A Tale of Plague and Pestilence - The Story

[Monsterzonk]

Hey there!

As some of you might know, this story started out as part of my Warriors of Chaos project log. Initially it was not intended to be extended this far, but by popular demand I was writing more and more. I am mostly making this story up as I go, but I do have an idea where I'm going.
Unfortunately the story that was meant to be a bit of background fluff for my army eventually got so extensive, that the WarSeer Inquisition demanded I start a separate thread here.
I must say I'm not too happy with this, as the story has greatly influenced my army building and vice versa. But it's not all bad, as a friend of mine was inspired to draw some artwork based on the fluff I'd written, and that I'll post here together with the story. Somehow I cannot add pictures directly to the post. Attachments will have to suffice, I'm afraid...

Important note: All the artwork you see here is not by me but by a friend of mine. Big thanks to him!

Cheers,
Monsterzonk

[Monsterzonk]

So let's begin...

A Tale of Plague and Pestilence

After the Empire had weathered the Storm of Chaos unleashed by the so-called ‘Everchosen of Chaos’, the dreaded Archaon, plague and starvation were rife in the northern provinces and the people still suffered from pockets of Chaos followers that had yet to be cleansed from the Empire’s lands. Especially Nordland, Ostland and Ostmark suffered badly from hunger and sickness. Their crops had been burnt and their cattle had been slaughtered by the rampaging marauders of the north. Beastmen and other foul beings were roaming the woods, preying upon the weakened humans.
The village of Stervensfurt suffered no less from plague and starvation than the rest of the Empire’s northern settlements. Most men were dead, having been drafted to the armies of Emperor Karl-Franz during the war, and the women and children were weakened from hunger. Families hid in their homes, not willing to share what little they had left with the rest of their community. Plague befell the villagers, and several died and were buried hastily in the garden of Morr. The people of Stervensfurt grew ever more desparate, fearing the dreadful winter that was to come.
One day, though, a stranger came to the village. He was dressed in rags and his skin was sickly pale. At first the villagers attempted to drive the man from their community, but the stranger made a very tempting offer. He claimed that he could heal the sick and save their lives, and all he wanted in return was the bodies of those even he wouldn’t be able to save anymore. All of this stank of witchcraft, but in their desparation the villagers accepted.
The stranger had the diseased brought to the village’s temple and then locked himself inside. No-one could tell what went on in the temple, but after a day the stranger emerged, together with several villagers that were already feeling better. Even though their bodies still spoke of the plague they had suffered, they claimed that they’d feel better and healthier than ever before. After several days most of the sick had emerged from the temple, all claiming to be healed, but some of the villagers had not survived.
The people of Stervensfurt rejoiced. They had overcome the plague’s grip and now even the fast approaching winter did not seem so forbidding anymore…

… After the sick had all either died or been healed, the stranger loaded the corpses on a ramshackle cart and disappeared into the woods. None dared to follow him, as, truth be told, none wanted to find out exactly who or what had saved them.
Rumours and stories about the mysterious healer spread, and it was not long before Baron von Gruber sent out messengers to find the man who apparently had saved many villages in his barony from the deadly plague. The Baron’s daughter, Emilia, had also fallen sick and was growing weaker with every passing day, and none could ease her suffering. Von Gruber swore to greatly reward any man that would save his daughter.
Eventually the healer was found and brought before the Baron. He had changed since his first appearance. He was no longer gaunt and thin, but obviously had eaten very well (or at least much) over the past months, and his skin also looked healthier.
To save Emilia, the stranger demanded nothing less than her hand, should she survive. The baron pondered long about this offer, but in the end von Gruber had no choice but to accept, and the stranger locked himself and his new bride in her rooms, while Morrslieb rose on the horizon, casting his malign light over the Empire. Geheimnisnacht had come…

… When the sun had completely set and Morrslieb solemnly ruled the dark sky, all those that had been healed by the stranger rose as one and set off into the darkness of the woods. Their families and homes were left behind without a word, and none could hold them back. Confused villagers gathered in the night, wondering where their beloved ones had disappeared to, and fearing to find out the answer.
Meanwhile, in von Gruber’s manor, tortured screams could be heard from inside Emilia’s bedroom. In fear the baron summoned his guards and ordered them to force entrance. Five men hammered against the heavy oaken doors, but they could not break them. The howling from inside intensified, changing in tone and quality, and now sounded not even human anymore. The guards fled in fear of the dark magicks that were unleashed in the bedroom. Only the baron remained, hacking frantically away at the doors with his sword.
Finally the heavy doors gave in and burst open. Von Gruber was hit by a foul stench that made his eyes water and his stomach cramp, but he forced himself onwards and entered the room, his vision still blurred by the tears. The screaming had intensified even more, piercing the baron’s head as he stumbled forwards.
There was another noise. It was low and brooding, and scared him even more than the permanent howling. When his eyes finally cleared, he witnessed a scene too terrible to behold, and he dropped to his knees. His daughter, the beloved Emilia, lay on her bed, her face contorted in pain. She was bleeding from her nose, eyes and ears, and hands clenched the bed-posts. Von Gruber howled in terror and grief.
The so-called healer stood at the other side of the bed. His eyes closed and his chest bare and daubed in foul runes and symbols that made the baron throw up when he focussed on them. The tainted one had not yet witnessed von Gruber. He was chanting dark words of sorcery the baron could not understand, though he could feel they were of utmost evil.
Then it happened. Von Gruber blinked, his mind not capable, or not willing to understand what his eyes witnessed. Something was moving inside his daughter. Her chest twitched and for a brief moment von Gruber could see a face strechting Emilia’s skin from inside. He was numbed. Terror clasped his heart and forbid him to move. The thing inside his daughter moved up her neck, twisting and quivering under her soft skin. The screaming got louder, as did the stranger’s chanting.
Mobilizing all his will, von Gruber got to his feet and moved towards the foul sorcerer, his sword in hand. He dared not look at his daughter in fear of what he might see, so he concentrated on the chanting man beside her bed, who still was not aware of his presence.
Baron von Gruber lunged out with his blade and buried it deep in the sorcerer’s fat belly. Foul pus and ichor splattered over his arms. Finally the sorcereor stopped chanting and opened his eyes, recognizing von Gruber. The wound did not seem to affect him. There was no scream, nor did he fall.
The baron wrestled to yank out his sword when a meaty fist hit him hard in the chest. ‘Fool!’, the stranger yelled in a coarse and angered voice.
Von Gruber struggled for breath – at least one rib was broken. He toppled to his knees, his hands releasing the sword. The dark one ignored his pain and bent over Emilia, examining the girl closely, blood from his wound besmeared her bed. Horrified, the baron realized that the wound was already healing, much faster than should have been possible.
With a snarl the sorcerer turned his gaze to von Gruber and spat out a clump of slime. ‘You thwarted it’, he said. ‘We were so close…’
Still struggling for breath von Gruber could only stare back defiantly, as the tainted one approached him slowly. There was nothing he could do anyways. Whatever the stranger had tried to do to his daughter was averted, and that was what mattered. She would be safe.
‘You are right, Baron, she will be safe. For now.’
It took some time for von Gruber to realize the content of these words, but when his numbed mind finally did he froze in terror.
‘That is right. You have delayed me, yes. But there will be another Geheimnisnacht. She will be mine, and you cannot do anything but watch me take her.’
‘No’, the baron stammered.
‘Yes’, the stranger replied with an evil grin and grabbed von Gruber’s face in his sweaty hands, squeezing his skull painfully. The baron struck out at the thick arms tormenting him, but to no avail. The Chaos-worshipper lifted him off the ground and smashed him against the wall. Another rib broke with a disgusting crack, and von Gruber collapsed. His opponent stood above him, cackling, and reached into a filthy pouch hanging from his belt.
‘Yes’, he repeated, ‘you will watch.’
His hands emerged again, coated in a stringy, black liquid.
‘You will watch and enjoy and praise Father Nurgle when I rip out your daughter’s soul.’
With these words he smeared the dark, stinking paste across von Gruber’s face.
The baron felt a burning pain on his skin. He tried to scream, but the black ooze was clogging his lips. He heard a distant laughter as he tried to rub off the pestering slime. It was in his mouth and nose, choking him. He was blinded and could feel piercing tendrils of darkness thrusting down his throat and into his head. The pain increased even more and he was near unconsciousness. He flailed about with his arms, trying to grab something – anything – that would ease his suffering.
With von Gruber laying on the ground, wincing and defiled, the sorcerer turned towards his bride again, who was still laying on the bed unmoving. He had been so close. But it did not matter. His time would come again and he would finally triumph.
He looked back at von Gruber. He had underestimated this man, but he posed no threat anymore. The ichor would soon reach his brain and eradicate his will. The baron would make a good servant.
The dark one picked up his bride and stepped onto the balcony. Down below him in the courtyard hundreds of torches burned. His army was assembled. They were the ones he had healed from the plague when he had visited their miserable villages. They had all sold their souls to Nurgle just to breathe only once more and to feel their heart beat with life. Now the time had come and they awaited his commands…

