A winters night (comp entry)

[Arcturus]

A winters night


A sled hurried through the new snow, nightfall chasing the last remnants of light from the dark forest. The simple sled was filled with the pelts of wolves, the pelts taken for the warmth they could provide. The horses pulling the sled were filled with anxiety, their hearts stricken with fear. A man sat behind the reins, throwing glances behind him, snow whipping his cheeks. He had been on this route for what seemed like an eternity , a route that normally took only a moment, but today nothing was as it had ever been. Bernwe was the name he head answered to, but now his name had lost its meaning for he doubted anyone would ever speak that name again. Painfully he saw the last rays of light retreating, and darkness filled the narrow road. Looking behind he saw only darkness, a hole of black which nothing could penetrate, least of all his gaze. A freezing thrill went up his spine as he recalled the events which had taken place during the few fateful days, none of them had passed without despair.

Bernwe had been on his usual hunting trip with his companions, hunting animals for fur and meat. They had ventured high into the mountains, trying to catch a fine silvery wolf, oh what a large and fine beast it had been. They hunted it for days, and had an enjoyable time at it as well. The wolf had evaded them with a devilish cunning they could only have dreamed of... And then, one cold night with the clouds creeping over the skies they heard the wolf cry out, and suddenly it went silent, as if its howl had been ripped in two. Little did they know that creeping up to take a peek was the last decision they would make together. A man, or something that resembled a man stood over the corpse of the giant wolf, his hands bloody from ripping the beasts guts out. And as they watched in horror his glowing red eyes turned on them, and a old, dry laughter issued from his lips. As Bernwe turned to run, he heard it speak, for his brother it was the last thing he would ever hear; 'run my sweet prey, run...'. Only a few paces further had he reached before he heard a snarl behind him, and saw the wolf they had hunted, its fur covered in blood spilling from the gaping rent in its hide. Two eyes burned with green light as it sank its jaws in his brothers neck, killing him instantly. His brothers death bought them enough time to reach the sleds, and flee from the beast hunting them in the dead of the night. His cousin Marnel had been the last one to go, his sled had disappeared last night, one moment it was right behind him, and the next time he looked there was only the dark hole that was the road, lined by the snowy trees.

Bernwe looked one last time into the dark trail behind him, seeing nothing he turned his gaze back to the snowy road. It was only an hour at best till he would reach the clearing of his village, and then he would at least have his fellow villagers to back him up against the beast that was hunting him. But it was not to be, for out of the dark behind him he could hear a faint thrumming, and he knew that it was the sound of hooves pounding the newly fallen snow. Looking back, ha saw a form emerging from the dark, a black majestic form. The rider resembled that of a Bretonnian knight, but this one was made of the darkness around it. The horse it rode did not breath, for no steamy clouds billowed from its nostrils, and no horse he had ever seen had ghost-lights playing in its eyes. The thundering of hooves filled his senses, and a slow breathing filled his mind, a dread hunger for all living breathing creatures gnawing at his sanity. Little did he notice when his horses turned to dust and took the last steps on skeletal legs, nothing could he do when long dead creatures ripped him from his sled, carrying him in their frozen grasp. And for the last time in his life he heard his name spoken, before his spirit would fall into oblivion. Long did he pray to Sigmar that it was not true as he awoke, looking at his dead limbs, feeling the two holes in his neck. For some minutes his will still flared in his decaying skull, before a ancient mind penetrated his will, casting out his soul, binding shackles around his being.
He had become a puppet on strings, who would serve its master for all eternity, and beyond.

