Coalescence: Malign Portents PLAYER NARRATIVES
In the Falls Church Virginia Coalescence: Malign Portents event, players are invited to detail the narrative backstories that led their forces to invade Shyish! The best narrative (judge's choice) will receive the possibly-coveted Best Narrative trophy!
To be eligible, narratives must be sent to [email protected] by midnight on Thursday March 15th 2018.
To be eligible, narratives must be sent to [email protected] by midnight on Thursday March 15th 2018.
Shamrhak of the Cult of Transformation
General: Shamrhak, a Tzaangor Shaman, leader of the Cult of Transformation
Honored Guests: Shanna, Darkoath Warqueen and Aeoman, Gaunt Summoner
Purpose for moving on the realmgate: Shamrhak has lead his cult of Acolytes and a few Tzaangor lieutenants for some time. Having marched into the realm of death 4 years ago to build a foothold for Tzeench, his cult has grown from just a few Tzaangor lieutenants into a mob of human followers. While he’s recruited plenty of human cultists to follow the great conspirator, Shamrhak knows he needs to mutate more followers (or other less willing mortals) into his Tzaangor form. The beast men like him are fierce fighters and truely committed to Tzeench, while the cultists can always lose spirit and strip off their marks to return to their lives.
The portents signaling the action of armies moving towards the realmgates in the realm of death strike the perfect opportunity. By joining the fray, the wounded and dead (both friends and foes) that will result are more opportunities to mutate and raise his Tzaangor hordes.
As a powerful shaman, Shamrhak has been able to interpret the signs to lead to good fortune in a few battles, but he knows he’ll need help to endure the massive battles to come. One Sorcerer lord in his ranks is Aeoman, who has previously dabbled in following the other gods but is now showing more commitment to Tzeench. Tzeench is undoubtably the god of magic, and he hopes to gain the powers equal to those of the Gaunt Summoner. Shamrhak thinks him to be a fool, but encourages him all the same since he’ll be fully committed to the campaign if he thinks such power lies ahead.
The greatest aide to Shamrhak though will undoubtedly be Shanna, a warqueen who arrived at his camp last week. She is not pledged to Tzeench (or any god for that matter) but she is drawn to the realmgate wars as a follower of the signs that have been appearing recently. The Chaos gods have not had much success in Shyish and if she is able to help wrest control of the realmgate, the hordes pledged to all the chaos gods would be able to pour in. She is a powerful fighter but in reading the portents, she has revealed her true strength to be her predictions and enchantments from the signs that rival most wizards. Shanna heard word of Shamrhak’s plans and thinks this is her opportunity to influence this cult to serve the broader purpose of controlling the gate. Shamrhak is mistrustful of her and would normally have no use for one not sworn to Tzeench, but having seen her in action and witnessing her abilities manifest, he knows she’ll be a powerful ally in the wars to come.
General: Shamrhak, a Tzaangor Shaman, leader of the Cult of Transformation
Honored Guests: Shanna, Darkoath Warqueen and Aeoman, Gaunt Summoner
Purpose for moving on the realmgate: Shamrhak has lead his cult of Acolytes and a few Tzaangor lieutenants for some time. Having marched into the realm of death 4 years ago to build a foothold for Tzeench, his cult has grown from just a few Tzaangor lieutenants into a mob of human followers. While he’s recruited plenty of human cultists to follow the great conspirator, Shamrhak knows he needs to mutate more followers (or other less willing mortals) into his Tzaangor form. The beast men like him are fierce fighters and truely committed to Tzeench, while the cultists can always lose spirit and strip off their marks to return to their lives.
The portents signaling the action of armies moving towards the realmgates in the realm of death strike the perfect opportunity. By joining the fray, the wounded and dead (both friends and foes) that will result are more opportunities to mutate and raise his Tzaangor hordes.
As a powerful shaman, Shamrhak has been able to interpret the signs to lead to good fortune in a few battles, but he knows he’ll need help to endure the massive battles to come. One Sorcerer lord in his ranks is Aeoman, who has previously dabbled in following the other gods but is now showing more commitment to Tzeench. Tzeench is undoubtably the god of magic, and he hopes to gain the powers equal to those of the Gaunt Summoner. Shamrhak thinks him to be a fool, but encourages him all the same since he’ll be fully committed to the campaign if he thinks such power lies ahead.