… ‘So he found his vessel?’, Corhânathor asked.
‘Yes, Archmage, he did’, the Shadow Warrior replied in the typical low voice of his folk.
‘Then our failure is complete.’
The scout kept silent.
‘What else have you seen?’
‘The manor is abandoned. There are a few corpses, presumably of those that resisted the cursed one. The livestock has been slaughtered. The tracks lead to the north, Archmage.’
‘To the north? Then he has failed…’, Corhânathor said, is voice fading slowly as his mind investigated the possibilities.
‘Archmage?’, the Shadow Warrior asked hesitatingly.
‘He must have failed’, the sorcerer replied. ‘If he had succeeded he would have moved to the west. To the temple.’
‘What do we do, lord?’
‘Burn the manor. Then assemble the host. Maybe we can cleanse ourselves from our failure.’
‘Yes, lord’, the gaunt warrior replied. At a small gesture his brethren emerged from the woods around. They were instructed silently and moved off towards the human’s manor, leaving Corhânathor alone in the darkness.
Thoughts flickered through the mage’s mind, erratic and blurred. He took a deep breath and focussed, his body relaxing slowly. The dark one had failed. How? Corhânathor knew not, nor did it matter. His failure could still be amended, and that was what mattered. Not all was lost…

… He sat alone in the darkness. Pain tormented his face and constrained his thoughts. There were others around him. Just schemes, silent and blurry. He was sure they were mocking him, teasing him. He ignored them. They were all dead, they just did not know yet. They were just products of his tortured mind.
Thoughts flickered through his brain, but he could not grasp them. He tried hard to remember, but the pain numbed him. He wanted to scream, but he hesitated. He would just stir the shadows around him. Why was it so hard to focus?
He rubbed his burning face. If only the pain would go away. He was sure he would remember then. There was blood on his fingers and he wiped them clean. His cloak was already coated with dried blood.
Was it all his own?
He did not know.
Did it matter?
No.
The schemes approached him again. He ignored them and their whispering. They were dead. Did they not know? This time they came closer than ever before. A rag of sackcloth was tossed into his face. He grabbed it and rubbed his torn skin clean of the blood.
Suddenly his thoughts cleared for a brief moment. He saw a young girl laying on her bed. A light burnt within her chest, dark somehow, yet promising salvation. But she was fighting it, struggling to push it back into the darkness from whence it came. Why did she do that?
Emilia.
What was that? A name? He did not know, but a nagging in the deepest recesses of his mind told him that he should.
The name was gone and left a bitter aftertaste in his thoughts. What was happening?
Another fragment of thought slammed into his skull, smashing aside his musings. He saw a bloated figure. Its huge body was torn and bleeding. Fat maggots and rotten vultures feasted on its flesh. Yet it seemed to enjoy every little bit of it. Every running sore and every bursting blister was a cause of joy. He envied this being. His own body was torn apart in pain, and there was no joy in this. If just the pain would stop he would surely remember.
And he needed to remember.
Or did he not?…

… The greasy stench of burnt flesh hung in the air like noisome fly, its piercing tendrils swelling and fading with the wind. The red glow of burning homes lit the dark sky, clouds of smoke obscuring the moons.
Cautiously the High Elves moved between the magled corpses, their faces masks of stone. The flames reflecting from their fine armour. Corhânathor walked slowly through the village. He could feel the tormented souls of the slain still haunting the place.
The Shadow Warriors had discovered the defiled village a few hours ago, and the Archmage had insisted on surveying the works of the Ruinous Powers with his own eyes, despite the scouts’ warnings.
The human village had been overrun, the residents had been slaughtered with utmost violence. Some of the torn corpses still clutched improvised weapons, but it was obvious that they had not posed any threat to the rampaging followers of the Dark Gods. The bodies were horrifically disfigured. They had not made any difference between man, woman or child. All villagers had died a horrible death defending their homes. The High Elf felt pity. Not that humans mattered to him, but no living being deserved to be slaughtered like that, no matter how crude and barbaric it might be.
‘Lord?’, Yvriel of the Swordmasters approached him, ‘We have found a survivor.’
Corhânathor followed the tall warrior, who fastidiously paid attention not to stain his robes in the villagers’ blood.
In the settlement’s temple square a lone figure was kneeling, slowly tilting back and forth. The Elven warriors around eyed the human in disgust. He was old in his people’s terms, though not yet an adult by Elven measure. His hair and beard were white and filthy, his face wrinkled. Blood dripped from his empty eye sockets and big pustules distorted his bare chest. The man was constantly murmuring the same words, not aware of the Elves.
‘Sigmar, deliver us from the darkness… They have come… Sigmar… Chaos… No!’
‘His mind is long gone, Yvriel’, Corhânathor said woefully, ‘Give him peace.’
The Swordmaster nodded grimly and drew his long blade from the sheath on his back. With a perfect swing of the blade he decapitated the kneeling human, who silently slid to the ground amongst his murdered kin.
‘May Lileath forgive me’, Yvriel whispered…

… The schemes were dancing before him, lit from behind by crackling flames. Waves of heat brushed over him, but still his heart felt cold.
Why were they dancing?
He knew not.
The shadows approached him, but he could feel their fear. These were not the schemes that usually surrounded him. They were others, yet still they did not know they were dead. Their dancing grew more fervent the closer they got to him.
One of the shadows lunged at him, and he felt a slight stinging in his chest. Before he could react, the figure had danced past him. Another one approached, trying to sting him again. But this time he would not allow this disrespect, and he struck out with his axe. The scheme evaporated in a satisfyingly red mist. He could smell blood in the air.
The other shadows backed off again, their ghostly forms writhing in fear.
What were they afraid of?
They were dead.
What did the dead fear?
Him?
He licked a clump of dried blood from his lips. His face somehow still had not stopped bleeding. But it did not matter.
Another shadow danced towards him, again piercing his flesh, stinging like some annoying insect. He brought the axe down and was rewarded with another red cloud. He reached out to touch it, but he was too slow. The scheme still twitched annoyingly at his feet.
Why did he not accept his death?
He brought the axe down again, and the shadow finally lay still. But even more approached him, dancing around him and stinging his skin. Slowly anger rose in his chest, blurring his vision. He swung his axe, and two of the shadows vanished in red mist. He felt a sting in his back and revolved sharply, his fist narrowly hitting another scheme that had sneaked up from behind. With a crack the figure was hurled backwards and lay still, though there was no red mist this time.
Bellowing in anger he once again lunged out with his axe. And again.

Standing atop the hill the bulky figure looked down into the village, where his servant was fulfilling his fate. Von Gruber massacred his way through the settlement, leaving dismembered bodies in his wake. The flames of burning houses were reflected by the skinless, bloody mass that had once been his face. The former baron was bleeding from several wounds the desparate defenders had managed to inflict with their makeshift weapons, but he ignored them completely. He was truly blessed by Nurgle…

[Elazar The Glorified]

I really love the fluff that goes with your army. It's top stuff, very well written and really captures the ethos of the Warhammer world, the empire, the elves, and Papa Nurgle with your own unique spin on it which is good. Shame you have to have this separate from your army plog. Your friend's drawing of von Gruber is really good also. Pass on my compliments!

[FurryMiguell]

Ah, finally, I've been waiting for this! Hope you will still update as you did before,, with some fluff, then some painting, repeat step 1 and 2

Cheers

[Monsterzonk]

Thank you both, guys!
Glad you like the drawings! I'll make sure to pass that on.

Here's some more of the old stuff:

… The scene he witnessed was awfully familiar. Mangled and charred corpses were strewn betweem the black skeletons of burnt houses. The ground itself was stained in the dried blood of those that had been slaughtered in this place.
It was the fourth village they had found in this manner. Its inhabitants murdered and left to rot. Fat flies and maggots feasted on the swollen flesh of the dead. Crows circled above in the cloudy sky.
A strange quietness had seized this desecrated place. Even the constant buzz of the flies somehow was swallowed and silenced.
‘Why are they doing this?’, Yvriel asked quietly. ‘Soon they will stir the men of the Empire.’
‘Yes, Yvriel’, Corhânathor replied, ‘But that is exactly what the evil one intends. He has broken the minds of good men to form his army. Now he will have to re-forge their minds in the heat of battle. An attack will only increase his strength.’
‘Then what do we do? Shall we warn the humans?’
‘No!’, the mage answered sharply. ‘None must know of our failure. We must be patient now and wait for the time that we may strike.’
‘Then we will condemn even more villages to such a fate, lord!’
‘You speak true, Yvriel, and my heart bleeds. But we cannot risk that the dark one might reach his goal. If those people must die, then be it so. Ultimately their sacrifice will be avenged.’
‘As you command, Archmage’, Yvriel said and bowed his head…

… The Shadow Warrior silently emerged from the dark woods and approached the Elven camp. His steps fell softly and left no trail behind him. The moonlight was caught by the scales of his armour.
He walked towards the great tent in the center of the encampment, his eyes constantly moving and examining the surroundings. With a nod he passed the two Swordmasters that were guarding the entrance.
‘What is it?’, Corhânathor asked as the lean Elf entered.
‘Haethoran sends me, lord’ the warrior replied. ‘We have been watching the road to the east, as you commanded. Soldiers of the Empire are marching northwards.’
‘How many?’
‘Several hundred, archmage. Including heavy cavalry and several warmachines. They are intent on facing the host of the cursed one.’
‘Fools’, Corhânathor hissed. ‘Summon Yvriel, then return to your post.’

