My long rambling chaos lore post

Age of Myth

Weak sunlight bathed Cormac as his war band left the cover of the forest canopy, leaves crunching underfoot from the first chill of autumn. Reining in his horse the situation at the small hill fort was quickly assessed. This far from the centre of Shyish the dead were ever restless with attacks on the living being far from uncommon. The people had adapted to such occurrences with every town or homestead being a formidable fortification in its own right however the sheer number of revenants now assailing the thick wooden walls threated to overwhelm them.

 

Normally the loss of an outlying settlement would go unnoticed at the capital, indeed Cormac at first dismissed the petitioner as the other wright lords had, however something about the peasant’s story troubled him enough to take action. Raising a small but elite band of 20 mortal cavalry and 100 foot knights the expedition set off rim ward towards the stricken town. Although the journey was long it was expected that the people would be able to hold off the dead for several weeks before finally succumbing to their ravenous attentions. When they arrived the desolation which greeted them only heighted the wrights suspicions that some other force compelled the unquiet dead.

 

The destruction had been complete with no trace of anyone, either living or dead, left behind to bear witness as to what had happened. Scouts returning from the town reported what Cormac had already suspected, that the town’s food supplies and valuables appeared to be untouched, and whoever had orchestrated the attack was only interested in adding the town’s defenders to their own undead force. Following such a force through pasture and woodland would be little challenge for his scouts and knowing the shambling nature of his quarry Cormac allowed his war band to rest after the forced march of several days. Soon after the war band set off again the unease each member had felt at finding such desolation replaced with a towns worth of unguarded coin. The unease returned then turned into a cold dread when they arrived at the second town, a place called Dullan, to find it had suffered a similar fate.

 

A sense of urgency spurring them on the band set off in hope, and fear, of catching up to the dark master that had carried out these attacks before more denizens of Shyish could be added to their ever growing ranks. So it was they reached the hill fort of Mortlach early that autumn morning in time to see the initial stages of battle. The army, for its size surly justified the title, comprised mostly skeletons and zombies risen from the decimated towns. Numbering around a thousand the normally shambling undead moved with a sense of purpose. Shields were held high preventing the defenders on the palisade from doing much damage with their bows and slings. Under normal circumstances the undead would crash against the wall, flowing around to encompass the settlement, while clawing ineffectually at the thick wooden posts never posing a real threat to the defenders. Towns were built to withstand such an assault with long spears placed at intervals along the wall allowing the defenders to pick off the attackers in relative safety. Even with such numbers arrayed against them the settlers would have been able to hold out for a considerable time however they were not prepared for a well-disciplined enemy. Arrow volleys and steep embankments did little to slow the advance of the tireless undead and while those that reached the wall were quickly cut down those following remained focused on that same area. Defenders rushed along the palisade in tight formation thrusting spears down into the mass below. Their movements rhythmic and well-practiced, the defenders took a heavy toll on the undead. As the people of Aqshy would battle a wild fire the people of Shyish battled the undead this was something they understood and expected in life. While these undead behaved differently than others nothing they did caught the defenders off guard until as one the dead grabbed for the spears. In that first moment over a third of the defenders were dragged off the wall to be ripped apart by the rotten claws and gnashing teeth waiting for them below. With that brief opening skeletal hands started to scale the palisade while those following behind started to clamber over the press of bodies in front forming a ramp of bodies to reach the defenders.

 

Watching on impassively Cormac searched the area for the master of the undead. His small war band couldn’t hope to turn the tide of battle on their own, if they were to save the fort they needed to find and destroy the one who was channelling the power of Shyish. The land was covered in groups of the undead any of which could be acting as a guard to the necromancer and attacking one would alert the entire army to their presence. Cormac paused, the green witch light of his eyes fading, as all senses were blocked allowing him to focus solely on the ever present winds of death which flowed through and sustained all the living dead. Like a gentle breeze being drawn into a magical vortex the winds provided Cormac with a direction. Eyes flaring bright again Cormac gazed across the glen towards a rocky outcrop where the necromancer had established his staging ground. The war band moved swiftly towards the outcrop knowing that as soon as the necromancer became aware of their presence a horde of undead would come bearing down on them. 