Varnoz had followed the humans to their village, the pitiful wretches he had hunted never realising that by fleeing home they brought doom to their own people as well as to themselves. Surveying the village he knew something was wrong, a strange feel in the winds of magic was what had woke him from his long sleep. There was no smoke coming from the chimneys, and no sounds were audible even to his senses. Extending his will, he ordered the dead to rise from the icy ground in the village. After a moment a few skeletons shuffled out of the open village gates, joining the ranks of the hundreds surrounding Varnoz. No recently dead, then what could have emptied the entire village? Varnoz ducked his head with unnatural speed, dodging the bolt which pierced the space his head had previously occupied. Before he could react the next one struck him in the leg, making a loud clang as it was deflected by his ancient armour. A third bolt followed, hitting him in the side, between the plates of his armour. Pulling it out with no thought of pain, he inspected the bolt and found it to be shorter than the bolts the Empire or Dwarfs use. Or used, maybe the geniuses had come up with something new to degrade the honour of war. Shadows moved in the forest opposite his position, and judging by the way they moved, they could only be elves. He was probably dealing with a scouting party, or a rearguard if his memory served him correct. His eye caught a weird view just above the tree line, it appeared to be a black spire rising from the forest, its size perceivably immense. And memory came to him, he had not fought this foe often, but they had a name, they called themselves the Druchii, and were known as the dark elves. He remembered the name of the one who had caused him great suffering. They had been allies fighting against the forces of the Empire, but the dark elves where not to be trusted he had learned, the hard way. Aneolon who had commandeered the ship he called the Dragonthorn, he had left Varnoz to die with a smile on his face. But Varnoz had survived, and caught up with the traitor whom he slew before vanishing into the morning gloom. Now he saw the banner of the Dragonthorn fluttering in the wind. He knew there was no way Aneolon could have survived the blow he had dealt him, and whoever was riding beneath that banner was now blessed with receiving all of his hatred.

Ahrsameth looked at his scouts with suspicion, if they weren't his best scouts, he would have them executed for such imaginary tales. They reported a horde of shambling dead, lead by a figure in ancient armour, resembling a knight.
Fighting the armies of the dead had no appeal whatsoever, since the profits were quite slim; no slaves, no loot and a terrible stench. The stench was probably the worse part, or the vampire, he had fought one before, and though it was merely a thrall, it had been rather difficult to dispose of. As far as he was concerned they would not fight the undead unless they had to, but they would not stop plundering the coast just because of the interference of some slightly enhanced human. Thinking back, there were two bad things in fighting the undead, the stench and the leaders, which was worse is really hard to say. And in any case it did not matter for they had just emptied the entire village, and this part of the coast was done, as far as he was concerned. Suddenly a lookout screamed a warning, pointing at the treeline. A horde of shambling creatures emerged and among them a dark figure which could only be the army commander, the heart of the army. As Ahrsameth watched the figure rode a few strides further, and what could only be described as a howl of fury was projected forth from the being. And in the howl, words took form, words in ancient Druchii.
'Aneolon, have you returned from the dead, to once more fight with me?'
it howled, and after a short pause a hellish laughter issued from the vampire. 'Then come, meet your death once more, and you shall serve me, forever,' and with that the sounds of hooves could be heard in the distance. Riding long dead steeds, some carried forth on bone alone, the knights of the undead host rode to take their place beside their master. From the forest decaying wolves emerged, some not more than bone and rotten fur. Ahrsameth looked at the horde for a moment before shouting, 'Reapers and archers on my flank, Knights beside me, infantry follow the code of war,' and within the space of a few heartbeats the Druchii battle line was in order. Ahrsameth walked away from the assembled army, and as he walked into the snowy woods he issued a command, 'fire! Belsamhoth has command until I return!'

Belsamhoth sat in the saddle of his cold one, watching the undead horde marching through the missile fire, his mount inspecting the newly fallen snow. The boltthrowers were not harming the undead cavalry, not enough anyway. Looking for a better target he saw a large formation of heavily armed and armoured warriors on the left side, and ordered all boltthrowers to concentrate their fire on them. Belsamhoth pointed at the undead cavalry and nodded to the dark herald leading a group of ten dark riders, who sat in their saddles motionless and cold, like the landscape itself. The dark herald made a curt bow and fled into the dark of the forest, his mind filled with the new assignment they were given. A smile surfaced on his lips as he saw the heavy infantry fall to the torrent of bolts from the reapers. Belsamhoth knew that the heavy cavalry had to be dealt with the hard way, and there was no backing away, he'd rather die in combat than by the hands of his lord. As the undead horde came within range there was a joy filled war cry, and a large mob of witch elves threw away their cloaks and charged a incomprehensibly large horde of walking dead. Belsamhoth laughed at the scene and joked to his second in command, 'if I had a thousand warriors like those I could conquer the Chaos wastes,' to which all the knights let out small bursts of laughter. But it seemed that it was a bad idea laughing out loud, since the cold ones, though they were splendidly ferocious and strong, were not the smartest of animals and proceeded to think they were commanded to charge. Luckily they only got about ten meters before Belsamhoth could restrain his mount, and the rest of the cold ones followed suite. But it seemed that it was just enough to call the undead cavalry down upon them. Belsamhoth had just the time to make out the thoughts for some fiendish curses when he saw shadows moving rapidly towards the undead cavalry. The dark riders were charging them in the flank, and would buy them some time to deliver the executioners caress.

