Birth of a Dark Elf

Stories, fluff, army fluff, your own fluff ideas, and other creations concerning the Druchii, the End Times Elves or the Exile Aelves go here!

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Syjahel
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Post by Syjahel »

I'm enjoying your characterisation as always :) Especially how the girl is _not_ just the "boring, obligatory, two-dimensional 'love interest'". Really nice to see she has a personality of her own :)

One thing though, if you want to publish it some companies are kind of ... shall we say they don't lke to publish something that has already been seen elsewhere, especially if it's public domain (like the internet). I don't want to put you off showing us here! But just something to be aware of :)
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Saintofm
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Post by Saintofm »

Ok, I'll keep that in mind with future projects.

Next chapter.


Chapter Sixteen: Fighting Like an Assassin.

“Time to show me what you are capable of. Arm yourself.” Sevril’Relik commanded. He waited patiently for Ronin to suit up his chainmail, done his cloak, and grab his choice weapons.

“What are we going to do?” sked Ronin, sword and shield in hand.

“Kill me.” Ronin, the warriors that came to see the training, and the slave girl were left speechless. “If you can kill me, then you are ready for the Gauntlet. Do you know what that entails?”

“I go around killing things, so what else is new.”

Sevril’Relik just shook his head and cupped his face into his hand. “There is a bit more. How about this: If you impress me, I’ll let you in on a few secrets.”

“And if I don’t impress you?”

“You die. It’s as simple as that.”

“I see. Well, I guess you’re going to die!”

Ronin lunged forward, his sword’s business end prepared to impale itself into the assassin. Sevril’Relik simply stepped out of the way. Ronin sent too much momentum going forward to dodge the elbow to his skull, sending him flat on the ground. Before the stripling could recover, a boot to the gut latter, the youth was cursing in the sur toung. Another boot, and his cursing took a dwarvish ting to it. Another boot, and the youth got out of the way, and sent his own in the silent’s butt. The assassin could only laugh at the strike.

“Ok, you got me there. The gauntlet has a dozen tirals, testing all of your strengths: both mental and physical.” With that, he send his fist into the ground, only for the youth to role out of the way.

Ronun rushed back at the assassin to send an open palm into the youth’s face. This was all Ronin needed, and prepared to send his shield into the assassin’s side. Sevril’Relik side stepped from side to side, trying to dodge the improvised attack. The youth was good, but as far as the adept of Khaine was concerned, he still left much to be desired. A fist to the side of Ronin’s race, stopping his assault for a moment. This was all the time the assassin needed to grab the stripling’s sword arm, and throw him fifteen feet away.

“The first test is a test of strength.” began Secril’Relik You must know how much you can carry in order to pass it. If you carry too much or too little, then you fail.”

“And what happens if I fail?” asked Ronin as he picked himself up again.

“You get crushed to death. A dagger’s weight up or down probably won’t do you in, but I wouldn’t push your luck.”

“Well, it appears I’ll take your advice right now!” Ronin stabbed his blade and the point of his shield into the ground soon after that statement.”

“What are you doing?”

“Close range isn’t getting me anywhere, so, this will have to work.” Ronin pulled out a number of throwing blades, and began chucking them at Sevril’Relik.

“Clever.” Sevril’Relik began sending his own throwing blades at the youth. His aim was more precice then an eagle swooping in for the kill, intercepting many of Ronin’s blades. A few sliced passed the assassin’s throwing stars and knives, but Sevril’Relik was not concerned for a moment. With a dagger spinning in front of him, he deflected any weapon that had his name on it.

It was an impressive sight, and the assassin wondered how the youth could have had as many of the blades he had on him. “Ok, I’m impressed. You’re my student, Master Ronin.” This got the desired effect out of everyone. While most of the warriors were gasping at someone like the assassin being impressed with the stripling, Ronin just gave simple grin and a nod. “I haven’t seen anyone throw knives like that outside of the Temple in years. You almost got me a couple of times too.” Sevril’Relik showed with pride a number of knife gashes made from the flying blades in his cloak.

“However, if you noticed, every blade I threw at you met one of your own. Now it’s time to get serious!” With that, the assailant sent wave after wave of death at the youth.

