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End of an Era Part 1 of 3
Topic Started: 22nd November 2006 - 07:32 PM (230 Views)
daemonic badger
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Veteran/OAP
An opening, introductory chapter for the start of my finale arc for the civil war...


The wind whistled throughout the pale, broken trees. The leaves were whipped off the rotting branches, and soon, as winter started to set in, they would be laid bare once more. The wind was biting and the air cool and the only lights at the dark camp-site where the occasional swing of a clan rat’s torch, and the pale sickly glow of the moon. The whole army was resting, the usually bustling encampment deathly silent.
Rows and rows of spectacularly red tents littered the fields, dead fires were dotted around the tents, and tankards knocked on the floor, the whole scene reminiscent of the past night’s frivolities. Yesterday was the last day of the peace, today the first day of battle. The army was preparing for the move, camped on the outskirts of Lirrit’s caverns. Shadow-walker weaved his way through the tents, seemingly disappearing and reappearing in the shadows.
The shady assassin seemed to be making his way to the grand tent at the edge of the area, stacked against the mighty caverns. The golden and highly decorated entrance was guarded by two guards. The tent seemingly ran into the floor, but Shadow-walker knew that they descended just into the dark coziness of the caverns, there resided his target. His bare feet made no sound as they slowly and delicately padded across the mossy floor.
After having slowly skirted the guards, he pressed against the shadiest corners of the caverns. Slowly, unbelievably, he melted into the shadows. He did not vanish rather slowly faded, his last features to meld away were his glowing malevolent eyes.
His near-ethereal form re-appeared with a sliding smoky wisp in Lirrit’s chambers. Reasserting his corporeal form, Shadow-walker shook himself slightly. Even after all these long years he had still not gotten used to it. A small candle that Lirrit liked to keep by his bed a all times was the only light in the burrow. Lirrit was a vast admirer of Man-thing furniture, and had a large force of night runner steal him a four poster bed. The stark cleanliness of the horrific eye-sore contrasted with the beautifully skaven warren, the earthy walls, the comfy straw that secretly lined Lirrit’s bed.
Almost imperceptibly the assassin drew his dagger. The bitter cold steel seemed to hiss with its thirst for blood. Shadow-walker raised the icy blade to his face. As he gently scraped his skin it seemed to melt and break around the blade like a crisp early morning mist. His coal black eyes faltered for the first time in years as he looked at the warlord’s sleeping form. Shadow-walker felt something that reminded him of passion stir within his ghostly form. For so long the only emotion he had ever felt was hatred. Hatred for Skrichit, his accursed creator, hatred for the enemies of the clan, hatred against the whole skaven race for his monstrous form.
Remembering the past time he and the warlord shared, the assassin couldn’t resist a mirthful smile spreading across his ghostly lips. Was he wrong to do this? His chieftain would be a good leader for the clan, and more importantly he would be easy to control. But Lirrit, undoubtedly was the only one who could still lead the clan to greatness. Shadow-walker involuntarily shrunk back slightly, his mind in turmoil. Then his face hardened. No, he resolved, monster or not, he was still skaven, and he wouldn’t be tied down by any foolish feelings of loyalty or friendship, Lirrit would cast him off anyway surely the moment Shadow-walker had outlived his usefulness.
His mind made up, the cold-hearted assassin regained his posture and advanced towards the bed. Sliding the dagger from his cloak he treaded the earth with his viciousness, and stood over the sleeping warlord. Shadow-walker hesitated over Lirrit, the dagger ready to snake out and claim its victim. As the seconds passed the bitterness drained from his face. Silently cursing himself for his weakness, Shadow-walker retreated swiftly into the shadows, sheathing his knife as he did so.

A heavy silence oppressed the chamber following the assassin’s swift departure. The malevolence and frustration seemed to linger long after its owner’s departure. Lirrit’s face was peaceful and devoid of its expression. The sword hidden beneath the covers pressed its metallic sting against Lirrit’s chest. Slowly his face creased into a smile and his eye snapped open. That was a close one…



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SneakyRodent
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Claws of the Horned One founder member

Ah...welcome back Shadow-walker! I've been expecting you! :)

Good to see you back in the writing groove DB - a close call for Lirrit that, but is that the last he's heard of it.....? Keep it up!
Grey Seer Skritchit
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