 

Not expecting an attack from outside the fort the war band was able to swiftly move into a position to strike at the necromancer’s position. Taking his place at the head of the cavalry Cormac lead a thunderous charge against the skeletal guard. Hearing the pounding of hoofs the necromancer turned surprise quickly turning to a sneer as he lashed out with a bolt of dark energy. The blast hit to Cormac’s left throwing three horses and their riders into the air the kinetic shock making those nearby stumble. Screams of pain could be heard from the downed horses spurring the remaining riders on as they lined up lances on their chosen targets before crashing into the skeletons in an explosion of bone and steel. Half of the riders pulled away in order to wheel around for another charge to the rear of the formation while those remaining drew their swords hacking at the undead while Cormac fought his way towards the centre. Another blast of sorcerous might exploded amongst the cavalry killing two warriors and several skeletons an unfair trade in a war of attrition the mortals couldn’t win.

 

Running to catch up the foot knights split into two groups with the smaller group heading for the outcrop to aid their lord. The majority of the troops started forming a shield wall twenty five across by three deep in an effort to stem the tide of undead now heading back towards their master. The tactic was an old one learned from centuries of fighting the undead. The front rank would brace holding the tide back allowing the second rank to attack with sword, hammer and axe while the third rank rested. On the given signal the front rank would push forward then fall back to the rear while ranks two and three changed their stance accordingly. Invaders from other realms often made the mistake of trying to hold the line as they would against a mortal foe, the undead however were tireless and relentless. If the line held exhaustion would soon set in, the press of bodies would become unstoppable and a once strong position would be over run. The trick was knowing when to push back so that a significant number could be cut down but also prevented too large a mass from forming and gaining an unstoppable momentum. While the wall would constantly be losing ground the enemy was slowed hopefully buying enough time for help to arrive.

 

Hacking left and right with his tomb blade Cormac fought his way towards the necromancer eventually arriving at the centre of the outcrop where he finally came face to face with the master of the undead. Covered in the filth and grime of one who has long since abandoned human decency, choosing spend his life among the un-living, he was unmistakably dressed in the fine robes of an adept. At one time this soulless wretch must have spent his days working in the scriptorium tending for the many tomes held in the capital, a role of some honour, what could have drove him to such madness?

‘Despair!’ the necromancer screamed at Cormac. ‘Despair is coming! He is like you, but not you, oh no. Far greater, no mere puppet of Nagash!’ He spits black phlegm at the mention of the death god’s name. ‘He shall return, return with the true gods and I shall be his lich master! Oh yes.’

As the madman held aloft a tome bound in what looked to be human skin he started to spit out a curse. Realising the danger Cormac moved with a speed which belied his undead state pulling his dagger and hurtling it towards the necromancer. The blade buried itself deep in the mortal’s chest the spell dying on his lips as he looked down in shock at the protruding handle.

‘How can this be?’ He sputtered, disbelief plain in his voice. ‘I was chosen by the gods to be their herald.’

‘There is only one true god’ replied Cormac in a voice as empty and cold as the grave. ‘You shall not betray him again.’

Looking up with hatred in his eyes the necromancer snarled out with his last breath ‘I cannot die!’ before slumping to the ground.

Staring down at the necromancer’s lifeless body the wright quietly replied ‘We all do.’

 

With the death of the necromancer his forces started to crumble away. Many dropped to the ground reverting to lifeless corpses once more while smaller groups wandered off to be lost in the forest. Cormac’s war band regrouped clearing the area around their lord before heading towards the fort in aid of the defenders. Cormac remained where he was staring down at the adept thinking about what had been said. He eventually dismounted to retrieve his dagger but also the heavy tome lying next to the body. What could have drove the man to such acts? What secrets had he uncovered that could bring into question the absolute authority of Nagash? Picking up the book he read the title, it simply said ‘KRELL’.

