wasn’t keen to enlighten the fool girl; her delusions would make it far easier to kill her if… nay, when, it became necessary in the future. The disconcerting thought followed her as she quickly settled into the saddle and kicked her skittish mount into a gallop, demanding even more speed as they hit the well-trod roadway; she’d have to run the beast into the ground to make it to her appointed army in time.

Unconsciously her fingers drifted down to stroke the silken pelt that curled her hip beneath Shalen’s glaith. She’d lost track of her life at some point. Like missing pages in an ancient tome, the gaps haunted her with random disconnected memories that filled her with confusion. It was said that a wolf had dragged her battered corpse into a farm intent to consume her, but the farmer had helped her slay it and managed to rescue her from death’s grasp. The story rang untrue, an odd desire that the wolf had been successful, though she couldn’t put her finger on why; the wolf’s fur felt so familiar beneath her hand, so… comforting. She shook her head, withdrawing her hand and blocking out the odd sense of kinship she still felt to the silky black pelt. She’d allegedly nearly killed the beast before succumbing to it so such feelings made no sense at all. The farmer had sent her west to rejoin her kin, deeper into the Empire where she’d fallen into company of mercenaries; fighting beastmen herds until she’d earned, or stolen, enough to pay a ship to get her to home… to Ulthuan… it didn’t feel like home… She’d developed an affinity to the delicious distraction of fighting off the constant Druchii invasion forces; even if such entains, and shadowed recollections of Bel-Anaroh, only drove a deeper wedge between her and her supposed Asur kin… Especially after her stolen possessions found their way back into her sight... She’d literally jumped at the chance to abandon Ulthuan, and the apparent enemies of her forebearer’s, ultimately joining the Empire’s call for an army to fight yet another surge of foul Chaos from the north in her boredom. Still, even as she rode hard into the decimated easterly front lines that rimmed the chaos wrecked wasteland and tasted the tang of brutalized magicks on her tongue, there was a deep nagging; a sense of betrayal… ‘Once tainted, always tainted.’ The words of an old witch hunter who’d taken an immediate dislike to her some years ago flitted through her memory. The hatred was mutual and she had eventually waylaid the foolish human and sent him on to his false god’s care, but his irksome words had managed to stick in her craw regardless of his defleshing - and even now tightened her hands grip on the reins in anger. She clenched her jaw and cleared her thoughts. She had more... relevant things to think upon.

Finally she ceased the relentless bruising kicks of her heels; allowing the foam frothed steed beneath her to drop exhaustedly from its pace and catch its breath, as she, herself, caught sight of the dawn kissed field of canvas tents. The heaving of its barrel chest and rampant gasping snorts lost to her concern as she abandoned him near the edge of the already empty staging camp. She cursed softly at the gimp she’d acquired from the long hard ride; she found the human’s horses uncomfortably wide and quite ill fit to her form. What she wouldn’t give for a true mount from… home? Her mixed confusion and displeasure was quickly distracted. Her eyes landing on a canteen hanging from a tent post as she traced the camps border, her fingers found it shortly thereafter and drew out the corked top for a sniff; spoiled… She blanched slightly, ale was not her preferred drink, but she’d not stopped to fill her own canteen so it would have to do to slake the incessant scratch in her throat. A distant muted shuffle of metal caught her sensitive ears between guzzling; confirming her lateness and causing her to pick up her pace into a ground consuming lope despite the redoubled complaints of her stiff muscles. She swung wide, swiveling her ears to pinpoint the gathered armies location and come into the forward ranks; there was no point in taking a tongue lashing for being late, they didn’t have to know she was going into this battle blind. She smirked faintly at her deception, taking a measured breath and setting her expression impassive before cresting the final hill from the direction of the ensnared fortress and adopting a far less hurried saunter. She surveyed the troops as she made her way nearer to their front ranks; bristling with sharp pointed weapons that would soon become useless as the weak shivering maggots fled before the onslaught to come… A glaring nod stilled the tongues of a scant few alert soldiers and cowed them into returning their pulled blades to their sheaths. A faint growl of disgust at the speed of their trust escaped, the thick smell of their impending cowardice assaulted her nose; grey-blue eyes narrowing sharply at the mewling fold of sheep that stood at half-assed attention before her albeit casual passing inspection. ‘At least half of them will die today,’ she mused silently mulling over the numbers they would reportedly face as she approached the Realm General’s bent form.