On instinct, Ronin crouched to the ground, and covered himself with his cloak. The daggers, knives, and everything else the assassin had at hand bounced off the thick scales, landing softly beside the youth. After a few moments of silence, Ronin Threw the cloak back. In an instant, his hand flew in front of his face, barley keeping a new dagger from skewering his nose.

“Between the throwing skill and that last move, I think I can get you two more secrets about the Gauntlet. The second test is of wit. You may be strong enough to pass the dangers of the Gauntlet, but are you smart enough to figure out some of the challenges? They will tst your knowledge, and an your intellect. Remember, the two are very different, and this tst will cover them both.

“The third test will be of anger. Can you use it to your advantage? Will you wield it like you wield your throwing knives, or will it wield you? Many a participant has passed the first two exams, but fail at this one. If you fail, eternity will you spend as a Berzerker, seeking your next victim. Or at least until someone kills you, whichever comes first for you, kid.”

“And all this time I thought you had to be an angry monster to be a proper Druchii.” scoffed the youth.

“Only the idiots. Too bad they come a copper a dozen here.”

“Tuche!” Ronin picked up his sword and shield, and charged again.

The assassin shook his head at the feeble attempt that had done nothing but get the youth beaten down. As the youth came closer, the assassin readied himself to deliver another beating. The assassin would have to wait for that. Ronin thrust his weak arm forward, catapulting his shield towards his foe. Sevril’Relik dodged the blow, with ease but was taken back at the youth’s next attack. Freed of the cumbersome shield, Ronin slashed, and hacked at the assassin who was always just one step out of the way. The two combatants danced around each other, parrying blows, and slash at the air in front of their faces.

“Can you talk while fighting?” asked the assassin, his dagger grinding against Ronin scimitar.

“Sure, got another secret to tell?” Ronin threw the assassin off, still trying to make a killing blow against the assassin.

“The next is a trial of your blood lust.”

“I thought we covered that?”

“No, that was anger.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One is a desire to kill, maim, and burn for the fun of it, and the other has anger management problems. This test is to see if you can kill in the heat of battle, and to kill without hesitation. A moment’s hesitation on the battlefield can mean the difference to you drinking to your friends’ memories, or having them drink to yours.”

“I see, so like something like this?” With that, Ronin lunged forward, cutting into the assassin. Sevri’Relik managed to avoid anything more than a simple cut, but this none the less kept the assassin’s interest in the stripling piqued.

“Well, you’ll definitely pass the next test. The fifth challenge you will face will be a test of skill. You have excellent swordmanship, and skills with the knife.

“But I am not ready yet for the others?”

Sevril’Relik simply smiled, and disappeared. Before Ronin could react, the assassin reappeared behind him, and stabbed the youth in the back. The desired screams of torment were like music to the assassin’s ears.

“This won’t kill you. Oh, no. It’s too shallow a wound, and more importantly, this peper’s potency isn’t leathal to elves. It just hurts a whole whole lot!”

“Basterd! What is this?”

“Oh simple: Thetest of pain. How much can you withstand before you fall to the ground crying? At least you have enough aim for the dexterity challenge. That’s simple enough.” With that, Sevril’Relik let the youth fall to the ground. “I give that an hour before the burning stops. We beguine again tomorrow.”

The next day, Ronin went through more of the same, and ended up the same. Now he had to wash his eyes out for an hour as Sevril’Relik threw some of the pepper powder in his eyes. At least he let the youth call him just Relik. The day after that wasn’t much better, and Ronin eventually had to drop the sword and shield for his daggers. Bad mistake as this was the assassin’s range of choice. For the rest of the training, Sevrl’Relik would be satisfied with Ronin’s skills, but would no longer be impressed by them for the most part.
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Syjahel
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Post by Syjahel »

“One is a desire to kill, maim, and burn for the fun of it, and the other has anger management problems. This test is to see if you can kill in the heat of battle, and to kill without hesitation. A moment’s hesitation on the battlefield can mean the difference to you drinking to your friends’ memories, or having them drink to yours.”


I liked this part; in fact I find the whole way the assassin teaches to be a good example of the kind of dry, sarcastic way the Druchii tend to get their point across. I'm enjoying your characterisation, I feel I'm repeating myself here but I can't think of a way to say it differently :D Hopefully what I'm saying makes sense :)

The day after that wasn’t much better, and Ronin eventually had to drop the sword and shield for his daggers. Bad mistake as this was the assassin’s range of choice. For the rest of the training, Sevrl’Relik would be satisfied with Ronin’s skills, but would no longer be impressed by them for the most part.


