| The Kingmaker: Chapter 1; Nemesis Crown fluff | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: 6th July 2007 - 03:30 AM (297 Views) | |
| scrivener | 6th July 2007 - 03:30 AM Post #1 |
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*toot*
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Chapter 1: Finding Religion Verminkern stabbed out of the hilltop like a mouthful of broken teeth. It was a dour landmark, a circle of jagged boulders on a bare hill that broke the verdant line of trees around it. The surfaces of the rocks were carved, but the meaning of the symbols had been long lost or never known, weathered away to shapeless grooves and scratches. But even to those who knew not the significance of Verminkern, the place still held an disquieting ambience that tweaked at one's nerves and mind, as the Winds of Magic whispered between the stones and pooled in its ring. There was a brief flicker of black light within the henge. It went unnoticed, as there wasn't anyone who would linger near Verminkern on a moonless midnight, but even if there was one who was mad or stupid enough to do so, black light against black rock on a moonless midnight would not have been easy to spot. Then there was a flicker of green light –this was much more noticeable but went unnoticed by no one all the same – and there was suddenly someone at Verminkern. Raskill shuddered and brushed an errant spark out of his fur. He hated travelling via these eldritch means, but it was the quickest and most convenient way to that man-thing town, Fussgard or Pusgard or something. Not being able to see his destination was probably what he hated most about it. Much like the time an enthusiastic sorcerer had skitterleapt him in front of a dragon. That had been most unpleasant. He stalked out of the circle of stones, smelling faintly of sulphur. A shadow flickered and a gutter runner stood before Raskill. The gutter runner had been completely concealed before he had revealed himself, Raskill noted with approval. Raskill had been aware of his minion, of course, but a lesser being wouldn't have detected him. 'Report,' Raskill barked shortly. The gutter runner bowed. 'All plans are-are in order, O great lord assassin. Your man-thing pawns are still in Flusgard. We also note-see man-thing soldiers in fort ruins, east of town three hundred leaps away. Army gathering, much-great size, big army, we see-watch.' 'Excellent.' Raskill nodded. 'Return to Flusgard ahead of me.' So that was the name of the town. Raskill tried to commit it to memory. He didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of his minions by pronouncing it wrongly. 'Gather the man-thing pawns, ready a meeting. I will speak to them.' The gutter runner bowed and left immediately. [commercial break] Flusgard; small town with a big secret, or so the gossip was told. The tunnels between Verminkern and that small town were straight and well-maintained, but it was still not till the next night when Raskill finally arrived. The ramshackle building on the outskirts of the town had been a temple to some god or other in older times, now fallen to disuse with the passing of years. The cultists had moved in and infested the place like the creatures they worshipped, carefully boarding up the windows to keep the light in, and concealing all traces of the temple's new inhabitants. Tonight they were gathered. The interior was thick with cloying smoke that drifted along the rafters, and swirled around those who moved within like groping wraiths. There were five men and three women: they were dressed more elaborately than the common folk of the small town, the quality of their clothing marking them as wealthier than most. They lounged on benches or stood around a large brazier, swaying languidly. One woman added a pinch of black powder to the brazier and sickly sweet smoke rose from the coals. No one spoke. They were waiting for the proceedings to begin. The smoke near the main wall whirled momentarily, and three figures now stood there. The cultists blinked: no one had seen the newcomers arrive. Those who had been seated jerked to their feet, and as one the cultists fell to the ground to grovel. 'All hail the prophet, all hail the Elder Rook!' one cried out, and the rest followed him in the chant with slurry voices. The newcomer in the middle raised one hand in a gesture for silence. He was a strange and frightening sight, some ghastly apparition gowned in cloak and cowl. He had a stoop that might have made him an old man, yet the frenetic energy that baked off him spoke of an unnatural vitality. Despite the bend in his back, he was a full six feet tall, an imposing figure towering over his grovelling disciples. From the folds of the cowl poked a mask of a bird's head, starkly painted in black. To complete the image of a carrion bird bent intently over its prize, his hands were encased in iron gauntlets wrought and scaled like a bird's talons. The two others who flanked him were likewise dressed in black cloaks and cowls, but lacked the elaborate accoutrements their leader had affected. Bestial snouts peered from the cowls and their hands were clawed, marking them as something above and beyond humanity. There they stood, otherworldly emissaries behind the curtain of smoke. Raskill Greytongue smirked behind his bird-mask. The Skaven assassin was rather proud of the masquerade he had first dreamt up two years ago. He now had a healthy population of cultist pawns at his disposal, and many little ways of keeping them loyal to his cause. He still adopted the pretence and the costume to conceal their true identity, and the sense of mystery it gave certainly added to the effect. He cleared his throat of smoke and spoke as deeply as he could. 