Kasheli. She recalled his name as she studied his almost innocent boyish profile, though knew better than to presume him a fool. His straw blonde hair was drawn tight into a pony tail that just barely peeked out beneath the shield strapped to his back; the head of a unicorn painted in bright white and brilliant blue upon its wide triangular face announced him a swordsman of at least some repute. She had heard he was a competent leader, though brash and reckless in his methods - it complemented her tactics decently enough. “It is as expected,” she lilted musically, causing him to start at her unnoticed nearness. She hid her smirk as he finished the tightening of his greave and straightened to regard her with an arrogant, rather bored, air. “The walls will fill quickly and this may not end well for you. Half of them will find their God’s, be sure keep some in reserve to safe-guard your retreat,” she chuckled softly, stepping past him to survey the assembled rabble for any that might be worth saving. They’d been assigned three regiments to overrun the fortress. She scowled faintly; it wouldn’t be enough, and certainly not this lot which hadn’t even wiped the sleep from their eyes yet by the looks of them. The Emperor had taken to sending untrained idiots lately, while she had to assume that the Emperor withheld the best troops for a later fight, and well understood the tactic of offering up the lives of worthless “soldiers” to menial, unimportant fights, and clear the chaff as it were, she was none too keen to be tasked with leading them… Perhaps it was time to show the fool the true worth of her allegiance. A strong gauntleted hand wrapped abruptly around her upper arm like a steel trap; Kasheli jerking her around to face him squarely. “Retreat?!?,” he hissed near silently, his previously almost sweet expression now a convoluted mix of disgust and indignity that halted mere inches from her nose. “There will be no retreat this day ‘Commander’,” he sneered the title through his teeth with implied disgust, “You will ensure that ‘I’ do not lose this battle.” Kasheli glared at her a brief moment before moving her roughly to the side and striding forward to finalize assembly of the rabble troops.

She bit her tongue, knuckles white around her sword and glaith as she contained the nigh overpowering urge to attack the bastard… gutting him in front of his own army would be too brash and reckless even for her… “Vengeance,” she quipped, turning sharply on her heels to offer a rather snotty Elven salute to his backside. “To death I shall ensure thine victory this day,” she said, raising her sweet voice above the shuffling of the troops hastily settling into some semblance of a proper formation. The Asur half turned to level an incredulous glare on her innocent seeming expression as she tightened her salute into something almost passable; but for the dark defiant smile upon her lips as she drew her sword and lofted it high over her head. “Hear me now!,” she bellowed, striding past him as her thundering tenor hushed the yet sloppily assembled regiments. “The beguiled fools that stand against us have allowed their minds to be poisoned. They think to test our mettle, our determination, and the grit of our souls!” She let out an arrogant bark of laughter. “They will find their peace this day for we are tasked with saving them from their weaknesses,” she yelled, sweeping her leveled sword across the ranks, and briefly meeting each of the few scant sets of eager eyes in the front lines. “Can you feel it within you?,” she asked, gripping the frail shoulder of a young man that looked more a farmer in ill fit armor than any form of a soldier. “The war drums of yore calling us to battle?,” she continued, lowering her voice as her hand slipped to his chest and tapped her fingers against his breast bone in a measured beat. The nearer ranks tightened in as they strained uselessly to hear her far quieter words. “Hands to your hearts now men!,” she barked stepping away from the would-be soldier and giving her sword a spinning flourish over her head. “Feel the weight of your pledges and let us bring these lost souls to heel,” she roared, turning around and abruptly dropping to a knee to offer her sword up to the scowling Kasheli, “Let them plea for their tainted lives at our general’s feet!” A dark glint flickered in her eyes in answer to his anger tightened expression. The sound of hands slapping metal and leather wrapped chests worked its way swiftly through the lines before falling quiet.

Her eyebrow flicked up in defiant mirth; “How many of them would you have me sacrifice for thine victory?,” she breathed, knowing his keen ears would hear her overt accusation.