That he still has things to learn is something that I find makes him more likeable, too. What's next on the training regime I wonder ...
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Saintofm
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Post by Saintofm »

Thanks. I want Ronin to be an alalround good guy, and good at his chosen profesion (warrior/avenger) but I do not want him to be a marry sue, and I want to show, slowly, what this chosen path is destroying the man his father intended Ronin to be,
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Post by Norelle »

Wow, for some reason my e-mail didn't alert me to this update. Well done!!!
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Post by Saintofm »

Time for another chapter.


Chapter Seventeen: Under the Twin Moons

It was a beautiful Nagarothi night in Har Ganeth. The red light district was bustling, the air was cool and crisp, the sky was clean and clear, and the twin moons full. Each one glowed with either an eerie red or green, releasing chaotic energies throughout the night. On any other night this would have been seen as romantic but this was the night the forces of Chaos were at their strongest. The smallest moon, Morrsled, was always sacred to those who worshiped chaos, and the powers it gave them was more than enough to turn an ungor into a monster of war. Some speculated that it was because Morrsled, was in reality made of the energies, the magic, that spewed out of the northern wastes. That said most people were happy with just keeping this in speculation as those who knew the truth were more times than not, followers of the dark gods of Chaos.

As far as the Dark Elves were concerned, and far north as Har Ganneth was, no one in their right mind wished to deal with daemons on this night. For this was the night the servant’s of the ruinous powers came out to play.

Nurgle, god of death, disease, plague, and perseverance; Slannesh, the god decadence, debauchery, pain, and refinement; Khorn, the god of brutality, hate, mindless violence, and bravery; and Tzeetch, master of magic, treachery, manipulation, and hope. Each of these beings fed off of the emotions of all living beings, both the good and the evil that lies in each man’s heart, be that man human, dwarf, elf, halfling, ogre, or something else. Though many cultures had deities that represented aspects these four beings shared, in the end all pantheons not affiliated with chaos apposed them as they wished for their destruction as well as the destruction of all things not in their image.

However there were still those who openly defied them. On top of the many inns, the deadly assassin, Sevril’Relik, stretched himself on the rooftop, waiting for his charge to find him. He pulled out a pendent with a steel chain connecting it to his shirt pocket. He touched the face of it, and a mystical rune appeared upon it. 8:55. His charge, Ronin, should be heading his direction right about now. The Question remaining is will he be able to reach the assassin’s location?

“Time to see what you are made of boy.” He said to himself.

Elsewhere, Ronin made his way up to the roof tops. Up the dark, dank, winding staircase, he wondered why the assassin wanted him to go through one of the more notorious pleasure dens in this district alone, much less the continent. There, the worship of the elvin goddess of unbridled passions was in full swing. Worse yet, rumors had it was also A Den of Slannesh, the Chaotic god of the same nature, and the one many blamed for the wars that first tore the elvin nations asunder. Granted it was a great place to test his skills in stealth and as he was too young to be permitted in, and not strong enough to deal with the two massive stone Golems guarding the main entrance. Once inside, he placed a bag of drawf crafted gold coins on the bar counter, and told the barmaids the drinks were on him. Free liquor plus a room full of rowdy corsairs equaled good times. The more liquor down their throats, the rowdier they became. The rowdier they became, the more likely they were to cause some mayhem. With the guards busy with slaying drunkards, Ronin slipped past the chaos unnoticed.

Five minutes later, and some spilt booze covering his shirt, he was up the stairs and ready to go home. Then he stopped. Sevril told him to travel light, so he brought the traveling clothes the shades gave him, his new scimitar, two throwing knives, a small dagger, his gauntlets, and the sea dragon cloak. Even without his chainmail and shield, he wished he packed lighter.

“I should have left the sword at the castle. Why’d he tell me to bring it?” Ronin asked himself while he slid down the wall. The only thing motivating him to keep going was the fact there was only four flights of stairs left to go. So he climbed the remaining steppes until there was nothing but a sturdy wooden door blocking his path.