Hermann von Hohenfels sat in the saddle uneasily. He was eager to administrate Sigmar’s justice. The enemy had already butchered the populace of four entire villages, and he would rather die than let them prey on another one. He was a Knight of the Twin-Tailed Orb, sworn to Sigmar and the Emperor, and he would honour his oaths. No matter who or what had killed those people, he would hunt them down.
Behind him his fellow brothers in arms rode down the muddy road in silence, each of them murmuring prayers to Sigmar. Several regiments of Ostermark state troops were following the armoured knights in neat ranks. Hermann’s chest swelled with pride. Who could hope to withstand the stubborn discipline of the Empire’s soldiery? He would gain a glorious victory in the name of Sigmar.

‘We cannot allow them to attack the dark host, Yvriel’, Corhânator said urgently. ‘They will fail. They will die, butchered as another sacrifice to the Dark Gods.’
‘These ignorant humans will not heed our advice, lord. You know that.’
‘Yes, Yvriel, I do know that’, the sorcerer replied sadly.
‘Then there is only one way.’
‘Indeed, Yvriel. Our path is set.’
The tall warrior left the tent with a grim nod. Corhânathor could hear him issuing orders outside. Yet more blood would stain his hands.

Von Hohenfels restrained his horse in irritation. His scouts had not reported back yet. They were half an hour late now. He scanned the edge of the woods around him. His fellow knights tensed, their hands held close to their swords.
‘Something is wrong’, Hermann said.
‘Sir?’
‘The huntsmen should have reported back half an hour ago…’
The words had not completely faded when the knight next to von Hohenfels was hurled backwards. A white-feathered arrow protruding from his helmet’s visor. Another arrow ricocheted from his cuirass. Hastily von Hohenfels grabbed his lance.
Screams of pain and confusion erupted along the lines. State troops desparately tried to form a shield wall, and Handgunners fumbled with black powder, even as more and more arrows hit the confused humans. His men were dying, killed by unseen foes.
‘Rally to me!’, Hermann shouted. ‘They’re in the trees! Advance!’
The Knights of the Twin-Tailed Orb spurred their horses and galloped towards the tree line.

Yvriel coldly examined the human battle line. The infantry was in disorder, their officers struggling to regain control. The arrows had taken a heavy toll on the lightly armoured humans. A few men tried to wheel around a mortar, but the Swordmaster knew the Shadow Warriors were already stalking them. That crude machine would never fire.
The thunder of galloping hooves caught his attention. A formation of knights had left the battle line and raced towards the Elves hidden in the forest.
‘Brothers’, Yvriel said calmly, ‘those belong to us.’
As one the Swordmasters drew their long blades. The knights had almost reached the tree line when they realized that there were no foes they could impale with their long lances. The trees formed a natural obstacle against a cavalry charge. Cursing the knights reined their mounts.
That was the moment Yvriel had been waiting for. Bereft of their only advantage, speed, the knights were easy prey for the Elven warriors, who charged from the tree line. The humans’ armour proved useless against the finely crafted Elven blades. With ruthless efficiency the knights were slain where they stood, though some still offered resistance.
Meanwhile the Elven archers had redirected their fire away from the knights and concentrated on the infantry, which had finally managed to form a coherent battle line and advanced to relieve the knights. The handgunners also had regained their nerve and fired a volley into the trees. The first of the Elves died.

Hermann von Hohenfels struck out at the Elven warrior that beset him, but somehow the long blade again was there to parry his blow. He wanted to know how the battle went, but he was afraid to lose focus only for a mere moment. These treacherous Elves were simply too fast. Hermann narrowly managed to parry a blow against his belly. He spurred his horse to rear up, forcing the Elf to back off.
Von Hohenfels looked around. His brothers stood no chance against this foe. Without the safety of speed they were easy prey to the Elven blades. Of the dozen knights that had accompanied him, merely seven were still in their saddles and fighting. As far as he could tell not a single Elf had fallen yet. Finally the infantry was advancing. They only needed to hold out a little longer.
A horn sounded from within the woods, and orderly ranks of Elven spearmen emerged from the tree line, moving to intercept the Empire’s infantry. Gleaming spear tips reflected the sunlight.
From the corner of his eye von Hohenfels could glimpse shadowy figures rising from the ground behind his artillery. A cold hand gripped his heart.

The clumsy human formation too late recognised the Elven infantry emerging from the woods. They desparately tried to manouvre around to face the new threat, but they were too slow. The Elves hit them in the flank and pushed deep into the human battle line. Meanwhile the Shadow Warriors mercilessly cut down the mortar crew.
Yvriel killed another knight with a wide swing of his long blade. The man silently slid out of his saddle, the perfectly executed death blow giving him no chance to scream. A horse reared up in front of the Swordmaster and he was forced to jump back. The hooves flailed out, but missed him. The horse’s rider, a broad man with a snobbish red plume on his helmet and an embroidered cloak around his shoulder, spat out and tried to rein his mount. Yvriel jumped forwards, his blade aiming at the weak spot in the man’s armpit.
The human surprisingly managed to parry the sword and strike back. Yvriel dodged the sword with ease and struck out again, offering his opponent no chance but to unseat himself in order to avoid being hit. The man fell to the ground inaptly while his horse fled in panic.

Von Hohenfels struggled to get on his feet. That damn Elf had really managed to unhorse him and stain his knightly honour. What made this even worse was the fact that this pesky, pointy-eared excuse for a warrior did not strike the killing blow, but simply stood there watching his fruitless efforts to stand up again, a broad grin on his gaunt face.
‘Damn you!’, Hermann spat and tossed away his dented helmet.
‘No’, the Elf replied in a soft and melodious voice, ‘It was you who nearly damned himself. We saved you.’
‘Ha! You saved us? You ambushed us! You killed my men!’
‘Yes, we did that. But nevertheless we saved you from a fate far worse. I know that you will not accept this truth, and I do not care if you ever will. You have no choice, human. Your men have already fled and left you behind. You are free to follow them … if you can’, the Elf said and eyed his heavy suit of armour in amusement.
Hermann snarled, but the Elf had vanished from his vision before he had found a fitting answer…

… It was time again. The sun had set and the moons were rising. Soon it would be time. They would come again, like they had every night before. They would come and take her to him.
She cowered at the back of the tent, where the shadows were dark and deep. She knew that it did not matter. She could not hide from them. They would easily find her and drag her out of the safety of darkness, but nonetheless she hoped that this night might be different. Maybe they would not come. Maybe they would leave her alone tonight. Soon it must be time.

The bloated, naked figure approached the tent, a foul stench heralding its arrival. Hunched and emaciated slaves followed the behemoth, constantly whispering. Even more slave beings scuttled in front of the figure and scattered human entrails at its feet.
They passed a line of wooden stakes that were adorned with rotting corpses. A stench of decay pierced the nightly air, unsettling the slaves even more. The huge man coughed violently and spat out a lump of slime that was faithfully collected by one of the wretched slaves.
Von Gruber stood silently in front of the big tent made of human skin and awaited his Master’s arrival. Blood was dripping from his devastated face.
‘Is everything prepared?’, the Master demanded to know.
‘Yes, blessed one.’
‘Then bring my bride.’
Von Gruber approached the bride’s tent, which was richly decorated with shrunken heads and rotten intestines. Two heavily armoured knights stood in front of the entrance like a pair of rusted statues, the blades of their weapons shimmering in the malign light of the moons. Black eyes followed every move he made from behind their helmets’ visors, but still they did not move.
He ignored the whispering slaves following him. Wretched things they were, cowardly, stupid and frail. They carried the Master’s presents to his bride, just as every night before. Tonight it was a necklace made from women’s eyeballs, the shrunken head from a knight of the Empire, as well as his entrails, a new dress made from the skin of sacrificed children and emblazoned with holy runes written in blood.
The former baron passed the knights and entered the dark tent. The bride was crouching at the back. Her eyes were constantly moving as she was trying to avoid focussing on him. He knew she was afraid of him, but it meant nothing to him. The bride’s fingers were bloody as she had fervently gnawed on her nails. Her features were sunken in and her once black hair had turned white and was falling out.
‘Stand up’, von Gruber commanded. ‘The Master sends you these presents. He wishes that you join him tonight.’
The slaves entered and presented the gifts. The bride slowly got to her feet. Her once white dress was stained in blood and dirt and was flowing around her skinny body like a ghost. Just as every night before she ignored the presents offered to her and silently waited for von Gruber to escort her to the Master’s tent.