 

After the battle was won and the area secured the war band gathered around the out cropping again. ‘We shall remain here.’ stated Cormac addressing his warriors ‘These people have been abandoned for too long while I waste away the centuries playing politics with other petty lords. These lands shall be reclaimed and protected in the name of Nagash.’ The assembled war band gave a cheer every member relishing the idea of living under the open sky amongst the seemingly boundless life of the forest and away from the perpetual lifeless murk of the city. A city that riders had already been dispatched to with orders to bring back architects, builders and supplies. A castle was to be built here a place from which Cormac could direct his troops and protect his lands. But there was something else here something he couldn’t quite place. Whenever he quietened his mind he could feel the winds tugging at him, their passage sounding almost like a whisper in his ear, like the calm before the storm.

 

Age of Chaos

Located high in the castle, with thick tapestries depicting his battle with the necromancer long years before hung from the walls, Cormac sat alone in his study. The many shelfs were heavy with religious texts, books of arcane lore and those books which straddled the line between history and myth. The tapestries, along with a thick red carpet and his well-padded chair, were gifts from the people in recognition of their prosperity since he had taken up residence in the area. That such considerations were unnecessary seemed to be lost on them despite his many insistence. As always these last few months the book of Krell sat on the table next to him its lessons at odds with facts he knew to be true. That Nagash existed was beyond doubt as Cormac’s own existence was testament to. That he was no god, indeed that none of the pantheon could truly lay claim that title, was unthinkable. A wright king once in service to old gods, a lich master who had been granted a reprieve from death by those same gods, even given the power to challenge the first of the Mortarchs himself? The gods as he knew them were insular beings dealing only with others of their kind giving little heed to their followers. No matter how pious, noble or dedicated those followers were in life, in death they were all cast aside by their gods to be given into service of Nagash. It was for this reason that the people of Shyish considered Nagash to be the one true god for no other cared for the immortal soul. That there could be other gods’ ones that not only listened to but rewarded their followers in life while taking up their souls in death. Could such a thing be possible?

 

While deep in contemplation sunlight started to pool in through the narrow window heralding the start of another day. Cormac rose from his chair heading down to the courtyard as he did every morning to receive the report from the returning scouts directly. While his small corner of the realm was relatively stable the outlaying lands were falling into disarray with each day bringing more troubling news. Sickness, ever a problem when the living and dead cohabitate, was running rampant to the west with whole towns succumbing to disease. When the maladies first appeared Cormac had dispatched one of the castle surgeons to lend what aid they could. Soon after the surgeon had returned confirming that the people were indeed stricken with plague, dysentery and a number of other ailments but at the same time were in good cheer, a hacking couch produced blood flecked phlegm and a smile. Despite being in a condition that should have left every member of the town dying in their beds each one of them looked hale and hearty some more so than ever before. To the north scouts found fields untended and livestock roaming free. Thinking the nearby town must have come under attack from the undead they set off to investigate wither or not aid would be needed. On arrival the town seemed deserted with gates barred and no response from the scouts repeated calls. After scaling the walls a quick search found the town in disarray with most of the inhabitants clustered in and around the town hall. Inside they found the remains of a great feast with bodies strewn everywhere either dead or intoxicated the same eerie smile plastered on each and every face. Some were naked, others mutilated, the town mayor sat at the head of the great table having dislocated his jaw and chocked to death while trying to slide an entire turkey leg down his gullet.

 

The reports from today were no less troubling with society seeming to break down at every level. Attacks between towns was becoming an all to frequent occurrence, madness spread like a disease and an alarming number of disfigured children were being born, these were darker times than even he could remember. Thanking the scouts Cormac made his way to the training grounds taking his place at the edge of the arena to watch the morning routine. He always drew solace from the ringing of blades it was a familiar sound one that had been a constant companion throughout his life allowing him to find clarity while in recent years it also seemed sharpen his mind and heighten his senses. Normally a bout was observed dispassionately with advice or comments handed out with the cold objectivity of the dead but lately Cormac had found himself enjoying the fights with a particularly well fought or savage duel making him feel an excitement he had thought no longer possible.