The assassin’s instructions rang into his ears: Knock on the door at the end of the stairwell three times, and prove to yourself you are the elf you want to be. He did the first half without any issue. The door creaked open; the smell of sweat, spices, and expensive perfumes making their escape towards the boy’s nostrils. It was a warm pleasant scent, but Ronin was still too young to truly succumb to it, or know it’s true purpose. As the door opened wider, a bright pink glow seeped out as well, luring the boy closer. But it would take a feminine hand as soft as silk to pull him in

The lithe entity pushed the youth against the stone wall so hard he could hear his bones crack. Even with the twinge of pain, Ronin was able to keep an eye on the creature’s shapely silhouette.

“Am I to be tempted by a spirit of Arithra, or are you one of Slannesh’s pawns?” he said, wincing from his cracked shoulder blade. In a few moments the agony would die down, but if he had to fight his way out of something his capabilities would be greatly hampered.

“Neither little boy.” responded the silhouette, with a voice as soft and gentle as dove. “I am but a servant of the former.”

The lights were dimmed so the youth would no longer be blinded by them, revealing the creature’s true form. She was a curvy, beautiful, well endowed, and thankfully for the boy, fully clothed elf. But as the boy learned long ago with Druchii, this was questionable at best as she made no real attempt to hide her sensuality. The closest she came was pulling the patch of cloth connected her white gown to the sleeves when it fell off her shoulder. Casually, she walked over to the youth who seemed either unable or unwilling to stop her advance or her removing his cloak. She maneuvered him beside a lounge chair, just close enough fall on it. Moving closer to her guest, she examined all of the scars that still refused to disappear. All the while her long, dark hair gently caressed his face.

“You seem a little young for me, little boy.” the she elf said coyly. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, squeezing herself tighter around the youth. “But I can make do with you?”

Ronin was blushing so much his face resembled a cherry tomato. Even he knew what she was implying. He was also unable to decide to be very afraid or very flattered. The Fact her assets were pushing into his back wasn't helping much either. The woman asked for his name in his pointy ear.

“Simply call me Ronin.” His body, running on new instincts, placed a hand on her cheek, and caressed it.

“A simple name. More of a title though, but one could say the same about me. They call me Selexa.”

“Selexa, eh? I have the ancient name for the Masterless Warrior; you have the name of the Forbidden Mistress. How wonderful.” said the youth. After two weeks under Sevril Relik’s tutelage he had developed one of his master’s bad habits: Sarcasm.

Selexa gave a cruel smile. She turned the boy so he could face her. “I glad you see it my way.”

She leaned in closer for a kiss, with the intent to kill. But just as the two were close enough to share a breath, the youth placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed as hard as he could. The Pain shooting up her arm was too intense and she tried pitifully to break away. Green sparks flew out in-between the spaces of Ronin’s fingers, sending a jolt of his life force at her.

Two flights of stairs of stairs above the commotion, Relik heard a blood curtailing scream that would have awoken the dead, and frightened even the most intimidating of Daemons. Relik Changed his lying position and tried to block out the sounds he assumed were coming from a euphoric Selexa.

“Well that was earlier then I was expecting. Well, so much for my pupil, but I’m sure he’ll die happy.” This line of reasoning was shot down by another scream, this time begging for mercy. “I guess not. He’s more Druchii then he lets on. I guess he’ll become a man sooner than I thought.”

Back in the pleasure room, Ronin threw the panting she elf to the bed. She turned to face him, staring back into his brown eyes. They were not the eyes of a killer, a butcher, a predator, or even a conqueror but that of mercy. To say this took her by surprise would have been the understatement of the year. She felt where the youth touched her out of nervousness. Ronin did something to her, somehow cleansing her. For the first time, she felt pure. “What did you do to me?”

“My mother taught me the healer’s art when I was younger. I could fix and mend my own broken bones by the time I was thirty. I also learned a few tricks from my servant girl, Aredhel Mithrandir, namely the art of purging daemons from one’s body. I have cleansed you body and soul of your ills. The desire to remain in that bleak darkness still remains however. Because of that you are free to continue on the path you were on. But if a different route suits you better you are more than welcomed to take it.” He turned around, and headed for the door. With another flick of the wrist, his cloak was around his shoulders.

“Wait!” she begged. “Don’t leave! This was a test to see how strong you were. You may have passed, but it is too dangerous outside, especially on this night!”