'Greetings, my most loyal disciples, Brothers and Sisters of the Beasts. Speak-speak, uh, speak to me of your tidings, of what benefits have you reaped since last we conger-, congreg-, gathered,' the Elder Rook intoned. Raskill cursed inwardly. He was going to have to brush up on his man-thing languages. This was ruining the air of gravitas. There followed a good half-hour of puerile yapping as the cultists took turns to exult and praise the fruits of their new-found religion. The herb-peddler had had a bountiful harvest, the whore had received the patronage of a wealthy merchant, the minstrel had even written a ballad extolling the virtues of the Elder Rook, and proceeded to sing it. They were a pathetic bunch of indolent fools, these cultists, and he had recruited them for that exact reason. Raskill let his mind wander. He was pondering if he could increase the potency of Black Lotus extracts by distilling it when he noticed that the snivelling talk had died down. The cultists were staring at him with rapt attention. Like puppies. 'Such are good tidings,' he spoke again. 'Now tell me of all ill that has befallen you, that I may make petitions to the Great Powers for remedy.' The next half hour was filled with complaints and whining just as petty as before, but this time Raskill listened intently. Most of the complaints were related to information he already knew: the army that was gathering at Flusgard, the threat of an orc invasion that was ruining business, the atmosphere of war and agitation that was disturbing their content, sheeplike lives. The knights Templar who were scouring the towns and woods for signs of evil and heresy. The cultists did not perceive themselves as evil, but the judgmental, self-righteous inquisitors of the religious orders never approved of anything outside their own rigid dogma. Raskill pricked his ears at this. Knights Templar. His Riekspiel vocabulary processed the word and came back with 'temple knight'. Man-thing soldiers for their religion, like the Albino Council Guards. Those are usually the most stubborn foes, difficult to manipulate, bound by death before dishonour and other such silly principles. He quickly formulated a plan. 'My honourable disciples,' he intoned, 'such ill upon your, your, fortuity,' he wondered if he was using that word correctly, 'is unfortunate, that the unenlightened should persecute you so. I shall petition for you, but, but first tell me more of these temple knights, so that I may pray for their misguided souls also.' He was proud of his command of the man-thing language, though it was still taking all his concentration to put his sentences together. One of the cultists, the minstrel, took a step forward. He was pallid, with a clammy complexion and sunken eyes. 'The Hunters of Sigmar, this bunch is, sir. They are razing the forests and hunting those who have transcended humanity and embraced the form and nature of the beast. And I, minstrel that I am, have heard of other tales as well. The Hunters, or so it is rumoured, are seeking a magic crown, some evil talisman or other. They are-' 'I know of the crown, but it is no evil thing-thing,' Raskill interrupted. 'These Hunters name it evil, as they do to all they do not understand. And they are ignorant and unenlightened, so there is much they do not understand. You know much and are wise, song-maker. What is your name?' 'Kreuger Harlich,' the minstrel replied. Raskill nodded his head. 'Kreuger,' he said, 'know much more and be wiser. Find out all that you may learn of these men, that I may enlighten them.' Kreuger suddenly looked nervous. 'These are knights under the direct command of Luthor Huss, Elder Rook. It is mos-' Raskill snapped his claws, the gauntlet ringing like a bell. The gutter runner to his right reached into his cloak and drew out a small box with a horn lid. 'How about,' Raskill said, 'you receive your blessings first for all you have done for our noble cause. We thank you for your devotion, and hope that you will be open to more blessings.' Kreuger could not take his eyes from the box. He knew what was in it. Raskill watched that look of rabid hunger with glee. Addiction, with claws of iron and deeply digging nails. Black snuff; a religion for the masses. 'Well?' the Skaven asked the man. 'Lord', Kreuger paused to lick his lips, 'you are too generous, sir. I will endeavour to serve our fellowship in every way.' 'Good,' Raskill grinned behind his mask, and signalled the gutter runner to hand the box to Kreuger, who took it with more enthusiasm than was healthy. ' And know,' this he said to the whole congregation, 'like blessings will be be-bestowed on all who show their hearts as true as Kreuger has. Now go forth and serve the true way.' He forked his fingers at the cultists in a parody of a benediction, and they slowly filed out of the room. In an alcove behind the altar, Raskill shrugged off his cloak and stooped to unstrap the stilts that gave Elder Rook its height. He sensed the presence of another in the room, but did not turn to address it immediately. A Skaven stepped out of the shadows. Grey-furred, robed, and sporting a pair of spiralling horns. 