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The Kingmaker: Chapter 2; nemesis crown fluff
Topic Started: 16th July 2007 - 02:22 PM (227 Views)
scrivener
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*toot*

Thanks to everyone who has commented on the last two parts, it's very encouraging that there are peeps who actually enjoy reading this stuff. :) Thanks for taking the time to have a read.


Assassinations

With word of a beastmen attack on the Emperor's last council of war, the purge of all manner of chaos in the Drakwalds increased tenfold, Imperial soldiers and warrior-monks alike razing corrupted stretches of woods and putting its monstrous inhabitants to the sword. The Hunters of Sigmar, the newest and most vigorous of the knightly orders, were ever at the head of any of the forays that led into the deepest reaches of the woods. Their cause had ever been against the chaos taint in the Drakwald, and for this task they were the most suited: the Hunters were an effective combination of common woodsman and knight templar, utilising all the knowledge and skill necessary to hunt and slay the cunning beastmen in the thick and tangled forests of their domain.

One such band of knights now rode away from a column of smoke that blackened the sky above the trees. Knight-preceptor Reinhardt Aubrich, the leader of that band, led his grim knights on to their next battle – wherever it may be – with hardly a pause from the last one. There was no rest for the righteous, for Good had to be ever-vigilant. Earlier in the morning, they had tracked a herd of beastmen to their monolith, there falling upon the vile creatures and riding every last one down. The twisted corpses had been burned and the ashes scattered, the monolith pulled down and hammered into a thousand shards, and Broenher, the priest who rode with them, had consecrated the glade where it had stood, to cleanse the place from any taint it may still carry.

And now onwards to the next. It had been this way for the last three days since they had left the sanctuary of Benedict's Retreat, stalwartly riding northward and ridding the woods of all evil they encountered. Reinhardt drove his men hard but not cruelly; they knew full well the extent of their duties, and all of them not just obeyed their orders as service to their god and empire, but embraced them completely as the singular purpose of their existence. This was the path of the righteous, that few should give so that many will not suffer.

A flash of a raised fist from ahead, and Reinhardt raised his fist in response, continuing the signal down the column. The light here was dim, the trees leaning close into the crude trail and entwined above like a temple's vaulted ceiling. Reinhardt spurred his horse forward to where Gausch, the tracker, sat squinting ahead. Gausch motioned down the trail with his chin as Reinhardt stopped alongside him. 'Something's moving down there,' he muttered quietly.

Reinhardt carefully listened. There was indeed a something, just at the edge of hearing, but enough to break the complete stillness of the forest. He analysed the sound: no tread of feet could be heard, but here the forest floor was carpeted with ferns that grew in the faint light, and he could pick out the whispering rustle as something moved through them. It was not an isolated sound, but a low constant hissing. More than one, then. Maybe a score or more. The sound did not increase in volume, but Reinhardt was suddenly sure it was moving directly at them. His horse whinnied nervously and tugged at its bit, as if it had caught the scent of a predator.

Reinhardt wheeled his horse around suddenly and came thundering back to the column. 'Ware attack!' he bellowed, 'to arms!' As one, the knights rapidly dismounted and drew their weapons. They were seasoned warriors and well-accustomed to fighting in the forest. Attempting to fight on horseback in close confines and on uncertain ground was folly, and one was more apt to break a horse's leg or brain oneself on a branch. There was a brief clatter as swords were unsheathed, shields strapped on and visors clapped down. They moved into formation, spreading out into the woods on either side of the trail to avoid being flanked and wedged in. The hissing of parting ferns was almost on them now.

There was a sharp retort and the bough above Reinhardt's head abruptly exploded, showering him with splinters. A musket shot, Reinhardt thought, and the idea seemed ludicrous. Their attackers were likely beasts or orcs. Even more ludicrous to attempt a shot in a forest this thick. Then there was the flurry of shadows, metal, fur and screaming bodies that burst from the undergrowth, and battle was on them.