“If you require my protection, I shall stay, but I have to face that danger to reach my teacher. He’s a smart ass Assassin that needs to learn a little tact?”

“Sevril? He’s on the roof. Touch the middle brick on the wall, where the depiction of Aritha is located. Also, take this.” She handed the youth a black metal pendent. “It will protect you against the energies of Chaos. But if you go up to the rooftops this night, it will be your funeral.”

“Oh good. You Druchii know how to party at those things. Save some cake for me then.” He said with a smile. “After this is done, I’ll comeback for you, if you wish.” He took the pended from Selexa’s hand. She grasped his arm and forced a passionate kiss on his lips. He would be definitely coming back for her. When they were done, he headed to the lewd mural on the wall. Ronin also took her instructions to heart and placed a hand on the middle brick on wall.

Arathi was often depicted as a long haired, voluptuous she elf in the prime of her life, and this drawing was no different. The mural appeared to have been dawn with pink chalk, and it showed the goddess of unbridled passion beckoning the viewer to come closer provocatively with her hands. A pair of black hydra heads, neck and all, formed the outline of a heart to cover the deity’s more private regions. The brick the Ronin needed to touch was at her naval. When he pressed hard against it the painting moved away, revealing a staircase and blowing him a kiss.

He hoped it was for luck because he knew he was going to need it.

“Please,” begged Selexa. “Stay a little longer?”

“How can I refuse?”

Ronin sat on her bed, and let her sob into his shoulder. He stayed with her for two hours, long enough for her to sob herself to sleep. He prayed to the gods to protect her, placed a blanket upon her. With her safe and sound, he was at last freed to face the evils outside.
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Post by Norelle »

Yay!!! This update was amazing!!!
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Syjahel
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Post by Syjahel »

Hmm. "Prove to yourself you are the Elf you want to be." I was impressed.

Also:

"... if you go up to the rooftops this night, it will be your funeral.”

“Oh good. You Druchii know how to party at those things. Save some cake for me then.”


:D See? Death gods are not all no fun XD
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Chapter Eighteen: The Chase


“You made it. How was she?” asked the assassin, a lewd grin covered his face,

“She just really wanted to talk.” replied Ronin as he walked past a few stone gargoyles.

“And that screaming?”

Ronin lifted his right hand; green flames danced between his fingers. “I know the healer’s art. Oh, that and I’m taking her out of that pit when I’m finished here.”

“That can be arranged later. We leave now.”

“What?”

Sevril’s smile faded and pointed to something behind the youth. Ronin turned and saw three somethings: Bloodletters. These red scaled daemons had a thin frame with an oval shaded faces with long tongues sticking out of their mouths and longer horns curving out of the top of their skull. Despite their small build they were surprisingly strong as each one held a brass kris styled long sword in one hand; weapons that normally required two hands to wield, even with the greatest of masters. Their eyes, blacker then obsidian, seemed almost soulless, making Ronin more uncomfortable by the minute.

“Friends of yours?” asked the youth, trying to break the ice

“Bloodletters of Khorne. Not much on brains or conversation, but they are as mean as they are ugly. I suggest we make a run for it!” responded the assassin.

“And how the hells are we going to do…that?”

Relik took a few steps back then ran headlong, jumping onto the next building. He landed perfectly crouching down from as he went. Ronin was impressed as it had to have been at least twenty feet between the buildings.

He looked back at the slavering Daemons. They didn’t move either from lack of interest, the inability to move, or simply giving him a sporting chance to flee before they perused. Well if they weren’t going to make the first move, he was.

Like Sevril before, Ronin made his running leap. He made it to the other roof top, rolling across the rooftop from the momentum. When he recovered he kept moving. The assassin had waited for him, but was a least three meters ahead of him. With another graceful leap he crossed another chasm between the rooftops. Ronin did likewise. As he landed, he looked back. The Daemons were had started to give chase, giving him just a few feet in-between themselves and the youth for some good sport.

They were half way across the first roof top the two elves had crossed, and were closing in. The two elves continued to run, only looking back as they recovered from their leaps of faith across the buildings. They continued this for fifteen minutes, the frenzied trio still following.

“We’ll have to lose them on the next one,” yelled Rellik.