 

After several hours of training 3^rd company stood at formation in the centre of the arena. Raising a salute to their lord they formed a ring around the fighting pit the company champion and drill master stood at the centre. Taking up a training sword Cormac strode in to meet them saluting each before falling back into a fighting stance. The two men started to circle round to either side of the wright then at a pre-arranged signal both moved in to attack. It was a tactic he had faced many times before and for good reason, in the few times he had been defeated it was usually to a variation of this manoeuvre. With a sudden burst of speed he parried the incoming attack from the left swinging round the champion then knocking him back towards the drill master, not giving them time to recover he went on the offensive. This was where Cormac excelled, a skilled warrior in life, as capable of leading a charge as well as an army, it was his distinguished military career which had granted Cormac entrance to the hallowed ranks of the wright lords all those centuries ago. Holding his ground and exploiting any opportunities his mind fell back into its old routines the ebb and flow of battle like second nature to him. This was the purpose of existence, not cloistered away in the cold necropolis with its fleshless denizens or in worship of an uncaring god, here in battle fighting to protect his lands and his people this was where he felt truly alive. Before being forced into servitude to Nagash the wright Krell had worshiped a god of war. The book told of a deity named Khorne the spiritual embodiment of martial pride and honour who would gift his followers with great strength and fortitude after proving their worth on the battlefield. A God worthy of worship, one who would reward faith with power rather than hoard it away for their own selfish needs.

 

His blade stopped suddenly less than an inch from the drill masters exposed neck, while the blade was too blunt for a decapitation it could, with enough force, easily have killed him.  The look of fear on the man’s face, eyes wide and face deathly pale, was reflected on all those around the ring. Looking around Cormac saw the unit champion face down and unconscious on the floor obviously badly wounded but alive. To the drill masters relief the training sword was lowered as Cormac came to terms with what had happened. He remembered the fight quite clearly but felt more like an observer than a participant like someone else were guiding his blade. He had allowed his mind to wander and his training had taken over nothing more than that. Thanking the drill master for a well fought bout Cormac made his way back into the keep sending messengers to gather the castles commanders. Something was coming, he could feel it, and no matter what it was he was determined to be ready.

 

As summer ended and a chill entered the air reports began coming in of an army of the dead marching towards his lands. A number of forces had begun to spread out from the central necropolis systematically wiping out the living from every town, village and hamlet. Cormac had heard of these crusades of death before the idea being to liberate the living from life although he had never had cause or desire to participate in one. That the death lords had called a crusade was little surprise the lands surrounding his own had only slipped further into violence and madness since the troubles had begun. What he wasn’t sure of was how they would deal with his small corner of the realm an area of relative peace and stability despite the near constant border skirmishes with neighbouring tribes. The rigid mentality of the dead was known only to well by Cormac however and an order to march fourth and wipe out the living would likely have left no room for distinction between those that were a blight on the land and those that were faithful. His mind made up the orders were issued. Every able bodied man, woman and child were to be trained in the essentials of combat, weapons manufacture made a priority and the standing army pulled back from the borders to strengthen Mortlach castle even so he doubted it would be enough.

 

Less than a month later Cormac stood atop the battlements looking out over the besieging army an entire legion had been sent with the silent ranks of skeletal warriors outnumbering his own cohort by ten to one. From the castle walls the formations were a daunting sight with each block of troops standing perfectly still a stark contrast to the raving hoards his men had grown used to fighting in the preceding years. Those tribes were all gone now the surrounding lands having been sterilised by the unstoppable crusade with minimal losses suffered by the army of death. Reports told of a few settlements holding out briefly against the undead by utilising unnatural sorcerous power to strike down the death lords but it was never enough not when your own dead could be turned against you.

 

From out of the undead ranks rode a wright lord on a skeletal steed closely followed by his personal banner bearer. Recognising the standard as that belonging to Magroth, an able general and sorcerer in his own right, Cormac made his way down from the walls to parley with his former comrade. As the large castle gates opened Cormac strode out with his newly designed banner, that of a stylised pointed skull, being borne behind him by the leader of first company. “It’s been a long time Cormac” the wright called “You have done well with these lands, that they have not been overrun is a testament to your skill and leadership, but the time has come to return to the necropolis. These lands are not the only ones falling into darkness, others have fallen far further, your ability’s would greatly benefit the crusade we need skilled generals such as you.”