The greatest aide to Shamrhak though will undoubtedly be Shanna, a warqueen who arrived at his camp last week. She is not pledged to Tzeench (or any god for that matter) but she is drawn to the realmgate wars as a follower of the signs that have been appearing recently. The Chaos gods have not had much success in Shyish and if she is able to help wrest control of the realmgate, the hordes pledged to all the chaos gods would be able to pour in. She is a powerful fighter but in reading the portents, she has revealed her true strength to be her predictions and enchantments from the signs that rival most wizards. Shanna heard word of Shamrhak’s plans and thinks this is her opportunity to influence this cult to serve the broader purpose of controlling the gate. Shamrhak is mistrustful of her and would normally have no use for one not sworn to Tzeench, but having seen her in action and witnessing her abilities manifest, he knows she’ll be a powerful ally in the wars to come.
Naglig of the White Worm Clan
General’s Name: Naglig, warboss of the White Worm Clan (and his squig, Dobs)
Why Do They Fight?: To stay alive in this godforsaken realm, and perhaps put that treacherous Cave Shaman out of his misery
THE BIRTH OF THE WHITE WORM CLAN
This story continues the tale started in “The Paradise Below”, which was posted on February 2 on the Malign Portents website. Read that first, here.
Warboss Naglig writhed against the skeletal hands that were dragging him down into the ashen grave. Around him, he could see the other grots of the Black Worm Clan locked in the same struggle against an endless field of the undead. Deeper and deeper Naglig was pulled into the pit, until barely more than his head and a single arm remained above ground.
He swore a mighty curse. The most bitter and spiteful curse that he had ever uttered.
“Gork, you worthless pile of filth! Krork you! And Mork too! Mighty god my buttocks - unable to do anything to help your servants when the times git rough! Well, no one needs you! But if I am going to die, at least give me the chance to put my hands around the neck of that krorking lying shaman before I do!”
Naglig could almost hear the pitiless laugh of the gods as he finished.
But just then he spied something in the distance: an orange blur that looked all the world like a giant pumpkin rolling across the battlefield towards him. Closer and closer it came, until Naglig could see that it was no pumpkin, but an enormous cave squig. In its wake, the bones of the dead lay smashed and splintered into dull white shards, as if a rhinox had crashed through a china shop.
The squig headed straight at Naglig, and the warboss saw that it dragged behind a heavy iron chain that still had the severed hand of its former master attached. With his one free arm, Naglig seized hold of the chain with all his might as it passed, and the rolling ball of squig pulled him out of the ashen pit.
Stumbling to his feet, Naglig coughed out soot and dust and eyed the squig, which now turned round to face him. Snarling menacingly, it charged at Naglig, gnashing at him with its enormous jaws. Naglig punched the creature hard on the nose (as any grot handler knew to do) and bellowed at the creature to git out of his krorking face.
Stunned, the squig stumbled back and dumped itself on its tail, with a hurt look of a beaten dog on its broad face. Then it shook its head, smiled widely, and bounded up to Naglig, bathing him in a sloppy lick.
“Dats enough of dat,” said the warboss, wiping squig-slobber off his face.
From behind him, a horn sounded a dull clarion call that faded quickly in the ashen wastelands. Naglig slowly turned around and saw the field beyond erupting with new undead creatures. They pulled themselves from the earth. Skeletons, zombies, and much worse things began a slow shamble towards Naglig.
But Naglig was no longer alone. Besides the squig, the grots of his Black Worm Clan, who had somehow also miraculously escaped the clutches of their enemy, massed around him. And they were not all. Orruks too rallied near. And ogors! It was not the mighty army of the Cave Shaman’s delusion, but the warboss knew it was his to command. It was a chance.
“So, you decided to stick around afterall, eh?,” came a voice from behind Naglig.
“You!” the warboss cursed, spinning around to see the twisted form of the Cave Shaman.
“Me,” the Cave Shaman replied, “I didn’t think you’d still be here when I returned. Funny that.”
Naglig drew himself up and tried to extract every inch of menace out of his small body to confront the Cave Shaman. The skeletons and other nasties could wait. First he had business with the Cave-Shaman to settle. If he was going to die in this place, he’d send the Cave Shaman ahead of him.