“General Kasheli calls upon us all to ensure his glorious victory,” she chuckled loudly, lurching back to her feet and turning half crouched to sweep her sword indicatively across the front line. “I say we feed the good general’s ego and present the Emperor a rounding success this day!,” she finished in a good natured laugh; straightening up into stiff attention beside him and slamming the grip of her long sword against her chest. Kasheli growled softly, flattening out his expression with visible effort before addressing the troops with an emotionless voice. “Enough talk,” she barked interrupting his attempted relay of enemy numbers and known positions before he could terrify the useless rabble. “Glory waits not for those who stand idle.” She scoured her eyes across the ranks, judging that these men would follow her lead, even if they’d not exactly follow her commands. “To death or victory!,” she said loudly, giving a high whistle and threatening the sky with her sword as she turned sharply and headed toward the fortress. Her dark smile returning two fold as the disorganized soldiers began to follow her, a fair majority ignoring the barked directives to halt from their supposed general. ‘Lamb’s to the slaughter,’ she laughed silently as she sheathed her sword and quickened her pace. The wayward flock still thick upon her heels, she crested the final small rises before the fortress and scanned the far walls quickly. The guards were lazily patrolling, chatting in low voice just out of her ear shot as they wandered the outskirts of the only viable approach to the castle for a large force such as theirs. Slowing her pace she spun her bow over her head and held it high in silent notification to her stolen army. Slinking over the final rise she took careful aim on the nearer of two distracted patrol guards; a dark scowl stealing her lips just as she released. Her arrow was true to its mark in the guard’s throat, but the delightful gurgle was lost amidst the sudden calamity of noise that erupted from behind her; the ill trained lot breaking into a charge at the twang of her bowstring. Grey-blue eyes snapped up to the walls to confirm what she already knew; ‘her’ sheep had given away any element of surprise in their foolish lust for the battle’s commencement. She shrugged faintly, she’d expected as much, though there was always a dim hope in her mind that one battle might be different, that one regiment might be trained in ambush and stealth she might prefer.

“To death then,” she mumbled quietly, letting another arrow twang from her bow between the noisy throng of bodies flowing past her. She assumed it hit its mark on the second patrol though she would never know for sure as the river of armor closed the window of her view. It was somewhat irrelevant in the end; neither guard would survive the opening of those floodgates. A soft touch on her arm drew her glance; a Sapheryian mage by the look of her, no doubt wishing to increase her rank by staying tight to a commander. She sighed softly as she reassessed the hectic situation - she typically had little need for arcane assistance, but she shouldn’t turn down the offer, not in the chaos she suspected this skirmish would quickly become. Already the walls were beginning to fill with enemies; pointed tips of arrowheads set to glow by the slow build of arcane whispers as they awaited the flock’s arrival on their killing field. “Easy now boys,” she quipped half-heartedly as she slowed to a walk; it wouldn’t stop most of them from charging recklessly into their death, but perhaps she could use those who held back to her warning. “30 paces ahead, no more than that,” she called over to the mage, holding the young Asur’s gaze for a moment to ensure she had heard, “Keep as many alive as ya can,” she smiled, sending the woman off with a curt nod. Screams erupted ahead as the first wave tore into their death’s under the rain of barbed tips and effervescent purple haze; “You’re with me,” she barked, snagging the wavering corner of a bright wizards cloak as he passed her. The human frowned, giving a brief longing look to the battle ahead before nodding slowly and dropping back to join the few who had held back to her position. She scoured the small group, it was less than she had hoped, less than she had planned on, but she’d have to make due. Her eyes settled briefly on a pair of fellow shadow warriors who gave her a barely perceptible nod under their cowls; four would have to do then. “Wait for General Kasheli,” she barked to the rest, dragging on the bright wizards cloak still in her hand as she moved forward again; “On my target, we start on the right and work our way across the wall. Clear the bastards off!”