Warlord Grin, well, grinned as his mighty clanrat warriors fell upon the man-things like supremacy personified. They had moved through the forest like shadows, no, like the shadow of shadows, and now savaged the dull, witless creatures. Soon they would annihilate them all and feast on their corpses. He loved man-thing flesh best: tender, fatty, and it didn’t even need to be skinned. Clan Scumrik was honoured to have been personally chosen by an agent of the Council of Thirteen to perform this glorious task, and Warlord Grin was confident that the Council would be overwhelmingly impressed by his exemplary performance. As he watched the carnage, he allowed himself the pleasure of imagining what rewards awaited him when he returned to Skavenblight. Victory this day was obvious: Clan Scumrik's invincibility was invincible!

Reinhardt drew his great-sword in a wide arc, taking the head of the first beast clean off with that swing. Beastmen was his first thought, but in the fraction of time between the blow connecting and the decapitated head leaving its body he noted the creature's shape: ratmen. Some scholars – those that didn't deny the creatures' existence altogether – chose to differentiate the ratmen as a separate species from other beastmen, but to Reinhardt they were all the same, aberrations of Chaos that made a mockery of humanity.

His next strike split another skaven from shoulder to groin, and he kicked its spitted body off his sword in time to parry a rusted blade. They were small and quick, but what they had in speed they wasted with ineptness. As they piled onto him, hammering their swords against his armour, he battered them off with great blows of his sword, driving the ratmen back. Another fell, clutching the bleeding stump of one leg, and another was hurled back with its skull crushed in. Reinhardt risked a moment to quick glance at the melee around him. The ratmen had swept into their ranks like a great blurred tide of fur and fangs, but the knights had stood firm against the onslaught. They had mowed that first wave down even as it had entered the range of their great-swords, and the next wave had splintered over their formation. The knights slowly waded into the horde, hammering into its core as an axe works to fell a tree. The battle rocked beneath the trees in a whirlwind of shadow, sound and metal.


Visions of breeders, warpstone and slaves danced in Warlord Grin's mind. The attack was unstoppable! His clanrats truly were great warriors. This was not just because of the superiority of the Skaven race over the puny man-things, but the superiority of Clan Scumrik amongst all skaven. Even now another knight fell under a surge of skaven blades, despite his oversized sword and cravenly thick armour. Sure, the knight had killed at least ten clanrats, but that was surely just a fluke. The clanrats outnumbered their foe, and even if it cost a dozen clanrats to take down one knight, Clan Scumrik had a hundred more warriors to take the place of each fallen comrade.

A few clanrats rushed past Warlord Grin. They were heading back the way they had come. Warlord Grin stared at them in bemusement. Were they so caught up in the glee and frenzy of their inevitable victory that they had lost all sense of direction? Several more followed after them, and Warlord Grin belted one over the head as the rat went past but it kept going.

The incompetent fools, Grin cursed. Why in all hells would anyone leave the battlefield in the face of such obvious victory? Why would anyone turn their back on success, if only to spite him, their leader? This must surely be some plot by an underling to disgrace him in the eyes of the Council. Warlord Grin's thoughts were suddenly broken as he saw the knights bearing down on him with blood-stained swords raised. With a squeal and a squirt, he spun and fled on the heels of his army.

'After them,' Reinhardt cried as the tide abruptly turned. 'Let not any of the foul beasts live! For Sigmar!' But as the remaining Hunters gave chase, the knight-preceptor paused. The priest Broenher had hung back from the battle; he was not a fighting man. Someone would have to keep watch over the priest. Reinhardt turned to where Broenher stood behind him.

The ground around Broenher erupted in a spray of dirt and fronds. Shapes blurred by speed leapt into the air. 'Get down!' Reinhardt yelled to the priest even as he sprang towards the new attack. The priest's eyes grew wide with surprise, then went dull. He toppled over. Something clanked off Reinhardt's helmet and the knight momentarily watched a serrated disc skitter away from his visored face. He ignored the strangeness of that thrown weapon and hacked down the nearest ratman that was suddenly standing before him. There were five of them, and these ones attacked silently and surely, better trained than the group they had just fought. Reinhardt managed to block a flurry of quick strikes, and those that slipped through his guard met only his plate-armour. In the frenzy of the moment, he noted with odd detachment their black masks and the green stains on their blades.