It was then that Naglig noticed what should have been noticed before. Looking at the grots around him, he saw that they were no longer garbed in their usual black robes. Instead they were draped in robes of a dirty white color. And not just them, the orruks also all wore armor of white.
Slowly he stared down at his own clothing. It too was white. White as ash. White as bone.
Naglib’s face fell.
“Krork me, I’m dead already, ain’t I?” he asked the Cave Shaman.
The Cave Shaman grinned.
“Maybe you is or maybe you isn’t. But in any case, you got some scrappin’ to do, I reckon.”
- THE END -
P.S. – I was originally going to call this story “Now That We’re Dead”, but apparently some band called Metallica already used that title.
General’s Name: Naglig, warboss of the White Worm Clan (and his squig, Dobs)
Why Do They Fight?: To stay alive in this godforsaken realm, and perhaps put that treacherous Cave Shaman out of his misery
THE BIRTH OF THE WHITE WORM CLAN
This story continues the tale started in “The Paradise Below”, which was posted on February 2 on the Malign Portents website. Read that first, here.
Warboss Naglig writhed against the skeletal hands that were dragging him down into the ashen grave. Around him, he could see the other grots of the Black Worm Clan locked in the same struggle against an endless field of the undead. Deeper and deeper Naglig was pulled into the pit, until barely more than his head and a single arm remained above ground.
He swore a mighty curse. The most bitter and spiteful curse that he had ever uttered.
“Gork, you worthless pile of filth! Krork you! And Mork too! Mighty god my buttocks - unable to do anything to help your servants when the times git rough! Well, no one needs you! But if I am going to die, at least give me the chance to put my hands around the neck of that krorking lying shaman before I do!”
Naglig could almost hear the pitiless laugh of the gods as he finished.
But just then he spied something in the distance: an orange blur that looked all the world like a giant pumpkin rolling across the battlefield towards him. Closer and closer it came, until Naglig could see that it was no pumpkin, but an enormous cave squig. In its wake, the bones of the dead lay smashed and splintered into dull white shards, as if a rhinox had crashed through a china shop.
The squig headed straight at Naglig, and the warboss saw that it dragged behind a heavy iron chain that still had the severed hand of its former master attached. With his one free arm, Naglig seized hold of the chain with all his might as it passed, and the rolling ball of squig pulled him out of the ashen pit.
Stumbling to his feet, Naglig coughed out soot and dust and eyed the squig, which now turned round to face him. Snarling menacingly, it charged at Naglig, gnashing at him with its enormous jaws. Naglig punched the creature hard on the nose (as any grot handler knew to do) and bellowed at the creature to git out of his krorking face.
Stunned, the squig stumbled back and dumped itself on its tail, with a hurt look of a beaten dog on its broad face. Then it shook its head, smiled widely, and bounded up to Naglig, bathing him in a sloppy lick.
“Dats enough of dat,” said the warboss, wiping squig-slobber off his face.
From behind him, a horn sounded a dull clarion call that faded quickly in the ashen wastelands. Naglig slowly turned around and saw the field beyond erupting with new undead creatures. They pulled themselves from the earth. Skeletons, zombies, and much worse things began a slow shamble towards Naglig.
But Naglig was no longer alone. Besides the squig, the grots of his Black Worm Clan, who had somehow also miraculously escaped the clutches of their enemy, massed around him. And they were not all. Orruks too rallied near. And ogors! It was not the mighty army of the Cave Shaman’s delusion, but the warboss knew it was his to command. It was a chance.
“So, you decided to stick around afterall, eh?,” came a voice from behind Naglig.
“You!” the warboss cursed, spinning around to see the twisted form of the Cave Shaman.
“Me,” the Cave Shaman replied, “I didn’t think you’d still be here when I returned. Funny that.”
Naglig drew himself up and tried to extract every inch of menace out of his small body to confront the Cave Shaman. The skeletons and other nasties could wait. First he had business with the Cave-Shaman to settle. If he was going to die in this place, he’d send the Cave Shaman ahead of him.
It was then that Naglig noticed what should have been noticed before. Looking at the grots around him, he saw that they were no longer garbed in their usual black robes. Instead they were draped in robes of a dirty white color. And not just them, the orruks also all wore armor of white.
Slowly he stared down at his own clothing. It too was white. White as ash. White as bone.
