A Tale of Plague and Pestilence - The Story

[Txan]

Very Sick... In a good way.

[Elazar The Glorified]

Well, you've built the suspense up really well and I don't think there can be any doubt in anyone's mind that Fatty is a nasty piece of work! Love reading your fluff when you update it so I demand you sit at your desk now and write more!

[Txan]

U mean at the comp

[Monsterzonk]

Here's more! Enjoy!

… Two enormous, rusted nails had been driven through the Elf’s shoulders, pinning him to the monolith. His robes were torn, and deep cuts ran across his arms and chest.
‘They… knew you… would come’, the Elf stammered. His voice was weak and coarse, strained by the pain. Yvriel strode forwards, intent on freeing the old man.
‘Do not… bother. I am dying.’
The Swordmaster hestitated and looked at Corhânathor, who simply nodded.
‘What happened here, venerable one?’
‘They came… Their magic was... strong. Unbelievably strong… They took the key. You must… stop them,’ the old man hissed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
‘Rest assured, my friend, we will stop them. They shall not unleash this daemon into our world once again.’
The old Elf slowly raised his head and looked at Corhânathor with piercing eyes. Eyes that suddenly turned utterly black, and before the archmage could react the Elf’s chest exploded, showering him in blood and splinters of bone, and a manic cackle sounded across the meadow.
A one-eyed beast burst from the dead Elf’s chest and hurled itself at Corhânathor in the blink of an eye. But however fast the thing was, Yvriel was faster still. His blade was barely visible as it cut through the creature before it could reach the mage.
The stinking puddles scattered across the glade stirred, bubbles of noxious gas spewing sickly coloured fumes into the stale air. One by one, rotten limbs burst through the surface of each puddle, clawing into the humid earth around them. Rusty blades appeared, followed by distorted, cyclopean heads. Grinning mouths full of rotten teeth gargled blasphemous verses, as the daemons of the Plague God ascended into the material world.
As Yvriel and his brethren spread out to counter the foe, Corhânathor hurled the flame that still flickered in his palm at the enemy. It covered the distance swiflty, swelling into a roaring fireball at a few whispered words, and hit one of the daemons. The creature was engulfed by the cleansing flame and died shrieking.
Yet there were still several more of them. The Swordmasters danced between them, cutting and slashing, but all too often the daemons’ unnatural bodies were unharmed by the blows. Their ripostes were clumsy, but still their relentlessness already had taken down two of the graceful Elves.
Corhânathor reached out for winds of magic, which hung over the valley in heavy, stringy clouds. Their touch left the taste of bile on the archmage’s tongue, but still he bent them to his will. Bolts of blinding, white energy shot from his outstretched hands, smashing into the daemons and ignited their flesh.
Meanwhile Yvriel had slain several enemies, their blasphemous nature being no defence against his shimmering, magical blade. The runes etched upon the steel were glowing brightly as he hacked his way through the foul beasts. His robes and face were covered in vile daemonic ichor, as he fought his way through the last few remaining creatures.
Corhânathor was breathing heavily. The use of the tainted magic of this place had exhausted him, and he was grateful for the skill and determination of the Swordmasters. They had faced the enemy without hesitation, proving once again that they ranked amongst the best warriors of the Phoenix King.
Yvriel walked up to him, wiping his face clean with a gloved hand. His blade was already stored in the sheath on his back.
‘Did we get our answers, lord?’, he asked calmly, showing no signs of fatigue.
‘Yes, Yvriel, we did. The key is lost to us. Let us return to the Temple. We must prepare.’…

I thought a bit of bloodshed wouldn't be a bad thing...

Cheers,
Monsterzonk

[Txan]

Have you read the Malus Darkblade books? Your stuff reminds me of the writer(s).

[Monsterzonk]

Thanks, mate! Yeah, I've read the books. I really loved the first three, but the next two didn't quite do it for me. I like them, yes, but I don't think I'll read them again. Well, at least not so soon... But thanks anyways, that's a really nice compliment!

Cheers,
Monsterzonk

[Txan]

You would like Legion... for the Horus Hesery.

[Monsterzonk]

I read that too. Wasn't too impressed at first, but the end just blew me away! Awesome! Almost made me wanna collect some Alpha Legion... I must say Dan Abnett is my absolute favourite WH author. He's just great! I've read the Eisenhorn trilogy three times now, and I think I'll need to read it again soon...