Everything was so dim, so unclear, as if he was watching through a shroud of dark mist. He saw his hands clawing at the throat of some unknown enemy, pulling out his throat, ripping his guts out and gnawing at his flesh. He could feel the overwhelming thrumming in his mind, the pulse of a heart, a heart which thirsts to pump the life blood of others, to continue its damned existence for all eternity. He saw another warrior step up, a look of disgust on her face as she plunged her sword through his stomach. It hurt him more to see the warrior be set upon by five corpses, than to remove the sword from his gut. Suddenly there were no enemies coming at them no more, and Bernwe shambled along with the other corpses, his forgotten mind praying for oblivion. None of them ever noticed the darkness moving above them, nor did they see the form closing behind them. Suddenly Bernwes dead eyes noticed a black wind amongst them, some corpses melting in the wind, others simply disintegrating, he was the last left standing. Bernwe had just the time to look up, and lock eyes with a rider riding some huge flying beast, before he felt like falling. The prolonged death of Bernwe ended with his head falling to the ground, his hollow frozen eyes seeing his body topple upon him, and his oblivion welcomed him.

Andalus lead the charge into the undead cavalry, his thoughts set firmly on his own survival. He knew that charging the enemy heavy cavalry without support was foolish, unless you came in from the flank, and did not intend to stay for too long. Their charge hit home hard, their spears felling three knights, rendering them incapable of striking back for a moment. Suddenly all the sounds of the battlefield vanished from his mind, as he noticed all the knights slowly turning their empty socketed eyes towards him, and amidst them he saw their general, his blood red eyes watching him with contempt. The vampire called out a challenge to Andalus, to fight and die with honour, or to die like a dog. Andalus replied with a smile, and calmly said, 'only dogs have honour', for he had just noticed the cold ones were bringing in their deadly riders with full tilt. The vampire had a surprised look on his face until he realised where the dark riders confidence came from.

Belsamhoth saw the vampire turn his eyes on him, a pair of eyes which were like glowing blood, and its piercing gaze gave him a look of disgust. The vampires armour was of exquisite design and make, with dragons flowing over the armour, wings forming parts of the armour, all of it in a deep shade of red. The helmet had a red dragon sitting on top of it, it head just above the helmets eye slots. Though ancient in design, Belsamhoths sword made a mockery of the protection it offered, cutting wounds into the vampire that would kill a mortal ten times over. But the vampire survived, and its return strikes almost cut off Belsamhoths arm, and threw his broken body of his mount. The vampire looked at Belsamhoth, a respectful expression on his face, 'you fought well, and thus I will spare you so we can fight again.' Suddenly the vampire reeled, as if struck by several foes, the loss of all his knights seemed to drain his vitality, and he began whispering in a language Belsamhoth did not understand. A swirl of dark sprites whirled about him for a moment, and suddenly he seemed much stronger. Belsamhoth saw the vampire ride towards a formation of executioners and began wondering where his cold one knight were holding out. Searching the contents of his pouch he quickly found the potion gifted to him by lady Aelith, and took a swig of the precious liquid, a freezing pain running through his body in an instant. He could feel his bones mend inside his armour, and in a few heart beats he was rejuvenated, his body still sore from the blows. Mounting his cold one he saw the rest of his unit trying to control the stubborn beasts, apparently the knights had not been given enough tutoring in commanding cold ones, something they could be looking forward to in the near future. He could see the vampire heading off towards the executioners, and knew that they would not survive long enough to bring their deadly swords to bare.