'Sstarting your-your own religion, assssasssin?' the Grey Seer hissed. 'Only a tool,' Raskill snorted as he let himself down from the stilts. 'It gets the man-things to do what I want with no questions. To what do-do I owe your gracious presence, Grey Seer Tharskir?' Tharskir paced the room. 'The man-thing emperor isss still deluded enough to be tricked into using the Fellcrown for hissself, as the Thirteen have plotted. But there are othersss in his-his council, those of the hammer and two-tailed sstar, who are trying to-to persssuade him to destroy it, if he finds it. Their tonguess are poison in his ear.' Those temple knights again. They seemed to the theme for tonight. 'You want me to deal with them?' Raskill asked. 'I want nothing from you. But the Council's will must not-not be denied, Supremacy must be fulfilled. You do what you know to do, assassssin. Do not fail.' And with a puff of suphur-scented smoke and a pop of inrushing air, the Grey Seer was gone. How melodramatic. Most likely he had skitterleapt himself to just outside the temple walls, and was going to have to walk the rest of the way home anyway. Raskill beckoned to one of his gutter runners. He had never bothered to learn their names: they seldom lasted long enough for it to be worth the effort. 'You,' he ordered, 'go to the clan hordes who have gathered. I will give you a message to deliver. And you,' he addressed the other gutter runner, 'Follow the minstrel. I want to learn everything he learns as soon as he learns it. Now go.' |
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| Dashtak | 6th July 2007 - 05:43 AM Post #2 |
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Stormvermin
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when i grow up I wanna be like Scriv! I love it! Keep em coming mang! (not that the wishes of a mere clanrat has any effect on a member of the Co. XIII, but in hopes of encouraging u to continue your impressive writing) - Dash |
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| Morgoth | 6th July 2007 - 06:20 AM Post #3 |
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The Ancient Evil
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Yeah. Scriv draws and writes so brilliant, that seeing my meager efforts fade totally in comparison, I'll probably just stick to killing in the future. 3 flags for you Scrivener: Artist, Writer and Co13
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Greetings from Morgoth Mostly Clan Eshin, occasionally Clan Husk.Proud keeper of the Poking Stick of Doom, known to many a RPG-player ![]()
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| Bodacious | 6th July 2007 - 06:25 AM Post #4 |
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Doomwheel Fanatic
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Great as always, but one thing: 'swaying languidly' Now I like to think I understand a lot of english words, but that type of stuff is just too much for me .Cheers, Bodacious. |
My Blog - My Army Diary - Twitter: @DaanofWar - Steam: DaanofWar
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| afchis | 6th July 2007 - 07:05 AM Post #5 |
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yeah considering scrivs rpgs and stuff what was the first operation in the operation serie's called?
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(wolt in back from the hospital)
Awesome rpg site: http://z3.invisionfree.com/The_Nether/index.php?act=idx | |
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| Scarfester | 8th July 2007 - 04:31 PM Post #6 |
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Scaaarrrrghhh
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Very impressive scriv. The plot unfolds! ![]() It amuses me that one of our own Council of 13 is at the fore-front of our fluff efforts, for manipulating the man things. *evil grin* I'll be keeping a gutter runner in this section, so I can be one of the first to read your works, as there posted.
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| SneakyRodent | 9th July 2007 - 08:02 AM Post #7 |
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Claws of the Horned One founder member
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I took a good 15 minutes break at work with a morning coffee to read this twice over. Excellent work, every bit as detailed and talented as your computer art. I hate you
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Grey Seer Skritchit Lord of the Ulricsberg Clan Virulus Holder of 'Best Post' Award 2007 here Took part in the glorious Lords of Decay Revolution of April 1st 2012 The complete works of SneakyRodent can be found here [/size]
(Scrivener on the Scum And Villainy2 characters of me, DamnedPrince and himself) | |
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Mostly Clan Eshin, occasionally Clan Husk.

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