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Post by Cali on Nov 8, 2016 11:23:15 GMT 1
It is the year 21 N.A., and the Hordes of Chaos lie scattered, beaten, and humiliated by their close defeat during what was to be the so called "End Times". Warring tribes wage war across the globe, from as far up as their frigid homeland to as far down as the southern badlands. The rest of the world can merely watch as the followers of Chaos quarrel and pine, blaming themselves for their unrequited dreams of conquest and ruination.
Scattered fragments of Mordlieb, the more sinister and eldritch of the World's two moons mysteriously fall to the surface of the land they orbit. A grim reminder of the incident in the Imperial Mordheim centuries prior. The robustly valuable, and extremely dangerous Wyrdstone contained in these meteors are insatiably sought after by the colleges of magic in every culture.
Many plot to unify the warriors of chaos and hang their black banners upon the bowed heads of their enemies under a true leader. This is proving to be a difficult and arduous task, as the hordes find no end in sight to their plight and endless fragmentation, the victorious succeeding only to eventually be overrun and picked off by the nearby orc tribes. Rugged individualism is becoming the norm in northmen cultures, tribalism seemingly dwindling. A dismal utopia of Chaos Undivided seems unlikely.
Marooned in the badlands after the end of the War of the Thousand Armies two decades prior, the tribes south press to defeat one another in vicious desert combat. Two of the largest Chaos factions, the Chariots of Khorne, and the Blades of Tzeentch battle ceaselessly. After ambushing and routing the battalions of the Blood God's forces, Tzeentch's praefect of the south, the Tilean Sorcerer known as Hartmann Tamboia lies victorious in the battle of Gatlorn's Crossing. Elof the Heinous, the warchief of the Chariots of Khorne is in captivity, and the mercy of Maester Tamboia...
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Post by Cali on Nov 8, 2016 11:26:32 GMT 1
Chapter 1 – Miracles in Catastrophe
The chanting outside of the desert hut was intense and rhythmic. With a flick of the wrist, Hartmann Tamboia caused the air which the walls of the silver, jeweled goblet he held to sweat and manifest into a repugnant tasting, clear liquid.
“Are you certain you want to... drink that, now... your lordship?” The armless young man at the far end of the hut asked.
“I believe I've earned the privilege of being inebriated at this time.” Hartmann stood up, walking into the twin moonlight of Morsslieb and Mordlieb, showing his pale skin, and the jet black, sickle shaped horn that grew from the back of his head and bent parallel to the rest of it, held a good several inches from his scalp. He was garmented in jeweled robes of blue and green, a cane sword he carried for cosmetic and festive purposes.
The chanting remained intense and bombastic, never skipping a beat. The smell of victory was so heady and salty the sorcerer almost felt as if he'd drown within it. “To be emphatic, I think everyone has earned a drink or two. You included.” Hartmann approached the youngster, holding out the goblet of void sweat liquor. “Go on, now. Your new arms have yet to grow, and this is one of few chances you'll get.” The double amputee reluctantly drank, clearing his throat softly afterward. It was not the first sip of the liquid he had, and if it were, he would be in quite a coughing spell, as one did when first sampling the otherworldly and blasphemous beverage.
“You hear that?” Tamboia sipped the goblet, listening to the uproar outside. “Chaos comes in many forms... joy included.” He then finished his drink, and laid the goblet back down on the dark metal table. “Won't be so joyous for the losing party, however.” He strode to the door ingress.
After walking out, an exhibition of cheers sounded from the axe and spear wielding maniacs that populated this section of the desert. An assortment of northmen, a melting pot of most tribes, and all wearing clothing or warpaint colored in shades of deep or aquatic blue, roared in approval.
Hartman smirked, holding his arms in a cross before swiping them to his side. The horde fell silent.