Naglib’s face fell.
“Krork me, I’m dead already, ain’t I?” he asked the Cave Shaman.
The Cave Shaman grinned.
“Maybe you is or maybe you isn’t. But in any case, you got some scrappin’ to do, I reckon.”
- THE END -
P.S. – I was originally going to call this story “Now That We’re Dead”, but apparently some band called Metallica already used that title.
Gaius the Insatiable of The Insatiable Court
General: Gaius the Insatiable (Abhorrant Ghoul King)
Heroes: Baul, the Baron Gizzard (Crypt Ghast Courtier), Valter Flayedheart, the Marquis Gruelsop (Varghulf Courtier), Khyran, the Lord Marrowbroth (Crypt Infernal Courtier), Chairophon the Go-Between (Knight of Shrouds)
Gaius Albus Harcourt sat upon his throne of cracked alabaster and brooded. Assembled before him in the hall were his courtiers and soldiers enjoying their Feast Day and for the most part oblivious of their King’s discomfort. Matters of State weighed heavily upon his mind, which normally wouldn’t be an issue for Gaius, but in recent times he has found himself… distracted. Quick to anger, and often losing track of time, some days his life seemed more of a dream than reality… Yet the cold hard truths of reality were what elevated or brought down Kings.
And it was the cold, hard truth of war that currently occupied his thoughts. While war often brought with it the opportunity for glory and reward, it also brought the specter of famine. And his people had faced the horrors of famine in the all too recent past… He was in no rush to place at risk the current time of plenty his court enjoyed. And yet a recent envoy to his court brought an offer, and it was this he now considered.
Even prior to the arrival of the Go-Between, this Knight of Shrouds, both Gaius and his chief Courtiers had seen the signs in the stars and on the wind… pointing toward the rise of the Great Necromancer, of Blood, and Falling Stars, and Blackest Night…
Gaius was no slave to the will of Nagash. Certainly, he respected the god for how much of Shyish his forces controlled, but Gaius was his own man, responsible for his own people and lands. But still, he was fully aware of the myriad forces that had been invading Shyish and challenging both Nagash and each other. The Rangers of Baron Gizzard brought reports of new incursions and clashes almost daily. Reports of Chaos Marauders, Daemons, Orruks, Beasts, and even the famed Stormhosts of Sigmar. The Royal Scourges under Lord Marrowbroth reported many of these invaders ventured far too close to his holdings, his forts and fields, the very lifeblood of his domain… And did any of these interlopers deign to come here to Harcourt Hold and break bread with his Courtiers? Did nary a one even send a messenger or raven to so much as announce their presence and request a ‘by-your-leave?’ No! Gaius felt his blood start to run hot as the anger filled him. Through hazy eyes for just a moment he imagined the feast hall before him dark and littered, crawling with monsters, and for a moment he faltered… But then his attention was drawn back to the cold ambassador awaiting an answer to Nagash’s… request, and his world righted itself again.
The path forward was clear. King Gaius Albus Harcourt would accept the tribute and pledges from Nagash, Overlord of Shyish, and with them teach the meaning of respect, courtesy, and honor to each and every one of these petty warlords and invaders who deigned to disturb the sands of Shyish…
Launching from his throne with preternatural speed, Gaius roared, and for a moment the hall was silenced. He locked eyes with his most trusted vizier, Valter Flayedheart, the Marquis Gruelsop, and the giant of a man rose and nodded once, calling the troops to attention and calling for the banners to be unfurled.
Gaius smiled, and watched his men quickly gobble up the last of their plates and begin to gather into order. Those who moved too slowly or could not manage to pull themselves from their cups were “assisted” in the transition by a harsh rebuke or stern kick from their superiors. Then, leaving the Courtiers to their task, Gaius and Chairophon left the Hall to discuss the particulars of their new alliance.
General: Gaius the Insatiable (Abhorrant Ghoul King)
Heroes: Baul, the Baron Gizzard (Crypt Ghast Courtier), Valter Flayedheart, the Marquis Gruelsop (Varghulf Courtier), Khyran, the Lord Marrowbroth (Crypt Infernal Courtier), Chairophon the Go-Between (Knight of Shrouds)
Gaius Albus Harcourt sat upon his throne of cracked alabaster and brooded. Assembled before him in the hall were his courtiers and soldiers enjoying their Feast Day and for the most part oblivious of their King’s discomfort. Matters of State weighed heavily upon his mind, which normally wouldn’t be an issue for Gaius, but in recent times he has found himself… distracted. Quick to anger, and often losing track of time, some days his life seemed more of a dream than reality… Yet the cold hard truths of reality were what elevated or brought down Kings.