[Txan]

Yea end was awsome... "That was your only chance"

[Argyle]

Great writing again! Especially when considering that English isn't your native language... Keep it up!

[w3rm]

Holy crap brilliant! One thing I don't get; who is Gatrog? Is he the Butcherman or the Master?

[Monsterzonk]

Thanks!

Gatrog is neither of them. In fact, the Butcherman and the Master are one and the same. Gatrog is the Butcherman's pet Sorcerer.

Maybe this'll help: A Tale of Plague and Pestilence, post 362

Cheers,
Monsterzonk

[Papawolf]

mooooore fluff...please? i read it all in one sitting. your writing is pretty good.

[Monsterzonk]

Thank you!

I know I neglected the story for far too long, but I'm stuck and since I had to separate it from my army buildung log, I kinda lost the motivation.

However, I actually did write a little bit more the other day, but since I honestly don't see myself writing more in the near future due to uni starting again, here's what I got so far:

... The tall mountain range stretched as far as the eye could see, separating the so-called civilized lands of the Empire and Kislev from the Dark Lands that lay beyond. The World's Edge Mountains truly deserved their name.
The dark host had marched through the icy tundra of Kislev, and many lives had been lost to the cold. But those that had endured the ordeal had emerged stronger and more determined than ever before. The iron will of the Master had forced them through the storms and snow, and now he rode at the forefront of his army. Tall knights in dark, rusted armour accompanied him, and behind them, bound by iron chains around her neck and wrists, they dragged the white-clad, bloodstained figure of a woman.
Emilia hissed and tore at her shackles, her face a mask of hatred. But the silent knights ignored her and she had to stumble after them powerlessly.
'You brought this upon yourself, my dear,' the Master said with a fatherly smile. 'You would not stop killing my men, and I could not allow such misbehaviour, could I?'
She spat out and glared at him.
'The... presence in your soul is slowly taking control, does it not? How does that feel? To lose oneself while being utterly helpless?'
With a shout of hatred and despair, Emilia launched herself at the massive form of her tormentor. She crossed the distance in an instant, but much faster than expected one of the knights smashed his heavy shield into her leaping form with a backhand sweep. The massive iron spike tore deep into her shoulder and she was flung backwards into the snow. She howled in pain as the thing inside withdrew and she became herself again.
The knights meanwhile simply rode on, ignoring the whimpering woman they dragged behind them...

I don't know how to continue as of now. I gotta give it some more thought, I guess...

Thanks for reading!

Cheers,
Monsterzonk

[Argyle]

Very nice! Even though it's a little on the short side... Please write more!

[noeste]

Yes, please give us more!

[Jiggy]

This can easily turn into a book I would gladly buy.
You are amazing!

[Papawolf]

really nice writing so far, looking forward to updates

[Jormi_Boced]

Yeah, I wish they wouldn't have made you separate your fluff from your army too. It seems kind of dumb. I like how you would introduce models into your painting blog through your story.

Anyway, keep up the good work.

[Monsterzonk]

Thanks for all the comments!

I know this will come as a surprise to you all, but I've actually written some more! Writing all those batreps for the Arena of Death has somehow spurred me to continue my story. Plus I feel I have to make up for the lack of updates in my army building thread... I hope to continue this story tomorrow, as I'm finally back on track!

I've tried to introduce a new format to make reading easier. Tell me what you think! So here goes:

… Another grey morning dawned upon the icy tundra of Kislev. The sun was but a pale orb, hidden behind the clouds. To the east the high peaks of the World's Edge Mountains were covered in dense fog, and only the jagged crests of the foothills hinted at their presence. The silence of the early day was only broken by the crunch of marching feet in the snow.

The Butcherman had driven his army on mercilessly, ceaselessly pressing on through the bitter cold of winter. The former peasants that formed the bulk of the force had suffered greatly, and many of them had succumbed to the icy embrace of the harsh land. Only those that had fully given in to their Master's dark patron had persevered. They had changed, evolved, become immune to cold and fatigue. They were truly blessed by the gods.

Most terrible of them all, though, were Baron von Gruber's former guards. Already capable warriors in their former life, these men had become massive brutes, standing at least seven feet tall. They were clad in rust-covered armour of black iron and carried massive axes or maces over their broad shoulders. These Chaos Warriors seldomly spoke, and if they did their voices were hoarse and pitiless behind the visors of their horned helmets.