With four it was a bit dodgy, once the enemy realized what she was doing they returned the favor ten-fold; she flashed the young mage a smile as she forsake the rest of the regiment and crowded closer to the foursome’s slow progress to fend off the sorcerer’s painful rain. Still the ram was rattling the gates hard and the oil had been laid waste; things seemed mildly more hopeful for a positive outcome. She gave a quick glance behind to ensure the small remainder had stayed with Kasheli, only to find a sharp curse on her lips; they were all gone and her quick scan of the melee did not turn up the General’s boyish face. For a moment she was conflicted; something nagged that she should go find him and ensure his safety, but the battle demanded her here harrying the walls for the siege. She bristled at his arrogance with her, as if she were some slave to his whims, some mere soldier to obey his orders. Such treatment was not something to be rewarded. She growled softly as she unloaded on the next convenient target, finding a measure solace as he went down under the overwhelming barrage from her companions. The background noise of battle picked up abruptly, drawing her eyes to the gate as a mob of enemies poured out, laying waste to her front lines. “Cover on the gate,” she screamed over the din to her companions, scowling a bit at their slow reaction in changing targets; if they had even heard her at all. The front line of her regiment was thinning and widening at an alarming rate as it fell back before the onslaught of soldiers pouring from the now shattered gates. “Keep it tight and ease your way into the ‘ol girl,” she yelled trying to keep the frantic hint out of her voice, but it was already too late; their momentum was ebbing. “Fall back and rally west,” she barked, cursing sharply she fell back with them. Again she scanned for Kasheli, he had taken her second wave somewhere and she needed them NOW. A torrent of soft Elven curses fell from her lips as her eyes turned up empty yet again - he’d abandoned the push and run off on some fool quest for glory she was sure; so hard to find worthy Generals...

A sharp scream of pain broke her search; spinning around to find the vicious blades of a Tulluch extracting from the young mages back; the pain and fear filling the poor girls eyes tore brief sympathy and a deep rage from her heart. With a dark snarl she dropped her bow and launched herself at the bitch; it was too late for the unfortunate young woman, but vengeance upon the kin slayer was demanded. The woman was so lost in her bloodlust she didn’t even seem to feel her impalement; her voice alluring in its frenzied prayers to Khaine even as her near naked body slid down the blade. Time seemed to slow as she caught the dying Drucii in her arms, the flow of bodies creating an calm eye of the storm as it parted around them; she couldn’t help but run her hand over the smooth curve of the dark elves hip, delighted fingers tasting the undoubtedly sweet sweat that gathered on the bare midriff that abruptly ran hot with blood as she extracted her sword. For a brief moment she held the elf’s eyes, so beautiful in their unwavering dedication to Khaine even in death; she sacrificed her life without motive and without question. Slowly, reverently, she lowered the Drucii to the ground and brushed her fingers over her dull eyes offering a whispered prayer for her return to Khaine. A sharp whistle snapped her out of her reverie, her head coming up to catch sight of one of the shadow warriors who had helped clear the walls as he trotted back to her. He held out her bow silently, shadowed eyes flickering with curiously from beneath his cowl; she shook her head faintly at his unasked questions. Standing up and offering him a nod of thanks as she reclaimed her bow. “Do you fear your death?,” she asked quietly, studying what little of his face was visible beneath the leathered mask most of her kin elected to wear. His eyebrows flicked up slightly before he reigned in the display, tightening his jaw and shrugging; he belied his nonchalance though, fear shadowing swiftly across widened eyes. She held back her expression of disappointment and turned silently from him. “To death,” she chuckled softly to herself as she notched an arrow and began to trot through the steadily thinning flow of fleeing troops toward the breached gates.

Breathing a prayer to Khaine unto her arrow she let loose on the first enemy she saw; a marauder burying his morphed sword arm into an unknown soldiers back. She was in the process of leveling another shot on the monstrosity when movement high on the walls caught her attention. “Kasheli,” she hissed the name out in a brief fit of rage; unleashing her readied bolt into the marauder with an angry flourish. A lone Dawi was forging handily through the enemy thick upon the turrets; ‘her’ reserve troops tailing him with the General and striking out from behind the relative safety of his shield. “I do hope your aim is true Brother,” she quipped over the din as she took aim at the enemies stuck in the dam of the Dawi’s shield. Long bows sang out in a double twanged rhythm as they methodically fired into the stagnant pool of bodies upon the wall. Her ground forces rallied at the sight of Kasheli, surging up from behind to engage the onrushing defenders. The defense didn’t last as long as she’d hoped, the enemy moral snapped under the fierce rally and they quickly fell victim to their individual cowardice’s to flee recklessly to their deaths. The gate was down, the walls were picked clean, and the few remaining enemies were being cut down in their tracks. An eerie quiet drifted in on the perfume of blood and death, a few remaining screams of anguish echoing into forgotten history. A loud cheer rushed across the battlefield, her eyes sliding from the target of another loosed arrow to the center wall where General Kasheli stood waving his sword triumphantly over his head as though he’d won the day. The vengeful twang of her bowstring was lost in the roar of victory, a malevolent smile twisting her lips as she whispered a soft prayer for the arrows guidance in Anogeyan; “For Khaine, my Brother.”