The next roof top curved into a steep slope with clay shingles. This was going to be difficult. With a flick of the wrist, twin set of claws extended over Sveril’Relik’s hands. He leaped onto the shabby human masonry and climbed to the top. Ronin jumped in after him, and slipped. Relik tried throwing him a hand, but the youth was out of reach.

Praying to the elfin pantheon, the elf made a vow he would not die there! He pulled his arm back, release a cry of war. He sent his fist into the masonry, and stayed put. He sent another higher, and pulled himself higher, and higher until he was at the roof tops.

“How did you do that kid?” asked the pleasantly surprised, and quite thankful assassin.

Ronin, huffing and puffing, just waved his finger. “I’ll tell you later. Our friends are doing monkey see monkey do!”

The first blood letter jumped from the side of the building, landing on the middle of the side they were on. Unfortunately for him he became corporal at that moment, crashing through the roof. The other two jumped at the same time, landing a little lower than their predecessor. Unfortunately for them, they landed on a section of shingles that didn’t fall to the ground. Ronin took the initiative and started tossing a few of the sliding tiles at his enemy’s heads. This didn’t harm the semi ethereal beings, but proved to make them more disoriented. Two more head shots and one of the daemons lost its balance completely, pulling his compatriot with him as it fell to its death.

With the present danger seemingly passed, they made it down to the next building. For the next hour there seemed to be little to no contention. Any and all spirited beings seemed to be more interested in their own squabbles to care about two mortals. The only true exception for this was with a pair of curious demons the size of a child’s doll, and one more horridly misshapen beast that acted like a stray puppy.

During this time they made is across much of the city; just another three miles and they would be free. That is if they could get through the hounds of hell. Six large, dog like creatures stepped out of the darkness, their yellow eyes glowing with murderous intent. Each one had a spiked color as black as soot, and slavering maws filled with razor sharp teeth. What differentiated them from a normal hunting hound were their crimson, reptilian skins, and the fact they were each half the size of an adult bear.

“Flesh Hounds, right?” asked the Ronin, taking out his scimitar.

“More or less.” Relik didn’t waist anytime either, firing his hand bow at the first one in range. The first shot bounced off its hide, but the second one shot went through its yellow eye, dropping it. Another tried its luck against the assassin leaping into the air, but Relik ducked underneath it, driving his metallic claw into the fleshhound’s soft underbelly. The momentum of the beast did the rest, spilling the daemon’s guts onto the rooftop. The assassin then pulled out a flail, whacking the next beast into a brick wall.

Ronin wasn’t having the same luck. His sword refused to bite into the beasts’ hides. Instead, it only made them angrier. The only thing he figured could truly hurt them was their own fangs. Sensing that another of the hell hounds was about to pounce on him, the youth side stepped out of the way. It was almost comical the way the two fleshhounds crashed into each other, turning their anger upon each other. Almost, that is. One of the surviving hell hounds howled out for help, meaning more daemons to fight. It was heard by every fell beast of the night.

The assassin broke the beast’s neck. With the last two fiends busy killing each other, the elves made their departure. Sporadically they fought various servants of the dark gods. Most were creatures of the four oldest, and most powerful of the ruinous powers: Khorne the Blood God; Slannesh, the Prince of Pleasure, The Lord of Change Tzeetch; and Papa Nurgle. Others were of little known deities, or ones who have been long since been dead and forgotten. To make matters worse, when they came to the edge of the roof top a fifty foot gap laid between them and relative safety.

“Any bright ideas, kid?” asked Sevril, his normally calm disposition starting to break.

With a shriek, an idea came swooping out of the air, literally. Five winged creatures circled above them, like vultures at a kill. Cursing under his breath, Ronin grabbed a nearby close line.

“Do you really think now is a good time to perform laundry duties?”

“Oh, shut up.”

The Ronin tied the rope around the hilt of his sword, and let it fly into the side of nearest flying daemon. With a terrified shriek confirming he hit it, the youth reeled the daemon in. With one foot on the still very alive daemon, he yanked out his brass colored blade. With another flick of the wrist, vicious barbers sprouted from the back of the scimitar.

“Gotta love your knew blades. Now, as for you my furry friend, give us a lift to the next building or I stick you with the pretty sword again.”
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

“Well, this is has been more fun than setting a barrel of monkeys on fire. Can we land already?”