“You appear to have the situation well in hand.” replied Cormac. “Thanks to your efforts the surrounding lands are no longer a threat, my people can reclaim then in the name of Nagash and make them prosperous once more. We shall stand as a bulwark against the darkness as we have done these past centuries.”

“It wasn’t an offer I’m afraid, you are to return with the legion so that you may repay the debit of your eternal life”

“And what is to become of my people?”

Magroth paused “They are to serve in the army of the necropolis. The living cannot be trusted in these times, you know this, and if they cannot serve in life then they shall serve death. Such is the way of Shyish”

Witch fire burned bright in Cormac’s eyes “Such is the way of Nagash! Do not presume to speak for the entire realm. My people are free from corruption, they grow strong and given time they shall expand beyond these lands. Would you rather live in a land of the dead? Never changing, never growing and all forced to serve at the whims of an overblown liche with delusions of godhood. What is the purpose of such an existence?”

“You go too far Cormac.” Warned Magroth “These lands will be cleansed wither you wish it or not. I was ordered to bring you back but make no mistake I shall not tolerate such blaspheme, there will be repercussions for your words this day. Open the castle gates, do not force your people to suffer a death in battle due to your hubris.”

“We have made peace with our God. In battle we shall find life.” With that Cormac turned heading back into the castle the gates shutting firmly behind him. Magroth watched his old comrade departing, they both knew this was a battle Cormac couldn’t win, a hopeless cause over the short insignificant lives of a few hundred peasants. The sentimentality could be forgiven but for a wright to denounce Nagash then claim to be at peace with him? Perhaps the madness had reached these lands after all.

 

Once Magroth had returned to the lines battle had been called. Skeletal warriors marched forward with ladders, blasts of death magic smashed against the walls and construction had started on siege towers capable of clearing the crenelations. That had been five days ago, five days and nights of constant battle. The dead needed no rest, never mourned the fallen or lost heart in battle. The defenders had to contend with all of these as well as the besieging army, it was a testament to their fortitude that they still held at all. Ladders had been toppled, breaches shored up and archers had taken shots at any magic users that strayed too close but now it was over. The siege towers had been completed built with thick wood and covered in rawhide the attackers would be able to swarm over the outer walls overrunning the tired defenders but still they never lost heart. For over those five days Cormac had been defending the walls, where ever the fighting was thickest, where ever hopelessness took hold Cormac was there shoring up the defences or reminding his people that this was not the end, for in battle they could find a new beginning.

 