She silently followed the tall warrior through the camp. The light of torches reflected from the Chaos worshipper’s ornate armour. It reminded her of the gleaming armour of the proud knights of the Emperor, even though it was twisted and corrupted. Rust had corroded the steel plates, but still the armour seemed strong and impenetrable. A huge axe and several rusty daggers hung from the warrior’s belt, the blades still covered in the blood of their innocent victims. Yet, strangely, she somehow felt safe in this man’s presence.
She slowed her pace involuntarily, every bit of her being screaming out in fear of what was to come. She wanted to run. Run and find a place to hide where they would never find her. She would hide and be safe. No chains bound her and none of the Chaos scum had ever dared touching her, but still she could not summon the strength to flee.
The entrance of the Master’s tent was near now, dark like the gaping maw of some terrifying beast. Horrible totems and trophys decorated the rough leather it was made of. Strange runes were written all over it, forming words she could not understand.
Cold sweat ran down her back and her body was trembling with fear when they arrived at the entrance. The tall warrior turned and bowed, forcing her to look at the skinless, bloody mass that had once been his face. She felt sick and weak, and acrid bile collected in her mouth.
Her fear was unbearable now. She could barely stand, still somehow her feet started walking towards the dark maw in front of her. A violent stench struck her, as the darkness slowly engulfed her.
A slave hurried past her, carrying a smouldering splinter. One by one the hunched creature lit the big candles that were sitting in rusted candlesticks. Slowly a warm light pushed back the darkness.
There was the table, big, dirty, and rotten. An uncomfortable chair was waiting for her, just as every night before. A shiver ran down her spine. Her muscles tensed and her heart pounded heavily as panic gripped her soul. She slowly staggered forwards to grip her chair’s back. The wood felt humid under her hands. Fearfully she looked around.
The table was set with expensive, yet dirty crockery. Huge bowls filled with rotten meat and foul vegetables stood in the centre. Fat maggots crept across the table and bulbous flies buzzed above the decayed food.
‘Welcome, Mylady. I am glad that you accepted my invitation.’
Her disgusting host sat in a huge armchair at the other side of the table. A cruel smile was curling his wet lips.
‘Please, sit down.’
Hesitatingly she obeyed and sat down on her chair, dreading what was to come. More slaves appeared and filled her rusted chalice with a foul, seething brew.
The bloated creature raised its goblet in a toast and then swallowed the steaming liquid in one long gulp. Reluctantly she grasped her chalice and took a small sip. Immediately her mouth started burning and her stomach cramped, but still she managed to suppress a cough.
The first time she had been to the Master’s tent, so many nights ago, she had refused to drink and eat the rotten food. She would never do that again. Never again would she dare to evoke the Master’s anger, and she had the scars to remind her. That night, when they had finally dragged her back to her own tent, her back had been a bloody mass, infected with maggots that had gnawed at her tormented flesh. Even now, with so many nights having passed, the wounds sometimes burst open again. Since that night she obediently had taken part in this parody of a gourmet’s feast.
Tonight would be no difference. She would eat and quell the urge to spit out the decayed food. And then the pain would come. Cold fear gripped her heart. The pain was horrible, worse than anything she had ever experienced. She had hoped that her tormented body would get used to the pain, making her suffering easier. It had not.
The pain was what she dreaded most. She had lost her fear of death. She no longer feared being alone. All that had been washed out of her mind to make room for the all-encompassing fear of the pain, that had left nothing but blackness in her soul.
The Master’s voice interrupted her brooding and forced her mind to confront reality.
‘I hope you have enjoyed our meal, Mylady?’
She remained silent, sheer panic sealing her lips.
‘It is time’, he said.
No. Please, no. Her mind was numbed. Not yet. Please! But she said nothing. Instead she obediently stood up and walked to the bloodied, wooden frame at the back of the tent. She did not resist when a hunched slave tied her wrists and ankles tightly to the wood. She stood upright, held only by the leather that bound her arms. Had it not been for those shackles, her knees would surely have given in.
‘Then we may commence’, the Master’s voice sounded from somewhere behind her.
Panic washed away her thoughts, forcefully surging through her head and taking everything with it. She forgot her name. She forgot the tent and the Master. She forgot the past and the present. She forgot the future. Only her fear remained.
And then the fear was replaced with pain.
Hot and freezing pain.
Black and blinding agony.
It raged through her veins. Tore through her mind. Broke her sanity.
Then it intensified.
Ages passed. Suns were born and died again. Past and future amalgamated, spitting out endless threads of possibilities. And all of them led to one single fate: Death and decay.
Finally merciful darkness embraced her as her body collapsed…

[Monsterzonk]

… Hermann von Hohenfels hurried through the corridors of the castle that was his Order’s home. His face was grim, still brooding over the defeat at the hands of the treacherous Elves. Eight of the twelve Brothers that had accompanied him were either dead or too severely wounded to survive much longer. But the worst insult had been commited by the Elves when they had left him on the field of battle. They had denied him an honourable death and forced him to live on with his honour stained and defiled. He clenched his fists tightly at the thought. Manfred would not be pleased. His elder brother, the Grand Master of the Knights of the Twin-Tailed Orb, had always regarded his efforts slightly amused and had never considered him as an equal. Only his birthright had ensured his position within the order. And now even that was threatened.
When he arrived at the heavy oaken doors that led to the castle’s main hall he took a deep breath to calm down. Manfred certainly would heed his words less if he spoke them in anger. He straightened his back and pushed open the doors.
The main hall was lit by a cold light shining through high, arched windows and painting intricate patterns onto the heavy carpets. Candles flickered in their iron holders and dust danced in the air.
Manfred sat in his armchair at the back of the hall, raising a brow at Hermann’s entrance. Next to him stood a bald, broad figure, whose hands were resting calmly on a huge warhammer. So Brother Gunthar was also present. Hermann cursed under his breath. The old Priest of Sigmar was known for his stubbornness and his sharp tongue. Hermann did not like the old man, but his brother appreciated his advice.
‘Welcome back, brother’, Manfred’s voice rang out.
Hermann approached the seated Grand Master and bowed his head. ‘I am glad to be back home, brother.’
‘Yes, you are back. But the word of your failure has arrived before yourself.’
Hermann swallowed hard at these words, forcing himself to stay calm.
‘I …’ he began, but he was interrupted by the harsh voice of the Warrior Priest.
‘Save your breath! There is nothing for you to explain. You have failed. You have failed your Order, your Grand Master, and above all you have failed Sigmar. There is nothing you can say to convince me otherwise. Only your deeds may redeem your failure and restore your honour.’
‘We were ambushed!’, Hermann spat wrathfully. ‘They attacked us without any provocation! Now tell me, what would you have done, old man?’
‘I would have fought. And maybe I would have died. But never would I have run!’
‘You call me a coward, old man?’, Hermann roared, his had gripping his sword’s hilt.
‘You are losing control of your mind just as easily as you lost control over your army. So do not dare threatening me’, the Priest said calmly.
‘Enough!’, Manfred shouted. ‘Stop bickering like children and behave like the men that you are! Now, Hermann, tell me what led to this … unpleasantness.’…

… She awoke in her tent, her body curled up like a newborn and her vision still blurry. The pain was gone and had left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. She did not move, fearing that the pain might return. A burning thirst filled her throat.
Then she felt it. Something was different this morning. There was someone else in her tent. Immediately her heart started pounding heavily. She tried to calm down and pretend that she still was unconscious.
‘Good morning, Mylady’, the Master’s voice sounded, piercing deep into her mind. ‘I hope you have slept well.’
She still did not move.
‘You are wondering why I am here, are you not?’
She remained silent, still hoping that he might leave her alone.
‘I am here, Mylady, to make sure that you are alright. I know that you can feel it.’
She felt it. She had been feeling it for days, but she had suppressed it, forced it back into the deepest area of her mind. But still it had poisoned her thoughts. It had grown.
‘I know that you fight it.’
She fought it. She was desparately trying to keep it back, but it slowly took control. Tears washed away the filth that covered her sunken cheek. She shuddered.
‘Do not fight it, Mylady. It is futile. The seed is planted and will bear fruit.’
She knew he was right, but still she fought on.
‘It will ease your pain. Stop fighting the inevitable.’
The blackness in her mind rose. It forcefully broke through her defences and tore into her open mind. It smashed aside her fears and replaced them with hatred. It destroyed her weakness and exchanged it for wrath. It annihilated her memories and supplanted them with visions of death.
An inhuman roar filled the air. She had finally found her destiny…

… It was cold. Perfectly shaped snowflakes were peacefully floating down from the leaden sky above, and a clean, white sheet covered the frozen forms of torn bodies. The dead lay scattered on the hard ground. Iced blood glistened between patches of fresh snow.
She stood there, unmoving. The freezing wind pulled at her dress, but still she did not feel its icy bite. With a bloody hand she brushed a wisp of hair out of her gaunt face, leaving a smear on her cheek. She could feel her heart beat, yet still she felt dead. Again she raised her bloodied hands and looked at them for what seemed like an eternity. A single tear ran down her face.
Empty eyes were staring at her. Open mouths were accusing her. Frozen fingers were pointing at her. The dead knew. And the dead would never forgive.
Suddenly the memories smashed into her mind. Like a piercing blade they delved deep into her sanity.
Screaming faces passed her vision.
She had ripped out their throats with bare hands.
She had torn off their limbs.
She had wrenched their entrails from their frail bodies.
She had spilled their blood.
And a part of her had enjoyed it, while the other had cried.
She dropped to her knees, disgusted by her own deeds. Her tears were running unresistedly now, and a scream of agony and self-hatred shattered the quiet morning. She desperately hammered her bloodied fists into the frozen ground, relishing the pain. Finally she collapsed on the cold earth, coiled up like a newborn amidst the frozen corpses of those she had slain…

[Monsterzonk]