And it was the cold, hard truth of war that currently occupied his thoughts. While war often brought with it the opportunity for glory and reward, it also brought the specter of famine. And his people had faced the horrors of famine in the all too recent past… He was in no rush to place at risk the current time of plenty his court enjoyed. And yet a recent envoy to his court brought an offer, and it was this he now considered.
Even prior to the arrival of the Go-Between, this Knight of Shrouds, both Gaius and his chief Courtiers had seen the signs in the stars and on the wind… pointing toward the rise of the Great Necromancer, of Blood, and Falling Stars, and Blackest Night…
Gaius was no slave to the will of Nagash. Certainly, he respected the god for how much of Shyish his forces controlled, but Gaius was his own man, responsible for his own people and lands. But still, he was fully aware of the myriad forces that had been invading Shyish and challenging both Nagash and each other. The Rangers of Baron Gizzard brought reports of new incursions and clashes almost daily. Reports of Chaos Marauders, Daemons, Orruks, Beasts, and even the famed Stormhosts of Sigmar. The Royal Scourges under Lord Marrowbroth reported many of these invaders ventured far too close to his holdings, his forts and fields, the very lifeblood of his domain… And did any of these interlopers deign to come here to Harcourt Hold and break bread with his Courtiers? Did nary a one even send a messenger or raven to so much as announce their presence and request a ‘by-your-leave?’ No! Gaius felt his blood start to run hot as the anger filled him. Through hazy eyes for just a moment he imagined the feast hall before him dark and littered, crawling with monsters, and for a moment he faltered… But then his attention was drawn back to the cold ambassador awaiting an answer to Nagash’s… request, and his world righted itself again.
The path forward was clear. King Gaius Albus Harcourt would accept the tribute and pledges from Nagash, Overlord of Shyish, and with them teach the meaning of respect, courtesy, and honor to each and every one of these petty warlords and invaders who deigned to disturb the sands of Shyish…
Launching from his throne with preternatural speed, Gaius roared, and for a moment the hall was silenced. He locked eyes with his most trusted vizier, Valter Flayedheart, the Marquis Gruelsop, and the giant of a man rose and nodded once, calling the troops to attention and calling for the banners to be unfurled.
Gaius smiled, and watched his men quickly gobble up the last of their plates and begin to gather into order. Those who moved too slowly or could not manage to pull themselves from their cups were “assisted” in the transition by a harsh rebuke or stern kick from their superiors. Then, leaving the Courtiers to their task, Gaius and Chairophon left the Hall to discuss the particulars of their new alliance.
Lorrik "The Wise" of the Red Blight Alliance
Generals - Lorrik "the Wise", Lord Rok'nal, and High King Eziret "the Giver"
Motivations - Rok'nal circled the dilapidated castle built into the side of the mountain. It was a relic of the time before chaos. A time before Sigmar the betrayer had ravaged the land and opened the way for the barbarians. It was ok though. The people of Shyish had persevered. All would soon be corrected and justice served. Rok'nal suspected that it was for this very reason that he had been summoned by his oldest friend, Lorrik. They had been raised as brothers but had not seen each other in ages. Not since his discipleship with the Legion of Sacrament had began. While he still trusted him, he had to make sure there were no enemies lying in wait. When he felt secure he quietly landed on the terrace built specifically for those with the power to rise and ride dragons from the grave. Rok'nal unmounted Rathalos, his zombie dragon, and patted him on the head. "Go hunt my friend, but stay close. With Nagash returned so to have enemies innumerable." Rathalos nodded and licked his enormous fangs in anticipation of the next kill. He spread his tattered wings and took off into the night.
"You have a majestic steed, blood knight" came an inquisitive voice from the shadows. "it would be a shame if someone were to will it from you."