With perfect precision the doors of each siege tower slammed down at once and within moments skeletal warriors covered the wall. Cormac hacked all around him felling the undead with each swing of his double headed sword, he could feel it now the winds of magic had been growing stronger each day always a gentle whisper in his ear but now, at the peak of the battle, it felt like a raging torrent was rushing through him. His movements became quicker, his blows more powerful, with a bellow he roared “FOR KHORNE!” it was taken up by the warriors around him and soon was echoing throughout the castle. His men went from being pushed back and cut down to fighting back reaping a toll on the attackers, not enough to win but enough to make them hurt to make sure this day, this battle, would be remembered. Just then Cormac was blown off his feet and slammed into the parapet. Looking down to his side he could see the remnants of death magic dissipating like mist from where a blast had hit him. He was ready for the next one quickly getting clear when he heard it streaming through the air towards him and blasting against the wall. Looking over he could see Magroth sword by his side and a hand held up with purple mist coalescing around it. Cormac roared running towards the wright lord smashing aside skeletons as he went. Magroth let loose one final blast then came forward with his sword thrusting towards Cormac’s damaged side little realising how far beyond him his opponent had become. Cormac ducked the blast and in one smooth movement brought his sword up severing Magroth arm before swinging it around to slice through his neck. As a wave of death energy billowed out from the falling body, causing the nearby skeletons to crumble to the ground, Cormac stooped down to gather up his prize the polished skull of Magroth. Holding the skull high above his head Cormac roared once more “FOR KHORN! FOR THE SKULL THRONE!” All along the wall the air seemed to shimmer and ripple as if in a heat haze then a sword blade of dark metal bust from the air as if from a chest of a man stabbed in the back, first one then another, wherever his warriors were fighting the blades appeared in the air. The swords began to tear down ripping through the fabric of reality creating an opening just large enough to let the creatures welding the swords through. The heads appeared first dark red elongated skulls framed by jet black horns, a black tongue lolling from between razor sharp teeth and milky white pupil-less eyes. As they stepped through he saw that they were hunched over with a ridge of spines running down their backs and while their red scaled frames were wiry they were covered in corded muscle. A savage hatred radiated from them, a desire to hunt and kill like a pack of rabid wolves. With elation every one of Cormac’s warriors looked upon these sacred creatures and saw themselves reflected there. Suddenly a piercing shriek rent the air as the creatures attacked the forces of undeath their brutally fashioned swords rending not only the physical body but also the magic sustaining them. The castle gates swung wide then as an unstoppable tide of man and daemon rushed out into the skeletal hoard awaiting them. The fighting was quick and brutal with Cormac’s forces never relenting their arms given strength by the favour of Khorne for truly their God was with them this day. Watching the slaughter Cormac held up the skull of Magroth and looking into its eyes asked “Where is Nagash old friend, where is your god now?” As the last of the wright lords were cut down Cormac held the skull high again and once more the cry arose “FOR KHORNE!”

 

 

Age of Sigmar

Badenoch Stormfist, lord celestant of the Blades of Dawn, was marched down the stone corridor, arms and legs shackled, his face a mask of righteous fury. He had been captured three days ago after the battle at the sanguine marsh, it had been a hard fought campaign but in the end they had been outmanoeuvred then bested in combat by the chaos worshippers. To his enduring shame Badenoch never saw the end of the battle, while making a desperate last charge his dracoth had been speared through the chest a lucky thrust making it around the armour. As the noble beast reared up Badenoch had been thrown clear striking his head on the ground, the next thing he knew he was waking up in a stone cell the walls damp and moss lined. He never knew what had happened to the rest of the army but then he never knew why he had been spared either, his gaolers brought him food and water but despite his threats, taunts and rages they never offered up any information.

 

He was brought into a large room near the top of one of the castle towers and pushed down onto his knees after which the guards left. At the far wall facing the door was a throne, a simple wooden design but well made, upon which was sat a skeleton wearing battered old plate mail. One wall looked to be covered in bookshelves but in place of books there were skulls, every shape, size and race was present each one sitting above a brass label. Leaning forward Badenoch read some of the inscriptions Tybor Orphieo – Freeguild General – Battle of Glen Dronich, Vandriss Surestrike – Lord Arcanum – Battle of the fallen stars, Face Stompa – Orruk Megaboss – Battle of Neck Snappa Gorge, Putrideus Pussguzzler – Lord of Plagues – Battle of a thousand flies each skull had been expertly polished and placed with reverence upon the shelf, there must have been close to a thousand.  On the opposite wall was hung a tapestry, age worn and faded, it depicted a heroic figure in gleaming steel plate standing atop a rocky outcrop holding a sword double handed in front of himself to shield against bolts of magical energy. The bolts were being cast an evil wretched creature looking up at the hero with a contemptuous sneer on his face. He couldn’t be sure but the way the tapestry had aged it looked as though the hero’s face was a fleshless skull.

“Quite a good likeness, wouldn’t you agree?” Badenoch’s eyes shoot to where the voice originated from. The skeletons eyes now held a green fire in them “My name is Cormac I am the lord of these lands.”

“Then why am I here puppet of the dark gods?” Badenoch’s asked voice full of disgust “Are you going to gloat, threaten then torture me? I am one of Sigmar’s eternals broken and re-forged on the anvil of apotheosis. I cannot be broken by the likes of you.”