Countless villages had been left burnt in their wake, the people butchered. They had consecrated their weapons in the blood of the innocent, and thus had sold their souls to the Dark Gods forever.

The Kislevites had tried to resist them, sending their fast horsemen to harass the dark host. Scores of lightly armoured slaves and cultists had fallen to their arrows, but the Master's sorcery had driven them off and the army had marched towards the mountains unopposed.

Haethoran and his warriors had shadowed the enemy force for the entire trek through the icy tundra of Kislev, witnessing the horrors committed from afar, unable to intervene. The strain of the relentless pursue had begun to wear them out, but the atrocities they had been confronted with weighed even heavier on them. The Elves had become even more grim than was common among the folk of Nagarythe anyway.

The enemy army was already on the move, urged on by their merciless leader. Black dots littered the ground where they had made camp. Haethoran knew that they were the corpses of those that had not made it through the night, frozen to death in their sleep or brutally tortured and sacrificed by the worshipers of the Ruinous Powers. The Shadow Warriors had encountered the same scene on every morning of their arduous march, and every night they had endured the tormented screams sounding from the enemy's camp.

With a worried expression the Haethoran watched his brethren silently pick up their equipment as they broke camp at first sunlight. His warriors looked worn, almost to the brink of breaking. The enemy had rested during the coldest hours of the night, and the Shadow Warriors thankfully had taken the opportunity to catch up on some sleep. They had not dared to light a campfire, and now their movements were slow and stiff as they were trying to banish the chill from their bones.

“Do not worry, Shadow Master,” whispered Cythrai, Haethoran's second in command. The lean warrior and had fought many a battle alongside him, and he trusted his judegment. “Our folk is strong, both in body and mind. They will prevail, and when the time comes they will fight without fear, for that is the way of the Shadow Warriors.”

Haethoran smiled. “Thank you, Cythrai. Your words are true as ever. Yes, our brethren are strong, and we will see this through to the end. Are we ready to move out?”

“Yes, Shadow Master,” replied the warrior, and at a nod from their commander the Elves set out into the cold morning, following the enemy host. Another day of hardship lay before them.

* * *

They had marched for the entire day without pause, coming across even more corpses along the way. The Cursed One pushed his army pitilessly, accepting the deaths of hundreds of slaves and cultists to make good progress towards the mountains.

Haethoran cared not for the dead. The cultists had chosen their path and had been punished for their willingness to succumb to Chaos, and to the slaves death was certainly a gift. The Shadow Master turned around and looked to the east, catching the last rays of sunlight. Somewhere back there lay the temple he had sworn to defend, and even further away than that was the glorious isle of Ulthuan, home of the Asur. He smiled warily at the thought. He was a warrior of Nagarythe, and his home had been torn asunder by the ocean waves thousands of years ago.

A Shadow Warrior approached him, interrupting his melancholy. “The enemy has stopped for the night, Shadow Master,” the Elf said. Haethoran accepted the news with a curt nod. “Alright then, find us a place to make camp. I want to get out of this damned wind.”

That night, the Shadow Master slept uneasily. Strange dreams haunted him, but every time he awoke they were gone. A few hours after midnight he decided that sleep would not come to him. Silently he rose from the frozen ground and looked around. The eastern sky glowed in the orange light of the Chaos army's campfires, and he could hear the faint screams of this night's victims. Uttering a prayer for the souls of these poor beings he walked over to the warrior on watch.

Cythrai greeted him with a wry smile and haunted eyes. “Behold the music of the night, Shadow Master,” he said. Haethoran did not care much for the humans, but he pitied those barbarians that were slaughtered in the enemy's camp, and he knew that his brother was feeling the same.

For a long time the Elves just stood there silently. The wind howled over the tundra, carrying the cries of the dying, but suddenly it had a new note to it. Haethoran stiffened, trying to make out its source. Cythrai had heard it too, his expression grave and alert.

“Wake the others,” Haethoran hissed, and the warrior disappeared into the darkness. The wind howled unabatedly, but now and then the Shadow Master could make out the awry sound that would not quite fit in. He reached for his longbow, fitting an arrow to the string. His brethren joined him in the dark, their weapons held ready as well...

Cheers,
Monsterzonk