“Why didn’t you just ask, Assassin? Land Furry!” The Daemon dropped the two elves three buildings away, disappearing soon after. “Want to keep moving, or shall we stay here for tonight?”

“Shut up kid. I got a bad feeling the worst has yet to come

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>


“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“Are we there yet?”

“Will you shut up?”

“No.”

“Are we there yet?”

Before tge assassin had time to respond, his senses told him he had to dodge. Had he been a split second delayed in such an action, he would nolonger be able to spew out the worst profanity for fecal matter. He took that second to stop just before a massive double bladed battle ax, big enough to cleave an ogre in half, slammed into the rooftop before him. Panting, and now officially wetting himself, Sevril Relik had finally stopped controlling his fear, not that he didn’t have the right to. The blade that nearly dissected him belonged to not one of the lesser daemons they had been fighting, but by one of the lords of the Realm of Chaos: A Greater Daemon.

Standing just over twenty feet in height, this bull headed behemoth was coved head to hoof in muscle and blood red fur. Upon its chest was a simple yet effective thick breastplate of brass, connected to a loincloth that went down to its black hooves. Upon its back were monstrous bat like wings stretched themselves out to fifty feet end to end. With a snort, the monster pulled the mighty ax free from the adobe rooftop. In the other hand was a wicked with multiple fiery, barbed lashes attached to the end of it.

Sevril’Relik took a few steps back, trying hard to pull himself together. Walking up beside him was the Ronin, his scimitar out and ready for action. Both elves were thinking the same thing, but neither wanted to say it: They were doomed.

“What is that thing? Another blood letter?” asked the youth.

“At one point it may have been. This is one of the true Lords of Khorne: A Bloodthirster, and a mean one at that. To the Northmen, this is the embodiment of war, and rightly so. We have not the ability to face it in combat and hope to win.”

“We can’t run either. Look at the little ones! We barley out ran those things, much less something this size. Oh, and I’m sure those wings do more than decorate his back!”

“Giving up so easily, elves?” growled the Bloodthirster. “Pity. I was hoping you would put up some kind of a fight.”

“Like we have much of a choice, ugly!” With that, Ronin charged the massive embodiment of brutality.

The monster gave a toothy smile, and then slammed his whip into the ground. The youth dodged it, barley. Picking himself back up, Ronin charged it again, dodging another strike from the now flaming weapon. The daemon then swung his ax. To the surprise of the daemon and the assassin, he dodged the swing that would have sliced him in two, jumping into the air and landing on the ax blade.

Amused, the daemon violently jerked his weapon of choice, sending the youth flying. The daemon looked up, judged the elf would land on his head, and opened his maw. Elves were too bony, and had very little meat on them, but they were easier to chew then dwarves, and didn’t cause as much heart burn as fire daemons or goblins. The bloodthirste moved his head ever so slightly; making sure the elf would have a straight shot down its massive gullet.

Then tragedy stuck, as stabbing pain racked the monsters groin. Howling, the behemoth doubled over, dropping its weapons to instinctively cup its privates. Cursing in every language it knew, it searched beneath its loincloth to find the cause, yanking it free. It was the assassin.

“If the temple ever found out about this, they’ll never let me live this down.”

“Good thing you’ll die now then!”

At that moment, the Ronin landed on the tuff of fur on the bloodthirster’s head. With a new annoyance to occupy itself with, the daemon tossed the assassin against a chimney. Relik would live, but he would need to see a chiropractor by the time the night was done.

“Fee, Fie. Foe, Fum: I smell the blood of a High Elf!”

“Well, I am of Asury origins, but how can you smell me any ways? I mean, how can you smell at all through your rank? Bathe much,” taunted Ronin as he hung on for dear life. Khornites were not known to be forgiving, and even more infamous for their anger. Taunting the daemon may have not been the best idea he had in his relatively short life.

The Bloodthirster shook its head left and right, up and down, trying to force the elf off its head. All that did was cause the elf to accidentally pull some of his hair out. After a minute of nonstop shaking, the monster tried to pull the elf, but Ronin was too fast and managed to avoid his foe’s grasp. But the constant moving around caused him to lose his balance, landing on the top of the monster’s great maw.

Ronin looked up and smiled meekly. He could only guess the downward slant of the monster’s eyebrows meant it wasn’t going to return the favor.