“Have you not been well looked after? You have been feed and given time for your wounds to heal why would I wish to harm you now? You fought well and have been brought here so I could make you an offer, join us.”

Badenoch laughed aloud. “Join you? Has your mind been so corrupted by the dark gods that you believe I would ever lower myself to being one of your blood bound?”

“We are not Blood Bound, they are the cutting edge of Khorne’s forces. Honoured to fight alongside his essence, his daemons, they bring the fight to the enemy who ever and where ever they may be. Excellent shock troops in the name of our God but you can’t build an empire with them.”

“Slave to darkness then.” Badenoch sneered “I was made to fight against your tyranny, I fight for the freedom of the people of Sigmar.”

“You call us slaves but in truth we are the only truly free people. When one of your common people dies their souls are not taken in by Sigmar they are sent here to Shyish where they become the puppets of Nagash or if they are especially unfortunate turned into one of his nighthaunt to suffer an eternity of ironic punishment. Are these the actions of gods?”

Badenoch clambered to his feet still hindered by the manacles “But I am not one of the common people, I was chosen as one of the Stormcast Eternals. In time even Nagash will be defeated for his treachery and only then can all peoples be free in the name of Sigmar.”

“And what of you? We know about the re-forging, how after every time on the anvil you lose a little piece of yourself. What becomes of you? What becomes of your soul when all that’s left is a withered desiccated thing?” Cormac rose from his throne walking over to the shelfs of skulls picking one out. “This belonged to Henrik von Stall a freeguild general. His soul is gone now, I killed him in battle so it has gone to feed Khorne but what of his men? Taken from their homes and family’s to be pressed into service, handed weapons they have little idea how to use then thrown into battle, what of their souls? Where is their justice? Now look at my lands, you will see the same farms, the same towns with the same bakers, we can’t all be blood mad cannibals or our kingdoms would never have lasted throughout the ages. The difference is that every farmer, baker and potter in my lands is also a warrior. They are trained from birth to fight and it is while fighting that we worship Khorne.”

“Aye and in death your souls are consumed by the blood god or torn apart by daemons.”

“In death we become one with our god. Our ideals in life become our existence in death while those who are greatest amongst us receive the honour of fighting once more as his daemons, as a part of his essence. What greater reward could there be for a lifetime of worship? Which of your gods could offer you anymore?”

Badenoch stared at Cormac eyes wide and in a quiet voice uttered “You’re mad.”

“No, I’m free.” With that Cormac strode to the door banging it twice “The guards will take you to the area. There you will find your weapons and armour, I will be down shortly. We shall worship Khorne together you and I. Whatever else may happen Khorne shall have his due this day.”

 

Epilogue

Cormac wiped the blood from his blade, it had been a good fight the lord celestant lived up to the reputation of his kind.

“My Lord.” It was Drayvin, the banner bearer of 5^th company, raising a salute. “Will you be taking the skull for your personal collection sire?”

“No, only those taken in battle are worthy of a place there. Take it to the temple their always looking for good skulls.”

“Right away sire! But ah some of us was wondering why that stormcast never shot off as lightning like all the others did.”

Cormac continued wiping blood from his blade although Drayvin was sure it had been clean the first time. “He was killed in a ritual to Khorne, the soul was taken and consumed. Sigmar is no true god to gainsay Khorne’s power.”

“Right sire! As it should be sire!”

Cormac finished wiping his blade and looked at the still immobile warrior “Was there something else?”

“Well now you mention it lord the lads and I was wondering why you’re wearing that old plate mail and not that nice new suit of armour we got you.”

“Well….It’s very, ornate.”

“Yes sir! That’s real gold trim sir and covered in skulls it is. The armourer tried telling us it was too many skulls be we know what you like sir.”

“Yes, I think something that, ornate, should be kept for special occasions not every day wear. I wouldn’t want to wear it out.”

“Very wise sire, very wise. More of an inspiring presence when you do wear it eh?”

“Yes, something like that.”

Thanks for reading.