“Today, we have won a stellar victory against those who wish to seek to preach segregation of those who flock to the Four.” He calmly said, the winds of magic carrying his voice intimately into the ears of every individual warrior. “Such division and quarreling must end! We all know it! None of the followers of Chaos truly wish for war to continue under its worshipers! But such unity must come at somewhat hypocritical, though utterly necessary caveat!” He spoke. “None of us here truly hold ill will toward Khorne. But unity through bloodshed and conquest is without reliability. None of us here truly hold ill will to Slaneesh, but diplomacy through profligacy and excess is irrefutably lax and dissonant. None of us here truly hold ill will against Nurgle, but eternal life and the ruination of everything else breeds such selfishness.” He held out his pale finger, the nail elongated and warped. “My warriors... my liberators... my harbingers of the coming peace and resurgence of Chaos Undivided... it inevitably must be Tzeentch who brings us together.”
He crossed his arms as the cheers of the hellish and proud hordes raged in the candle and brazier lit desert night. “Cowards!” He shouted, the horde falling silent yet again. “Cowards and saboteurs of unity... such as Elof Skaalman, or Elof the Heinous, as he is known, is poisonous to our great vision!” He shouted. “We have ambushed and defeated his small, ramshackle army, and now he kneels at our mercy!”
A caged ditch of water he stood over, revealing a naked muscular man with long braided charcoal hair, a look of contempt upon his face as he stared at his captor. The water around him began to boil ever so slightly, though he felt no warmth. An array of mealworms began to float to the surface, swirling around and biting him.
“I know you are no stranger to pain, Elof.” Hartmann grinned upon him, his teeth shining obsidian. “However, I do not doubt for one bit that there in your soul, greater than any physical pain, is the agony of being absolutely useless to further the benefit of those who want only to march under the black wheel standard of the four, unquarreling, and unified.” He then clapped his hands, and dusted them off. “There will be no respite, no chance of redemption, however. You aren't fit to even be eaten by those void maggots that will eventually devour you to the bone. That is, if the fevers they induce don't kill you first.”
Hartmann stood up, holding each of his hands out. “Break camp! We march west!” The blue clad warriors under Tamboia's command stood up and ran every which way to gather their belongings.
The hundreds of tiny worms that ever so slowly chipped away at his body pained him not, as he refused to show weakness even in isolation. The gods always watched.
“Elof...” A feminine voice came from his rear, where he turned to see a cloaked figure in blue. “Worry not for the worms. The master plan has you in mind... this you have always known.” The cloaked woman spoke, leaning in.
“Truly...” Elof replied, still mostly submerged in water and worms. “...though this faith of yours seems horrifically misplaced, mistress of Tamboia...”
“I am no mistress of his...” She replied. The worms around Elof suddenly calmed, swimming in other directions and ignoring the northman entirely. He looked around, then back up through the bars of the caged ditch.
The hooded woman replied. “These pests... they are but overgrown pathogens... and Father Nurgle taught me how to control them at my whim...”
“Who are you...?” Elof began.
“One of many of your comrades...” She replied, peering through the bars. “The true sons and daughters of unification, not charlatans and opportunists like Tamboia.”
She looked around her, two northmen walking over to the cage giggling, lifting their loincloths and urinating down into the water (and onto Elof) with the appendages they had underneath. They fastened their clothing back to proper form and walked away. “That oughta make the wounds burn a little.” One of them said.
Elof was rather irritated but said nothing. The cloaked woman leaned in yet again. “Once Tamboia's hordes have departed, you will be free... and help us you will with the true vision...”
Hours later, in the breaking dawn, the tattooed warlord emerged from the fetid pool as the bars were pulled free from the prying eyes of those who captured him and crushed his forces prior. He looked toward the dawn, as well as the desert around him. A large wagon rushed by steeds, and escorted by war chariots approached Elof and those who freed him. He stepped toward the chariot, Tamboia, the supposed maester of trickery and calculation in the modern world, completely unaware of the events that transpired in the campsite he left behind...
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