"If you can take it from me you can have it." scoffed Rok'nal smiling. His fangs glistened In the moonlight. He cracked his neck and flexed his ancient muscles. The predatory curse running through his vienes ached to be ignited, even at the mere thought of bloodletting. Patience though, right now he would practice patience. One must not let themselves succumb. Even a blessing can be lethal when overindulged. He started towards the doorway into the castle to meet his new aquaintence. A gust of wind in his direction revealed what lurked in the shadows before it could show it self. Ghoul King. The stench of raw meat mixed with the finest perfumes. The monster was walking away from him though, he could hear its taloned feet clicking on the cold stone. "for one who talks of will do you have none of your own to turn around and face me? Come let me rid you of the insanity that plagues your mind cursed one." taunted Rok'nal.
'Insanity?' pondered the abhorrent out loud. 'No no no.... I merely.. See things for what they truly are.'
He stepped forward out of the shadow of the castle. The ghoul king was robed in the finest mournfang fur Rok'nal had ever seen. On top of his head lay a crown of lustrous Ur-Gold encrusted with all manner of jewels. Was the insanity infecting Rok'nals mind aswell? No, that couldn't be possible, what he saw was real. Before he could think more of it the ghoul king made a move. He threw off his cloak at Rok'nal and sprinted at him faster than a slaaneshi daemon. Rok'nal unsheathed and raised his sword just in time as the kings talons came raking down. Rok'nal threw himself on his back and kicked up, landing two feet on the kings scarred chest sending him flying. Such was the force that it would have caved in a lesser man's chest. The ghoul king landed on all fours and let out a snarl. His eyes glowed with amethyst energy. Rok'nal could feel the king imbuing him self with power. He reached out to try to dispel the magic but it was to late. The ghoul king pounced again, this time with a black hunger and animalistic fury. They traded quicksilver blows. Vampiric sword biting deep into flesh, gory talons ripping off baroque armor. The back and forth went on for about a minute until finally, they heard a booming command in their mind.
'Enough!'
Lorrik, bedecked in the finest of necromantic armor and trinkets, descended from the sky on his abyssal mount onto the terrace which only a second ago had served as an arena for a dual to the death. 'Can two brothers not recognize each other? Did you not present yourself Eziret?'
'That is High King Eziret "the Giver"!' snarled Eziret at Lorrik. He inhaled, slowly composing himself before turning to Rok'nal. 'Why yes, hello brother. Forgive me, in my kingdom I no longer require introductions.' Eziret was bleeding badly but his wounds were already beginning to knit themselves back together. Rok'nal gulped at a pouch of azyrite blood before replying. The last time he had seen his little brother he was being selected as the hierophant for the High King Sangre-giver. He was weak then, and scared. To look upon his brother in this state caused him shame and embarrassment.
'B-Brother.... I.... I'm sorry for allowi-'
'Allowing? For all you've become under the tutelage of Prince Vhordrai you still sound stupid and naive big brother!' laughed Eziret.
Lorrik strode between them. 'Come brothers, we have much to discuss. We have each accomplished many great deeds as individuals but our Lord Nagash has willed that we join forces. A knight of Shrouds awaits us within the castle.'
Eziret spit blood on the ground and bared his needle like teeth. 'A Shrouded Knight is no better than Sigmar, a betrayer of his kin, a snake! And snakes cannot bite with their heads cut off!'
'I agree with Eziret' Rok'nal replied quickly. 'They bend beings to their will through manipulation and deceit, they are not to be trusted.
'We will hear him out!' yelled Lorrik. 'As we speak armies from across the realms move on the Hellfire Gate to open it. Millions of reinforcements will pour towards Nagashizzar. We will not allow that to happen. Tonight we will exchange stories of conquest and loss. We will hear of the Blood Keep and Eziret's famed harems. Tomorrow, we march on the Hellfire Gate!'
Generals - Lorrik "the Wise", Lord Rok'nal, and High King Eziret "the Giver"
Motivations - Rok'nal circled the dilapidated castle built into the side of the mountain. It was a relic of the time before chaos. A time before Sigmar the betrayer had ravaged the land and opened the way for the barbarians. It was ok though. The people of Shyish had persevered. All would soon be corrected and justice served. Rok'nal suspected that it was for this very reason that he had been summoned by his oldest friend, Lorrik. They had been raised as brothers but had not seen each other in ages. Not since his discipleship with the Legion of Sacrament had began. While he still trusted him, he had to make sure there were no enemies lying in wait. When he felt secure he quietly landed on the terrace built specifically for those with the power to rise and ride dragons from the grave. Rok'nal unmounted Rathalos, his zombie dragon, and patted him on the head. "Go hunt my friend, but stay close. With Nagash returned so to have enemies innumerable." Rathalos nodded and licked his enormous fangs in anticipation of the next kill. He spread his tattered wings and took off into the night.