… The hard stone floor felt cold under his knees. The smell of incense filled the small chapel of the Order’s keep.
Brother Gunthar stood in front of the altar, fully armoured. He was lit from behind by several candles and in his right hand he held the badge of his office, a mighty, two-handed warhammer.
‘Lord Sigmar’, he exclaimed, ‘Grant us the strength to smite our foes. We shall not falter, for our way is rightous. Our hearts are faithful and our minds are pure.’
Hermann barely listened to the Warrior Priest’s cant. His mind was absent. Those Elves had thwarted his ambitions. He would have returned home in triumph, his mission fulfilled and the worshippers of the Dark Gods slain. His position within the Order of the Twin-Tailed Orb would have been assured. But the treacherous Elves had shattered his plans without any provocation. He clenched his fists at the thought.
This stain on his honour could only be washed away with blood. It had to be.
Manfred had granted his wish for redemption and had allowed Hermann to assemble another host. The year was drawing to a close and soon the first snow would fall. The days were short and cold and heavy rain had rendered most roads useless, yet still Hermann was determined to march north as soon as the weather would allow. This was his last chance for retribution. Manfred had indeed granted his wishes, but at the same time he had left no doubt that another failure would not as easily be tolerated.
Hermann could feel the anger rise again, and took a deep breath. Gunthar would not appreciate improper behaviour during the evening prayers. He forced his mind to focus on the priest’s words, pushing away any thoughts of revenge for the moment. His time would come.
‘You must seal your minds against the heresy of the Dark Gods. You must guard your thoughts with a fortress of faith. It is our most holy duty to seek out those that have sold their souls to darkness. Sorcerers, witches, they all must burn in the name of Sigmar!’
Hermann could feel the righteous fury that these words instilled in his brethren. The Knights kneeling in the chapel gripped the hilts of their swords, their eyes firmly set on Brother Gunthar, who now held his hammer in both hands above his head.
With these men under his command he would not fail again…

… The Shadow Warriors discovered the frozen corpses three nights later. A clean sheet of fresh snow covered the scene, and only stiff limbs reaching up from under the white spoke of the massacre this place had seen.
‘How many?’, Corhânathor asked wearily.
‘We cannot be certain, Archmage. At least fifty, including women and children’, Haethoran answered. The Shadow Walker was calm and unmoved by the horror they witnessed. For a short moment Corhânathor pitied this son of Nagarythe. The death of their homeland had changed these Elves forever.
A cold wind was arising, pulling at the Elves’ cloaks and whirling up the snow. Dead faces appeared, as their icy shroud was slowly pulled away. Corhânathor turned away, not willing to face their accusing gazes.
‘The Dark One is heading further north, lord’, Haethoran said in a slightly provocative voice. Corhânathor knew that the scout was eager to face the followers of the Ruinous Powers in battle, another legacy of ancient Nagarythe. He ignored the embittered warrior.
Yvriel was approaching them from the tree line of the dark forest where the host had made camp. ‘Archmage?’, the tall Swordmaster asked without even wasting a glance on the dead.
‘This place still reeks of dark and forbidden magic that has been unleashed here. This time it is different, though’, Corhânathor replied, pensively.
‘What do we do now, lord?’, Haethoran asked impatiently. Yvriel flashed him a disapproving glance, but remained silent.
‘With the snow setting in, I am not certain that we can pursue them further.’
‘Lord?’, Haethoran exclaimed. ‘We cannot let this go unpunished.’
‘It is not pertinent for you to question the Archmage’s decisions, Shadow Warrior’, Yvriel hissed.
‘Enough! I cannot have my lieutenants bickering about every decision. We have the advantage here, do you not see that, Haethoran? We know where the Dark One must go. And there we shall wait for him.’
‘I am sorry, Archmage. It was not my right to doubt your commands. May I suggest, however, that me and my men continue tracing the enemy? The sons of Nagarythe are used to wandering the wilderness and we are not afraid of the cold.’
‘Then be it so’, the mage decided. ‘We shall march back to the temple and prepare for the Dark One’s attack. And you, Haethoran, will be our eyes and ears.’
With their plans set the Elves left the dead without a word…

… He found the message when he returned to his rooms after the evening prayer. A small piece of parchment had been placed on his heavy, oaken writing table. At first he only stood there, wondering who would have been able to break into his rooms unseen. The door showed no signs of forced entry, nor did the windows.
But it did not matter. Someone had gone some lengths to accord him this message, so it had to be important. He picked it up carefully, without even knowing why he felt uncertain. Something about this was unsettling him.
Hesitantly he unfolded the parchment. The words were written with black ink: ‘The east tower, two hours before dawn.’
Hermann read the message twice, and then, driven by some vague instinct, quickly stepped over to the fireplace and tossed the parchment into the flames. He was breathing heavily now, but he forced himself to calm down. There surely was no reason to be alarmed.
He afforded himself a generous goblet of Bretonnian wine and set down in his armchair, pondering the consequences. He was quite certain that the message had been penned by one of his brethren within the Order, since no travellers were residing in the keep. If so, then that mysterious person somehow had a reason to mistrust Manfred. Being the Grand Master, all issues concerning the Order or its members fell into his responsibility. But this time, somebody was trying to elude Manfred’s attention, and that thought alone determined Hermann’s decision to attend this meeting.

The hours crept by slowly, while Hermann fought the sleep. Now he regretted having drunk the wine. His thoughts were vague and blurry, and he began cursing himself for his decision. But still he was determined to stay awake and see what this was about. He could sense the opportunity to turn his fortunes.
Finally the hour came and Hermann quietly hurried through the deserted corridors of the keep. The east tower had been vacant for decades and was only visited by the bats inhabiting its roof truss. Hermann would have to cross the keep’s courtyard to get to the abandoned tower. It was cold outside, but he was grateful for the guards were not straying far from their warming braziers. He kept close to the outer wall and stayed in the deep shadows as he made his way across the yard. He could hear the guards talking on the rampart above him.
When he arrived at the tower, he saw that the door was left ajar and he quickly slipped inside, pulling the door shut.
‘I am glad you decided to accept my invitation’, a voice sounded from the darkness. Hermann blinked as he tried to penetrate the shadows.
‘We are here because we both now that something must be changed’, the voice continued calmly. Hermann now could make out a shape in the dark. A broad figure was standing at the back of the room.
‘Are you willing to do what is needed, Hermann von Hohenfels?’
‘Yes…’, he stammered. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Good’, the figure said with a slightly amused undertone. ‘Then follow me.’
The hooded figure turned and opened a trapdoor. Slowly Hermann’s eyes started to penetrate the dark gloom of the chamber. Cobwebs hung from the dusty, wooden supporting beams, proving that the tower had not been used for years. Still he could not make out the man’s face.
Without any further word he disappeared into the darkness below. Hermann stood there for several moments, unsure what to do. The man’s voice had sounded strangely familiar, but it had a somehow unnerving undertone to it, that made Hermann hesitate. He was sure he knew this man. Since there was only one way to find out more about this mysterious stranger, he moved forward and climbed down the ladder.
Below him the figure stood in the shadows, his face still concealed, and produced a lantern from under his dark cloak. Hermann could hear the flint being struck and suddenly a warm light blinded his eyes. Before he could take a glimpse under the cowl the man turned and walked down the corridor, still remaining silent. Hermann followed without saying a word. He was sure his questions would be answered soon and he wanted to escape the cold within the narrow tunnel.
They walked on in silence for several minutes, and more than once Hermann struck his shoulders and arms on the irregular walls. Finally they arrived at a massive, wooden door that had been strengthened with bands of wrought iron.
The stranger turned around, once again blinding Hermann with his storm lamp.
‘You are sure that you want to proceed?’, he asked insistently.
‘I am’, Hermann said impatiently, not willing to play his part anymore. He wanted to know who he was talking to and what all this was about. And he was not used to waiting.
‘You brought me down here’, he continued. ‘You approached me. I am sure you knew what you were doing and that you can trust me. Or you are a fool. Frankly, I do not care, but still I am not willing to play this game anymore. Either tell me what you want of me, or I will leave.’
The hooded figure chuckled and turned around. Von Hohenfels grabbed his cloak, wanting to turn the man around to face him, but as soon as his hand touched the robes the man spun around and sharply punched him in his stomach. Unable to breathe, Hermann dropped to his knees and tasted bitter bile in his mouth.
‘Make no mistake, von Hohenfels. I make the rules down here’, said the man and opened the door. Warm light flooded the corridor and finally allowed Hermann to recognize the scarred face of Brother Gunthar, the old Priest of Sigmar. ...