Nepthi slashed left and right, her fury guided by the hands of Khaine. All around her sisters were butchering the undead with ease, severing heads from torsos, cutting limbs from bodies. Suddenly a ghostly form wielding a scythe appeared just a few paces ahead, wielding a huge scythe. It must be some kind of human nightmare or something she found herself thinking, a perfectly suitable enemy to slay, to prove her devotion to Khaine. The wraith cut down two of her sisters before she got a chance to plunge her weapons into its ethereal form. She charged, her blades sinking into the ghostly form, followed by her hands. She could see her hands inside the wraith, the cold seeping in through her sweating skin. Suddenly the wraith began disintegrating, and she could see hag Isilon cutting into the ghost with her weapons. The ghost vanished, but not before it left a headless Nepthi standing, her body twitching slightly as it fell to the snowy ground, accompanied by an abandoned scythe.

Ahrsameth saw the vampire hit the executioners like a thunderbolt, scattering them, and running down most of them.
Ahrsamth commanded Morgrau to weave a certain spell on the vampire, and dive down to finish it. The dragon cast a spell of pure darkness upon the vampire, and it stopped, calling out words to dispel the darkness around it. The dispel worked, but it tore his attention away from the descending dragon and its rider. With a boom like a thunderclap the dragon crashed beside him, smashing him to the ground with its immense talons, ripping at the vampires armour. Ahrsameth dismounted the dragon, as the vampire rose from the snowy ground, its armour torn and buckled in several places. The black sword in Ahrsameths hand trailed black smoke from its edges as he struck out, burying the sword in the vampires chest, the vampire reeling from the blow and dropping its sword. But Varnoz did not give up, and punched Ahrsameth in the face, throwing the druchii lord on his back and ripping the sword clean from his chest. Ahsameth felt like he had just been rammed by a cold one, and rose quickly to counter attack the weakened vampire. Morgrau was trying to swat the vampire, but he was too quick. The blood dragon picked up his sword and thrusted it in the belly of Morgrau, the dragon crying out from the pain. But it was the last mistake varnoz would make, and he noticed it too late to block the thrust that pierced his heart. The vampire collapsed in the snow, looking up at the druchii lord. The vampire spat blood as he spoke, ' I have a last request druchii, leave me here, so I can see the sun one more, final time.' Ahhrsameth considered the prospect of having a vampire captive, a very strong slave, but it might cause problems if it got hold of other prisoners so he dismissed the thought. Lord Malekith gave no bonuses for vampires either, and he supposed that the witch elves had no use for him either. Ahrsameth looked at the vampire with disgust, and spat, ' request granted' , and continued, 'and I shall be with you, to make sure you die.' Just as the sun was about to rise Ahrsameth walked up to Varnoz and laughed, 'I'm sorry but I lied, you shall not see the sun' and with those words he put Varnoz helm on backwards on Varnoz head. The vampire screamed and roared, trying to shake the helmet of his head, but to no avail. And the sun came into view, 'yes it is quite a majestic sight, I must admit, though I suppose you can only feel it,' Ahrsameth said with a laugh. Varnoz skin cracked, and a grey smoke rose from the cracks covering his skin. Varnoz screams ended when his lungs turned to dust, a faint hiss issuing from his crumbling lips, before his armour fell apart. For a moment the winds carried the dust away from the armour, and Ahrsameth heard a whisper in the winds, 'traitor...', to which a smile appeared on Ahrsameths face. Ahrsameth strode over to his dragon, inspecting its wound, 'does it hurt' he asked looking at the already clotting wound. 'No,' frowned Morgrau, 'though I'd appreciate a short vacation.' They looked at the battle field, where the slaves where carrying away the dead druchii, and searching for any loot or equipment that might be useful. Looking at the ark which spires were visible above the trees, Ahrsameth threw a last glance at the vampires armour, before mounting Morgrau. 'Let's go,' were the last words to grace unhearing ears on the frozen battlefield.

[Beastmaster kroyja]

Your signiture is what I wrote on a post a while back, u copier, nice story, though the paragraphs are so big it makes it harder to read, get rid of my phrase or i will (please)

[Dark Alliance]

Your signiture is what I wrote on a post a while back,

, get rid of my phrase or i will (please)

What exactly is your point here?

You have different signatures.

[Arcturus]

HAH! I have had that signature for about as long as Druchii.net has been using the new Board system... So don't go crying to me about copying. And which one was your phrase?? And no I will not change my own.