"You have a majestic steed, blood knight" came an inquisitive voice from the shadows. "it would be a shame if someone were to will it from you."
"If you can take it from me you can have it." scoffed Rok'nal smiling. His fangs glistened In the moonlight. He cracked his neck and flexed his ancient muscles. The predatory curse running through his vienes ached to be ignited, even at the mere thought of bloodletting. Patience though, right now he would practice patience. One must not let themselves succumb. Even a blessing can be lethal when overindulged. He started towards the doorway into the castle to meet his new aquaintence. A gust of wind in his direction revealed what lurked in the shadows before it could show it self. Ghoul King. The stench of raw meat mixed with the finest perfumes. The monster was walking away from him though, he could hear its taloned feet clicking on the cold stone. "for one who talks of will do you have none of your own to turn around and face me? Come let me rid you of the insanity that plagues your mind cursed one." taunted Rok'nal.
'Insanity?' pondered the abhorrent out loud. 'No no no.... I merely.. See things for what they truly are.'
He stepped forward out of the shadow of the castle. The ghoul king was robed in the finest mournfang fur Rok'nal had ever seen. On top of his head lay a crown of lustrous Ur-Gold encrusted with all manner of jewels. Was the insanity infecting Rok'nals mind aswell? No, that couldn't be possible, what he saw was real. Before he could think more of it the ghoul king made a move. He threw off his cloak at Rok'nal and sprinted at him faster than a slaaneshi daemon. Rok'nal unsheathed and raised his sword just in time as the kings talons came raking down. Rok'nal threw himself on his back and kicked up, landing two feet on the kings scarred chest sending him flying. Such was the force that it would have caved in a lesser man's chest. The ghoul king landed on all fours and let out a snarl. His eyes glowed with amethyst energy. Rok'nal could feel the king imbuing him self with power. He reached out to try to dispel the magic but it was to late. The ghoul king pounced again, this time with a black hunger and animalistic fury. They traded quicksilver blows. Vampiric sword biting deep into flesh, gory talons ripping off baroque armor. The back and forth went on for about a minute until finally, they heard a booming command in their mind.
'Enough!'
Lorrik, bedecked in the finest of necromantic armor and trinkets, descended from the sky on his abyssal mount onto the terrace which only a second ago had served as an arena for a dual to the death. 'Can two brothers not recognize each other? Did you not present yourself Eziret?'
'That is High King Eziret "the Giver"!' snarled Eziret at Lorrik. He inhaled, slowly composing himself before turning to Rok'nal. 'Why yes, hello brother. Forgive me, in my kingdom I no longer require introductions.' Eziret was bleeding badly but his wounds were already beginning to knit themselves back together. Rok'nal gulped at a pouch of azyrite blood before replying. The last time he had seen his little brother he was being selected as the hierophant for the High King Sangre-giver. He was weak then, and scared. To look upon his brother in this state caused him shame and embarrassment.
'B-Brother.... I.... I'm sorry for allowi-'
'Allowing? For all you've become under the tutelage of Prince Vhordrai you still sound stupid and naive big brother!' laughed Eziret.
Lorrik strode between them. 'Come brothers, we have much to discuss. We have each accomplished many great deeds as individuals but our Lord Nagash has willed that we join forces. A knight of Shrouds awaits us within the castle.'
Eziret spit blood on the ground and bared his needle like teeth. 'A Shrouded Knight is no better than Sigmar, a betrayer of his kin, a snake! And snakes cannot bite with their heads cut off!'
'I agree with Eziret' Rok'nal replied quickly. 'They bend beings to their will through manipulation and deceit, they are not to be trusted.
'We will hear him out!' yelled Lorrik. 'As we speak armies from across the realms move on the Hellfire Gate to open it. Millions of reinforcements will pour towards Nagashizzar. We will not allow that to happen. Tonight we will exchange stories of conquest and loss. We will hear of the Blood Keep and Eziret's famed harems. Tomorrow, we march on the Hellfire Gate!'