... ‘Bring me the seer’, the fat sorcerer commanded with a gargling voice. Infectuous spittle flew from his gaping mouth, showing sharp, black teeth. The hunched slave creature bowed down and scuttled out of the tent, glad to leave the Master’s presence.
The Master himself picked up his goblet and pensively examined the foamy, rotten liquid. The Butcherman. That was what the mortals called him. He liked the sound. His attention was caught by one of the fat maggots writhing in the goblet. With his bulbous fingers he reached into the liquid and picked it up and shoved it into his mouth. Leaning back in the heavy chair made from rotting wood and padded with human skin, he scratched one of his purulent blisters, enjoying the colour of the ichor running from it. Father Nurgle had been generous with his blessings.
Just when he started to grow impatient, the hides banning the light from his personal domain parted and Gatrog entered the tent, bowing before his Master.
‘You bade me here, Lord?’, the seer asked. Gatrog’s skin was sore and covered in blisters, blemished by the dark magic that ran through his body. The Butcherman had early discovered the prophetic talent that slumbered within his apprentice, and today he once again had use for them.
‘You must read the signs’, the Master replied.
‘As you command, Foul One.’
Gatrog drew his long, rusty sword. The runes upon its blade were glowing in a sickly green colour, fuelled by the sorcerous power of its Master. In one quick sweep Gatrog slashed his Master’s swollen belly. The leprous skin tore easily and rotting entrails slid from the wound, attracting the fat flies that were buzzing around the Master.
The Butcherman calmly took another sip from his goblet, ignoring the severe, ragged cut. Murmuring to himself, Gatrog closely examined the pus and blood on the ground, while the wound was already closing itself, dragging the exposed bowels back into the Master’s body.
‘The Elves are withdrawing, Master’, Gatrog said with a coarse voice. ‘The time draws near. Father Nurgle has blessed our cause.’
For long moments the Butcherman sat on his throne in silence, until finally his whole body started to shake and a cruel laughter escaped his cracked lips.
‘Even after their disgrace these foolish Elves still retain their presumptuous arrogance’, he spat. ‘Everything works out as planned, Nurgle be praised.’...

... Haethoran carefully moved between the snow covered trees, his bow ready and an arrow loosely on the string. His brethren were moving besides him, even though he could barely see them. The warriors of ancient Nagarythe would only be seen if they wanted to. The thought of his lost homeland evoked conflicting feelings in his heart. He mourned the loss of the greatest Elven realm, and he hated his fallen kin for their deeds. His hands clenched the bow even tighter.
He admonished himself to concentrate on the present and, at least for a moment, ignore the painful past. They had been following the Chaos worshippers for days now. They were still marching north. He cursed the fact that Corhânathor had shied away from attacking them. They were evil creatures that should not be allowed to tread these lands. Nevertheless the Archmage had held back and now he had even retreated his host back to the temple, denying him any chance to avenge the fallen and to kill those abominations.
A low whistle interrupted his brooding. Haethoran froze and altertedly looked around. One of his men had seen something, even though it still evaded him. But he trusted his brethren. Slowly he dropped to one knee. The other Shadow Warriors were spread around him, mere schemes in the grey twilight between the trees.
Then he could hear it. A low braying sounded from deeper within the woods. He recognized the sound. Beastmen. They were coming from the east. Haethoran did not know whether they belonged to the horde they had been following, or if these woods were their home. He did not care either. With a few gestures he positioned his men to meet the beasts’ charge. Being honest he had to admit that he welcomed the fight.
Haethoran pulled the string of his bow, taking aim. Dark figures emerged between the trees, clad in thick fur and rusted chainmail. Huge fists were holding jagged swords and axes. Strong hooves carried them forwards at an astonishing speed.
The Shadow Warrior let loose the arrow, piercing a horned goat head at forty paces. His brethren joined the slaughter, taking down a Beastman with each arrow. Yet still the abominations kept coming, the distance between them decreasing rapidly.
Haethoran shot one last arrow before drawing his sword and dagger. With a wild warcry a huge beast hurled itself at the Elf, who smoothly dodged the spiked club only to turn and stab at his attacker’s neck. Warm blood sprayed from the wound and the Beastman fell, while Haethoran was already facing a new opponent. He parried an overhead blow with crossed blades, throwing the beast off balance. Pressing home his attack he forced his enemy backwards with a series of sharp blows before burying his dagger in the beast’s chest.
From the corner of his eye Haethoran could see Cyrathon beheading a Beastman with a wild backsweep of his blade. Further back another of his brethren was still sending arrows towards the beasts.
Before he could get a better overview of the battle, another creature stabbed at him with a rusty spear. He easily parried the blade and took a quick step forwards. The Beastman tried to hit him with its weapon’s shaft, but the Elf was faster, disemboweling his foe.
Then it was over. Two dozen Beastmen lay on the ground, dead or dying, but some of the Shadow Warriors had also been injured. Their wounds were light, but still restraining. They had to make do anyways. Haethoran cleaned his blades with a handful of snow, while his brethren slit the throats of the few wounded beasts...

[Monsterzonk]

… The Butcherman’s army was marching eastwards under the leaden sky of southern Kislev, following the frozen band of the Talabec river. The low hills were covered in snow and gnarled, leafless trees stretched their boughs from the clean white sheet. They reminded Emilia of the stiff limbs of the slaughtered. She smiled.
The Master’s followers passed her, some regarding her in a mix of awe and dread, while others just quickened their steps, not willing to stay within her sight for longer than necessary. She disdained these creatures who clutched their miserable lives like thieves. Dressed in torn rags they stubbornly marched on, forced by a far superior will. Their bodies no longer felt the bite of the cold, yet still they were weak.
Cold hatred rose within her veins. Cold hatred and hunger. With a snarl she launched herself at the nearest cultists, enjoying the sheer horror she could make out in their wide eyes. Before the creatures could react she was amongst them. Taking one by his neck she tore out his throat with a single twist of her hand. Hot blood splattered from the wound and over her arms and dress. A cruel laughter escaped her lips.
Her victim had not completely dropped to the frozen ground when she stepped over to the next one, punching her fists straight through his belly and tearing out his intestines. Hurling herself at her next she grabbed the man’s throat and ripped it out with her teeth. She relished the slaughter and something dark deep within her soul grew.
But before she could continue her rampage a bolt of sickening energy hit her in the chest and threw her backwards. With a snarl she got back to her feet, ready to strike.
The bloated form of the Master stood there, his gnarled staff pointed at her.
‘Stop this,’ he said with a calm voice. ‘I cannot have you butchering my army at your leisure. These wretches are worthless, I agree, but we still need them. If you cannot control yourself, Emilia, I will do it.’
Still panting heavily she dimly nodded her head, struggling to force the darkness within her soul back. Slowly her mind cleared, leaving a numbing pain in her head. And once again she was shocked by the havoc she had wrought and the tears started running once again while she cursed her fate…

… Still on his knees with the pain of the strike filling his stomach Hermann disbelievingly stared at the old Warrior Priest. Of all men, he was the last one he would have expected.
Gunthar turned around again and stepped into the warmly lit chamber, ignoring the heavily breathing man on the ground.
Hermann’s mind was reeling. He had not known what to expect in the first place, but now everything seemed to fall apart. What did the old Priest want? They had never liked each other and after the disaster of his last command they had almost developed an enmity. Was this a trap? He doubted that. Gunthar was not a man of deceit, nor needed he to be one. He spoke in the name of Sigmar, and none dared challenge the power of a god.
Recognizing the futility of his thoughts he got back up and entered the room. The Warrior Priest sat in a comfortable armchair and regarded Hermann with a slight smile. Behind him heavy, leather-bound tomes rested in oaken shelves. Candles were scattered within the chamber casting wreathing shadows at the crude stone walls.
‘Welcome, von Hohenfels’, the Priest said in a calm voice.
‘What…?’, Hermann started, but was interrupted by Gunthar: ‘What is the most holy duty of this sacred Order, von Hohenfels?’
Taken aback, Hermann did not answer.
‘So?’, the Warrior Priest insisted.
‘To hunt down the vile followers of the Ruinous Powers, be they mutants, witches or heretics’, Hermann answered hesitantly, feeling taken back to the time of his youth when he had had to learn the teachings of the Church of Sigmar.
‘Good’, the Warrior Priest said with the approving voice of a pleased tutor. Hermann, still puzzled, felt anger rise slowly in his heart. ‘So why do we do this?’, the Priest continued.
‘I…’, von Hohenfels stammered, confused by this nearly heretical question.
‘We hunt them down. We kill them. Burn them in the name of Sigmar. But do we really make a difference?’, Brother Gunthar spat. ‘For each witch we burn several more turn away from the holy light of Sigmar.’
Von Hohenfels was stunned. What was this blasphemy?
‘I say our ways are wrong. I say we must learn from those cursed souls. We must learn how they think, so we can utterly destroy them.’
‘That is heresy’, Hermann whispered in shock, not willing to believe what he had heard. ‘What game are you playing with me, Priest?’
‘No game, Hermann. The truth.’
Von Hohenfels did not even realize the disrespect of being adressed without rank or title. He desparately tried to figure out what was going on. He felt that he was drawn into something he did not understand, and that frightened him. His hand involuntarily crept towards his dagger.
‘How do you win a duel, Hermann?’, the Warrior Priest asked suddenly.
Again being caught on the back foot Hermann answered immediately: ‘You have to wait for the right moment to strike, when your opponent is off balance.’
‘And how can you know when this moment has come?’
‘When you are able to anticipate your enemy’s next move, you have him’, Hermann answered, still puzzled.
‘So you must study your enemy in order to overcome him?’, Gunthar asked with a self-contented smile. And Hermann realized that he had been outmanouvered…