A hand wrapped around the curved arm of her bow, it’s jerking attempt to stop her shot coming far too late as she released the bow into his hand; beneath his draped cowl his shadowed eyes flashed with anger, disappointment, and perhaps even a faint hint of recognition... “Traitor!,” two voices rang out in unison, rising above the shout of concern as Kasheli’s body clattered off the walls and hit the ground with a sickening crunch. Her galith made a sweeping golden arc through the air, slicing clean through the wooden arm of her handed off bow in a splintering crack and ping of the tightly pulled string. With a vipers speed her sword tip found the small of his throat, pushing through the faint resistance with a vicious snarl; her violent thrust lifting the Asur feet from the ground and sending him staggering backward. Holding fast to her sword and giving the blade a tweak to leverage upon the strength of his skull she drew him nearer to her face; “Never let down your guard, for that is when your enemies will strike at thine heart,” she advised in whispered Eltharian. Then letting loose her sword, she allowed his body to continue its backward fall into the opening created within the scattering of the crowd around them. She glared down at the gurgling Asur for a moment then spat upon his face. “Weak minded fool!,” she barked, switching to common for the shocked onlookers benefit, “The poisoning of the mind spreads to our own ranks and befuddles even my proud kinsmen!” Oh such irony… She shook her head and pitched a sorrowful tone, pushing moisture into her eyes, “Ever we must watch one another’s backs for the betrayal of those fallen sway to the deceptions of the ruinous powers.”

She found it quite difficult to keep the devious amusement from her solemn countenance as soldier after soldier gave their telling of the events that had conspired. In the quick inquisition into Kasheli’s murder most offered at least a word to her defense; the young farmer lauded her inspiration, and another retold her vengeance of the Saphyrian mage’s death, even the human wizard gave a scant offering in his telling of her strategy to clear the walls. Only the regiment captain’s, hesitantly and with marked reluctance, brought any question to her word in their retelling of her “theft” of the army. Rather easily diluted by the fact that the “good” General had indeed run off on a quest for selfish glory, and unquestionably Kasheli’s brash reckless tactic of storming the postern would have failed miserably had she not been doing ‘his’ duty leading the proper attack on the gates. So even while they led her quietly off the battlefield in shackles, she was quite confident that Khaine would ensure she prevailed within the more formal halls of Altdorf; certainly her willing offer of her blade to the Emperor’s service was a huge asset to finding her ‘innocent’ of any crime, despite the scant few who proclaimed to have seen pale fingers within the arrows fletch.


Alas, there were punishments of a sort…

“Justice does have a certain taste,” she mused, lifting the proffered mug of celebratory ale from the tabletop and eyeing the sudsy head for a moment, “I’d not consider it this exactly, but a humble soldier must make time to toast her men’s victory, aye?” Her hesitant smile blanched faintly into disgust as she quaffed the swill to raucous cheers. While she’d escaped punishment for her vengeance, she’d been saddled with a regiment of fools. As she watched the drunken imbeciles dance and sing her thoughts waxed and waned somewhere between getting the lot of them killed to be rid of their annoyance, and taking the assignment seriously enough to lead them to victories and glory. Khaine was silent upon the fates of the other races; leaving her to sort out their fate without his guidance. Highly displeasing at the moment, but perhaps having a ready supply of shields would be a fortunate thing in the future… If she could convince these fools to stand by her honor and her word there was no end to the bloody mischief she could mete out to entertain herself until Khaine called upon her to resolve the political morass back home. Pale fingers found the cracked rose hued stone upon her breast of their own volition, savoring the sharp edges and reveling in recalled whispers; Tools come in many unexpected forms... “Yes… I think I shall have another,” she said loudly, dropping the empty mug on the tabletop and clapping the nearest soldier’s shoulder affectionately; a soft muscled lass who couldn’t have seen more than a hundred moons. “You will be a favorite,” she whispered in Eltharian to a delighted smile and sparkling eyes, “T'would serve mine tastes well enough,” she laughed stealing the woman’s drink with a wink. As she sipped the pilfered wine her eyes lingered on the young Asur’s oblivious laughter. How lovely she’d look with a proper hadrilkar strung about her neck...