Another went down under his sword, and by then a shout of alarm behind Reinhardt told him that some of his knights had noticed the surprise attack. They charged into the fray, slaughtering two more of the ratmen. The last one remaining shrilled defiantly in its chittering language, then pounced straight for Reinhardt. The knight-preceptor calmly drew his sword back and slammed it into the beast's ribcage.

The ratman exploded. Not as a figurative exaggeration to illustrate the immensity of the sword's impact, but very much literally. Reinhardt found that he was quite suddenly lying on his back. His ears were ringing and he was blinded by blood and bits of skaven. Which bits exactly he didn't want to know. He pawed at his helmet to clear his vision but it was still plastered with gore and fur, obscuring everything. He struggled to his feet and raised his visor.

Exactly as planned. The decoy, the gambit, and now for the coup de grace.

Raskill materialised in front of Reinhardt, sword drawn and mouth grinning. The narrow blade slipped in and out of Reinhardt's exposed eye, quick as a stinging wasp. Reinhardt gave a hoarse cry and reached for the wound. The knight-preceptor was dead before his hand touched his face. Raskill gave his victim a mocking bow and flourished Shrewstooth twice in the air. He struck a pose, as if waiting for something dramatic.

Nothing happened. Well, something did, but that was the knights around him getting to their feet. The main body of knights was still off giving Clan Scumrik a good trouncing, and these few who were closest were still stunned from the exploding gutter runner, but Raskill didn't wish to take the chance. He cursed under his breath and flung a smoke-bomb to the ground. By the time the knights swept through the smoke, the assassin was gone.

He reached where Grey Seer Tharskir was standing with a smirk of satisfaction on his snout. 'It's done,' the assassin informed the Seer, though he knew it wasn't necessary. 'What wasn't done, was the second skitterleap you were to cast.'

Tharskir shrugged nonchalantly. 'Windss of magic are fickle,' was all he offered by way of explanation. Raskill couldn't quite decide if it had been malicious intent or general incompetence that had caused the Seer's failure. Either way, Raskill didn't lose any trust in the Seer over it, which is to say he had never trusted the Seer at all. Tharskir ignored Raskill's sidelong stare and continued. 'We have succeeded in what we came here to-to do anyway. The othersss would have al-also accomplished their missssions. I will send the good newss to the Council, they-they will be pleased. In the meantime, you shall continue as before until you receive your next orders from the Council. Weaken the worshippers of the two-tailed comet god with blade and shadow, then we-we shall strike when our strength is full.' Without waiting for a reply, Tharskir was gone. These dramatic exits were beginning to grate of Raskill's nerves.

A gutter runner sidled up to where Raskill stood in the wake of Tharskir's sulphur-ridden departure and whispered urgently. 'Lord assassin must-must return to Flusgard. Watcher of minstrel says bad news on wind.' Raskill furrowed his brow. 'What news?'

The gutter runner grovelled profusely. 'Cult has been compromised.'
hannanibal
 
*Angry mob assembles*

"WHAT DO WE WANT!!??"
"A THINNISH, WATERY PAINT WITH A GREENER TINGE THAN AGRAX EARTHSHADE!!"
"WHEN DO WE WANT IT!?"
"QUITE SOON PLEASE AS MY LAST POT IS RUNNING OUT!"
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Scarfester
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Scaaarrrrghhh

Very nice indeed scriv.
Your characters are really starting develop nicely, along with the storyline.
Its elegant plot and character development and I like it a lot. :)

Nice bit of Eshin subterfuge as well. :)
And you got across the stupidity of Warlord Grin nicely, with his lack of imagination. :lol:

*Goes to read next bit*
Dema in a PM about my fluff
 
Wish I could plot like you can, you must have a mind like a corkscrew to turn all those scheming corners

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