… Corhânathor sat in his tent, covered by a warming fur that he had wrapped around his feet. It was cold outside. In his hands he held a goblet of a steaming herbal brew. He tried to relax his muscles, cursing the fact that he was forced to travel through the wilderness of the northern Empire, his plans almost in ruin.
Only one single mistake had pushed him down a path that he had always tried to avoid. He had been far too occupied by his studies. He had allowed personal desire to displace his sense of duty. He had failed. For thousands of years his kin had guarded the temple. They had kept its secrets and had never subsided in their watch. Until now.
And the consequences would be dire indeed.
Corhânathor cursed. He had never asked for the task of guarding what lay beneath the ancient temple. But the High Loremaster, the great Teclis himself, had trusted in him. He smirked at the thought that he probably was the only one who had ever proved the Loremaster wrong.
But that did not matter now. The mistake had been made, and now it had to be rectified. At least he had powerful allies to depend upon. He would do, what needed be done. Grim determination fuelled the Archmage. He had allowed the enemy to take the key, but he would never grant them the opportunity to use it.
He got up and left his tent. A cold breeze hit him, but he ignored it. Snow was falling lightly. The camp lay silent, surrounded by ancient, weathered trees. Somewhere out there the Swordmasters would be on guard, invisible in the darkness. Corhânathor took a deep breath, closing his eyes and savouring the fresh air. He cleared his mind.
He had underestimated the enemy once, but he would not make the same mistake twice. He needed to know more if the wanted to meet this challenge. He knew where he had to go…

… The urge to kill had receded to the back of her skull. A constant nagging still, that she could not suppress, but she felt relieved anyways. She had struggled hard to stop herself doing those dreadful things. She had fought the blackness flooding her mind with visions of destruction.
Now the cowered in her tent, her arms clasped around her knees. She was slowly tilting back and forth, gently singing a tune she remembered from her childhood. Her mother had used to sing it for her each night she went to sleep. Tears ran down her blood-encrusted face, drawing pale white lines into the filth on her cheeks. She tightly embraced her memories, fearing that the blackness might return should she let go.
Footsteps approached her tent.
She kept singing, her voice hushed and coarse.
The fur covering the entrance moved.
She closed her eyes, still singing.
Someone hesitatingly stepped into the gloomy darkness of her refuge.
She pressed her sharp nails into the flesh of her arms, feeling her warm blood trickling down her hands. Singing, tilting.
Silence.
The clattering of crude crockery. The stench of foul meat. Shuffling.
She sang louder, driving her nails deeper into her soft flesh. Still tilting.
The blackness stirred.
Breathing, fast-paced and fearful. A heartbeat, rapid and promising.
She sang even louder, screaming out the words of her childhood.
The Black Flood.
The scrawny slave-thing stood in the dark tent, unable to move, its wide eyes firmly set at the hunched, screaming woman at the back. Panic filled its veins and pinned it into place. It had felt terror before, but this was worse still.
Jet black eyes opened and Emilia hurled herself at the wretched creature with a snarl, enjoying the expression of pure horror in its eyes for a brief moment before she punched her hands into its chest, forced it open and ripped out its still beating heart.

‘She did it again, Master’, Gatrog said. ‘She cannot control it.’ His stertorous voice was almost drowned by the constant buzz of fat flies.
The huge bulk of the Master sat in his throne, which could barely contain his massive form. Fat maggots crawled across his swollen belly, feasting on the foul ichor of his sore wounds. Slowly the Master turned his deformed head to face his servant.
‘How should she control what lies within her soul? It is far more ancient and powerful than her’, the Butcherman answered. ‘She is truly blessed.’
The Master picked up a maggot and shoved it into his gaping, wet mouth, revealing blackened teeth. Munching pensively, he said: ‘But you are right, Gatrog. She must be restrained.’
Heaving his massive, fleshy weight the Master rose. A rancid cloud evaporated from his bloated body. Immediately slaves scurried from the dark corners of the tent, some carrying bowls of rotting innards ready to spread them before the Blessed One’s feet. But with a hiss and a gesture they were sent away. Gatrog sensed that his Master’s blood was up and that he was in no mood for displays of faith.
Gripping his gnarled staff the Master left the tent, Gatrog following at a respectful distance behind him.
Outside the grim, silent warriors guarding the Master’s tent swiftly formed up around the Butcherman. He did not need the protection they offered, for he was more than capable, but the walking wall of rusted steel reminded the army of who was in charge. With von Gruber at the front they made their way throught he camp towards Emilia’s tent.
Gatrog deeply inhaled the stench of rotten meat, excrement and blood that hung densely in the cold air, while boredly regarding the cultists humilitating themselves at the sight of their Master. They wallowed themselves in the half-frozen mud and dirt, scratching open their sores and blisters and singing hymns to praise Father Nurgle. Pathetic. Gatrog spat out.
They arrived at the Bride’s tent, which the cultists had turned into a shrine, adorned with gifts and sacrifices to the Plague God. Two unmoving, ironclad guards stood at the entrance, but immediately stepped aside, recognizing the Master approaching.
The Blessed One turned around, addressing von Gruber: ‘Prepare the rack.’
The former baron nodded, a faint glow shimmering from the vision slits cut into the sackcloth covering his wrecked face. Signalling two warriors to accompany him, he made his way back through the camp.
‘You stay here’, the Butcherman ordered the remaining warriors, waving his advisor to follow. They entered the gloomy tent…

... ‘Tell me, Hermann von Hohenfels, have you ever heard of the Templars of Sigmar?’
Hermann snorted. ‘All you do is ask questions, old man’, he spat. ‘I am done answering you. You will have a reason for bringing me down here, so tell me.’
‘Very well, then. The Templars of Sigmar are a secret order, accountable only to the Grand Theogonist himself. You, Hermann, may already have heard of them being referred to as the witch hunters.’
‘Indeed, I have. What is your point?’
‘I ask you to join us.’
Hermann thoughts ran. Gunthar a member of the infamous witch hunters? They were little more than a bunch of rogues and zealots, roaming the Empire and burning everyone at the stake who opposed them. They were a secretive order of murderers, hiding under a veil of purity and faith. But with that also came power. None dared challenge the heralds of the Grand Theogonist himself.
Gunthar pressed on. ‘You hesitate. What is it?’
‘Why me?’
‘This order has a long, glorious and above all a faithful history. You and your brothers are Sigmar’s unfaltering blades. You have dedicated your lives to a far higher course than anyone not so blessed can undestand. The Order of the Twin-Tailed Orb would make a perfect ally for the Templars of Sigmar.’
‘Then you should have approached my brother, priest. He is the Grand Master, not me.’
‘Indeed. But he lacks the qualities you obviously have.’
Hermann chuckled bitterly. ‘Is that so, old man? I come to think that you have only judged me to be seduced more easily.’
‘That might be so”, Gunthar replied with a grin. ‘But I would rather describe it as convincing you. Seduction is none of my strengths.’
‘Of that I am sure, priest. So convince me, then.’…

… Inside the Bride’s tent the flicker of candles cast odd shadows and was reflected by a pool of fresh blood. The slave’s corpse had been mutilated, its chest cracked open and its head wrenched from the neck. Fat flies buzzed about, attracted by the stench of raw meat and blood.
The bride sat in the deep shadows, slowly tilting back and forth, her back towards them. She was humming quietly.
Ignoring the body on the ground the Master approached his bride, who still was oblivious to their presence. She was cradling the slave’s severed head in her arms like a newborn, slowly and tenderly stroking its thin hair.
The Master hunkered down close to her, a sad and caring expression on his face. Suddenly Gatrog felt a surge of black envy washing through his veins.
‘My dear’, the Blessed One said softly, ‘what have you done?’
Slowly she raised her eyes towards his face. Tears were running down her face. She opened her mouth, but the words eluded her.
‘Be calm, my dear’, the Butcherman continued. He gently took the severed head from her lap and handed it over to Gatrog. His meaty hand reached out and caressed her bloodied cheek. Then he rose and held his hand out to his bride. ‘Come’, he said.
Her eyes utterly empty, she took his outstretched hand and let him drag her to her feet. Still holding on to her slim fingers the Master led her outside.
A crowd of cultists had gathered in front of the tent to worship the Blessed One walking among them. As usual they were ignored. The armoured warriors pushed their way through the kneeling masses towards the huge iron rack erected atop a small hill near the camp.
Emilia was walking behind the Master who still held her hand, her head bowed and the tears still running. Her will had been broken, shattered by the horror of her own deeds and the pain that wracked her body. The few moments when she had but a vague idea of herself, of who she once had been, had become faint shadows. The Black Flood had washed away everything in its crushing tide.
She glimpsed her tall warrior standing atop the hill, the sackcloth covering his face. A single, greenish black horn sprouted from his forehead. His presence again was strangely reassuring, and for a brief moment all her pain and her fear was quenched, replaced with a curious calm.
And then she saw the rack next to the warrior. Her knees gave in, but the Master mercilessly dragged her onwards…

[Monsterzonk]

And finally something new!