Keiron of the Forty Vengeful Souls
General: Keiron (Knight of Shrouds)
Heroes: Reap and Sow (Cairn wraiths), Eoreth Trogh (Banshee), Blackmourn (Wight King), Rorian Antegar (Necromancer)
Rorian Antegar sat on his ossified throne. It had been nearly a year since he carved his own little slice out of the Fell Cliffs and ascended to his present position in Nagash's service following the cataclysm and his violent entry to Shadowholm. Now, he was to be tested again. Though, this time, he had a tried and true cadre of Death Avatars to help him.
"A new campaign begins tomorrow, cryptborn. Nagash wishes us to move. Therefore, I am delegating this sacred duty to you, knight of shrouds. Lead them well, Keiron. I, and the rest of our forces, will join you in a later seiege.
The other, longer serving Nighthaunt generals all shifted in what passed for unease among the dead. Reap, the more belacose of the Cairn Wraith Twins, seemed especially put off by Antegar's appointment of Keiron as overlord general.
Antegar addressed the gathered heros. He motioned to the near-statuaesque figures behind him, hulking and dangerous.
"Take my morghasts. They will keep you safe, friend. Go. With the will of the Death God and the conviction of the forty souls!"
With that, Keiron, the morghasts and the reluctant remainder of the Nighthaunt and their skeletal allies began to file out.
The Necromancer tasted the air.
A chill wind blew. It was time.
General: Keiron (Knight of Shrouds)
Heroes: Reap and Sow (Cairn wraiths), Eoreth Trogh (Banshee), Blackmourn (Wight King), Rorian Antegar (Necromancer)
Rorian Antegar sat on his ossified throne. It had been nearly a year since he carved his own little slice out of the Fell Cliffs and ascended to his present position in Nagash's service following the cataclysm and his violent entry to Shadowholm. Now, he was to be tested again. Though, this time, he had a tried and true cadre of Death Avatars to help him.
"A new campaign begins tomorrow, cryptborn. Nagash wishes us to move. Therefore, I am delegating this sacred duty to you, knight of shrouds. Lead them well, Keiron. I, and the rest of our forces, will join you in a later seiege.
The other, longer serving Nighthaunt generals all shifted in what passed for unease among the dead. Reap, the more belacose of the Cairn Wraith Twins, seemed especially put off by Antegar's appointment of Keiron as overlord general.
Antegar addressed the gathered heros. He motioned to the near-statuaesque figures behind him, hulking and dangerous.
"Take my morghasts. They will keep you safe, friend. Go. With the will of the Death God and the conviction of the forty souls!"
With that, Keiron, the morghasts and the reluctant remainder of the Nighthaunt and their skeletal allies began to file out.
The Necromancer tasted the air.
A chill wind blew. It was time.
The Vampire Lord Drakneth
Why Do They Fight?: Callistus Coldheart received a missive solemnly presented by a pathetic creature trying, as far as Callistus could discern, to imitate a human squire. The “missive” was a scrap of bloodied, filthy cloth, which was covered in scrawl and sealed with a wax blob. In it, it appeared that the “Most Excellent Lord” Filthbottom pledged his services and those of his men at arms to protect Shyish from invaders. Callistus could not refuse an offer of help, but at the same time could not allow a delusional loose cannon at such an important time. He summoned the Vampire Lord Drakneth and instructed him to escort Lord Filthbottom, both to aid in the harassment of foes and to keep an eye on the unpredictable flesh eaters.
Why Do They Fight?: Callistus Coldheart received a missive solemnly presented by a pathetic creature trying, as far as Callistus could discern, to imitate a human squire. The “missive” was a scrap of bloodied, filthy cloth, which was covered in scrawl and sealed with a wax blob. In it, it appeared that the “Most Excellent Lord” Filthbottom pledged his services and those of his men at arms to protect Shyish from invaders. Callistus could not refuse an offer of help, but at the same time could not allow a delusional loose cannon at such an important time. He summoned the Vampire Lord Drakneth and instructed him to escort Lord Filthbottom, both to aid in the harassment of foes and to keep an eye on the unpredictable flesh eaters.