… Of course Yvriel had protested when Corhânathor had ordered him to pick a dozen of his brethren and send the rest of the host back to the temple. But where he intended to go he did not need warriors, and the temple must be protected at all costs.
So the small band of Elves had set out into the snowy darkness, leaving the army behind on their quest for direly needed answers. The Archmage had led them south, into the great forests of the Empire.
A strange vigour had taken hold of the old mage, and they marched on for hours. Yvriel had kept his thoughts to himself, suspiciously eyeing the dark trees around them. Corhânathor could sense the Swordmaster’s body tension underneath his neutral behaviour, however. He knew that sooner rather than later he would need to tell Yvriel the truth. The warrior was a faithful and loyal servant, and he deserved to know. With a smile, the mage decided to let the Swordmaster choose the appropriate time himself.
He did not have to wait for long. When the first rays of sunlight lit the treetops, Yvriel approached him hesitantly.
‘Archmage,’ he said, ‘forgive my curiosity, but…’
‘But you have something you want to ask me. I know, Yvriel. And I shall answer.’
The Swordmaster remained silent, looking Corhânathor straight in the eye.
‘You wonder where we are going, do you not? We are going to a place where time has no meaning. It has no beginning and no end. And it holds the answers we direly need’, the mage continued.
‘Answers, lord?’
‘Yes. The omens are dark, my friend. You know what lies hidden under the temple. We cannot allow it to be unleashed upon our world once again! We struggled to contain it so many years back, and many perished in the fight. Today we do not have the strength to succeed once again.’
‘We will defend the crystal with our lives, Archmage. The Dark One will not overcome us,’ Yvriel said with passionate determination.
‘Of that I am sure, Yvriel,’ Corhânathor said with a sigh. He just was not sure if that would be enough. Yvriel, however, did not seem pleased by his lord’s words. His face was thoughtful and demanding. He had already known of the temple’s importance and of the power contained underneath it’s ruined walls.
‘You cannot imagine the daemon’s power, Yvriel,’ Corhânathor said, sensing the Swordmaster’s thoughts. ‘It took five of our most powerful mages and dozens of warriors such as you to bring it down and bind it, and even then only at great loss. You know we do not have that power today. Our race dwindles, our dark kin stir again and the human realms have only barely survived the latest incursion of the Dark Powers. We are weak, and yet we must not fail.’
‘I understand, Archmage’, the Swordmaster replied. ‘But that still does not answer my question.’
Corhânathor smiled. ‘I know.’…

I hope you like it!

Cheers,
Monsterzonk

[feeder]

Yay! More story! I love it.

One minor thing: I'm not sure that "direly" is really a word in English. It doesn't seem right.

[Monsterzonk]

Thanks!

"Direly" is the adverb to the adjective "dire". Looked it up: http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/direly

[Elazar The Glorified]

"Direly" is the adverb to the adjective "dire". Looked it up: http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/direly

Correct.

Really like the newest fluff. As ever you have an amazing ability to tell us everything and nothing at the same time and keep us guessing and wanting more! Brilliant writing

Re-reading yours has inspired me to write a little more background fluff for my army so thank you as it's a little while since I've written anything!

[feeder]

Well, now I'm being entertained AND expanding my vocabulary. This thread just keeps getting better and better.

[noeste]

Can't wait for the rest of the story to be penned down and published! Very nice writing!

[Cassarus]

I always loved this story Monsterzonk!
And you'll have to give my praises to you friend for the great art!

Cheers

[Fraggzy]

Keep the fluff coming mate, its as good as allways!

[Monsterzonk]

Thank you all for your feedback!

I got some more for you:

… They had been marching through the dark forests of the northern Empire for several days. The weather had worsened and snow was falling heavily now. The leafless trees hardly offered any protection against the icy wind blowing from the east.
The old mage could feel its bite in every bone, even through the thick fur coat he had wrapped around his shoulders. He was leaning heavily on his ornate staff. The Swordmasters accompanying him seemed unfazed by the conditions. With grim faces they were pushing relentlessly onwards.
Corhânathor could sense they were getting close. There was a slight resonance at the back of his head, getting stronger every hour of their march. He could feel the age of the place they were approaching. It had been shaped centuries ago, and yet its power was undiminished. The archmage concentrated on the echo in his mind, slowly peeling away the layers of illusion and obfuscation that protected the ancient glade. With every layer removed a strange pain rose in his head. He swallowed hard. The protections of the place still were strong after all those years, sending waves of anguish into is probing mind.
Carefully Corhânathor pushed on, unravelling the secrets of old. He could feel the defences withdraw, clearing a path for his mind. He proceeded faster now, yet still his experienced mind advised caution. He tried to slow his descent into the depth of the ancient magic, but he could not. His mind irresistibly got drawn onwards. The threads of magic around him began to change, and a low buzz clogged his hearing. The old mage struggled to resist the current pulling him on. His tongue felt greasy and tears ran down his face. From the distance he could hear Yvriel calling his name.
His mind got sucked into a mire of stinking ooze. He could taste it in his mouth. And suddenly he was certain to die. But then a hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him back. Yvriel’s voice became clearer, shouting at him to wake up.
Corhânathor collapsed on the cold ground, breathing heavily, and spat out a mouthful of bile. The Swordmaster was kneeling next to him, his face bearing a worried expression. He knew that disturbing a mages meditation was dangerous at best. The mage looked up at him.
‘Yvriel,’ he whispered. ‘We must hurry. Something is terribly wrong.’…

Cheers,
Monsterzonk

[Elazar The Glorified]

Awesome. Can't wait for more!

[Argyle]

Great writing again! Keep going!

[Monsterzonk]

It's been a while, but I'm back!

… Night had fallen, and the sickeningly sweet smell of decay was drifting through the forest as Corhânathor and the Swordmasters hurried onwards. His darkest fear seemed to be confirmed. The Dark One had defiled this land. He had found what the Elves had deemed safe. He possessed the first key and he had a vessel. Chaos was only one step from succeeding, and he and his men were the only ones to stop it.
‘Lord?’, Yvriel approached him, ‘What are your orders?’
‘They have been here, Yvriel’, the archmage replied disbelievingly. ‘We are too late.’
Yvriel remained silent.
‘I must see this with my own eyes. Maybe our questions shall still be answered.’
They pressed on through the dense woods, their boots leaving no trail in the freshly fallen snow. The night was eerily silent, and the moons were covered by thick clouds. Corhânathor could see the dark shadows of the Swordmasters moving alongside him. He prayed to the gods that their prowess might prove sufficient for what was to come.
The foul scent became thicker with every step they made. It bit his eyes and lay heavily on his tongue, and only with great effort did he suppress a retch. They were close to the glade now. He could sense it. The power that had nearly drowned him grew stronger and more vivid. He would have to tread carefully here.
In the darkness before him he could finally make out an ancient monolith, its sides bedecked with slightly shimmering runes. A waystone, built to protect this place from evil. Corhânathor slowly approached the construct and ran his and across its surface. He could feel the energy contained within the stone. The enemy must be powerful indeed to have overcome these defences. Yvriel and his warriors advanced slowly beyond the boundary marked by monolith. By now they had drawn their long blades.
A wide glade opened in front of them. It once must have been beautiful, but now all beauty was gone. As they marched on, the snow slowly vanished, as if its pure whiteness refused to touch the desecrated ground. Only a few stained, muddy patches remained. Rotten leaves and stinking puddles of ooze covered the ground. The ancient trees were covered in strange fungus, their lifeless limbs clawing the dark sky above. Corhânathor swallowed hard.
‘We shall avenge this atrocity, lord’, Yvriel whispered grimly.
‘Indeed we will, Yvriel. Our time for revenge will come, and we shall not forget, nor forgive.’
Finally the cloud cover broke, and Morrslieb cast its malign green light upon the valley. The Elves could make out several more monoliths further ahead, forming a wide circle. Some of the stones were toppled to the ground, and sickly, orange lichen covered their surface.
Corhânathor and Yvriel entered the circle. Fat flies buzzed around, and the ground felt wetly soft under the tread of their boots. The place reeked of rot.
They found the first corpse near the centre of the circle. It was an old Elf in simple grey robes. A servant probably. His body had been mangled. Dried blood blackened his clothes where several deep gashes ran across his belly. His face was half-rotten, yet still bore an expression of deepest agony. A few paces away, another Elf lay dead, his head almost severed from his body. The dagger in his hand already corroding. Corhânathor sighed in deep anguish, as he felt the weight of their deaths on his shoulders.
And then a rasping cough cut through the glade.
Immediately the Swordmasters raised their blades and formed a defensive circle around the archmage. Trying to make out the source of the sound, Corhânathor slowly turned and tried to pierce the gloom.
The monoliths surrounding the clearing suddenly seemed gravely threatening, but the mage swiftly shook off that feeling. He knew the magic bound within the ancient stones was no threat to them, but still he could not lose this hunch entirely. Something indeed was wrong. He concentrated on each monolith in turn, trying to detect any inconsistency.
The cough rang out again, louder this time.
Corhânathor slowly moved towards its origin, the Swordmasters flanking him with their long blades held beside them, ready to strike.
The monolith in front of them cast a strangely malformed, incogruous shadow. Carefully the archmage reached out for the winds of magic, and at a whispered word, a blue flame erupted in his open palm, driving back the darkness and revealing what had caused the noise. Corhânathor could not suppress the cry of terror escaping his lips, and even Yvriel gasped in shock.
Nailed to the sacred stone was the body of an Elf, and the tortured glint of his eyes proved that he was still alive…

Tell me what you think!

Cheers,
Monsterzonk