“It ends now, you annoying little runt,” The bloodthirsster bellowed, grasping its ax. With both hands on the weapon, he sent the blade towards its face, right at the youth. With sickening crunch, the ax made it home.

“By Khaine, no! Ronin! Are you ok? Speak to me!” yelled Sevril Relik.

“I’m down here you idiot!”

The assassin looked down and saw the Ronin, intact, and at the hooves of the daemon. “But I saw, I heard…”

“I slipped. Now help me up! I think I broke my hip!”

The assassin looked back up at the greater daemon of Khorne, and the ax it had lodged into its own brain. Within seconds, the entity began to disintegrate, leaving piles of red sand around the youth. With the threat neutralized, Sevril went to retrieve his student, placing one of Ronin’s arms around his neck.
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It was quiet at the front of front entrance of Har Ganeth. Too quiet. Only the flicker of touches and the rustling of the wind broke the silence, but it wasn’t enough to calm the nerves of the dozen city guardsmen keeping watch. All of them were veterans, half from the commoner’s stock, the rest pertaining to the Executioners, and all had seen the worst the world could throw at them. Still, that fact didn’t stop them from having this feeling of foreboding. The fact that three Master Assassins were perched beside them was not helping their nerves either.

All three were deemed experts of the art of killing, having learned everything in not just one but twelve different aspects of Khaine, and continually mastering more. Because of this they were the ones who taught new initiates of the order, and performed the most difficult murders. All three were an army in and off themselves, and could very well contend with any one of the six Assassin Lords.

The first master assassin was wrapped in a brown cloak, hunched over, and kept to himself. On one arm, a short sword was attached. The other hand had cylinder shaped spike that could pop out and provide the killing blow. His features were hidden beneath layer upon layer of black bandages, save for a pair of beady black eyes.

Within four sword lengths was another mysterious individual. While he didn’t make the extra effort to hide his identity save for the hood of his black cloak always above his head and a scarf around over his mouth. Always within hands reach was a long scimitar that he used to cleave his prey in half, no matter how thick their hide was.

The last one was just as secretive, but more welcoming then his associates. Playing with a throwing knife, he stabbed the open spaces between his fingers, never touching his flesh with the poisoned blade. All the while he made small talk with the guardsmen, trading stories of conquests both on the field of battle and off.

Suddenly the third assassin perked up, and tossed his blade at the throat of an unlucky passerby. The being took the shape of a dark elf assassin. It gave a guttural grows before exploding, ichors melting anything it touched. Cursing at what he called a “damn Tzeetchen shapshifters,” he pulled out another throwing knife and continued on with his activity.

Suddenly another throwing knife sliced the air, stopping just past the elf’s head. Instinctively the group turned to it, and gave way to a shadowy entity fell to the ground. It was a Shadow Daemon, a master of stealth. Instinct then guided them to the where the knife came from. “Well, well. If it isn’t Sevril’Relik. Good to see you. I see you made it here with no harm done.” said the third assassin.
Both Sevril Relik and the Ronin were limping their way out of the shadows, both using broken spears as makeshift crutches. “I would come up with something witty, Master, but right now we were chased by Bloodletters, fought over by Daemonetts, sicked on by Flesh Hounds, asked a billion stupid questions by Nurglings, rode a Furry, and nearly lost our heads to a Bloodthirster. Where is everyone anyways?”

“Oh forget it, why are we even here Relik,” groaned the Ronin. “You have not told me once why I spent my night buying a drink for everyone in the shadiest bar in all of Har Ganeth, then end up purifying a-a priestess of Aritha, then run around either nearly getting killed by the forces of Chaos, and don’t even mention what happened back there in the ally.”

“You haven’t told him, Assassin Sevril Relek?” scoffed the first Master Assassin. “And yet you expected him to perform? Did you even think to prepare him for the dangers?’

“Master Kilm’Drick, I told him to pack light, yet come prepared for a fight. As for you Ronin, Tullaris wishes me to improvise with the Gauntlet, as it is currently in disrepair. The Har Ganeth tradition of doing Pakur on this unholy night with one’s apprentice seemed like the perfect way to cross off what he needs to go through. After all, the unknown is a major risk factor in that arena, and this night provided more than enough to warrant his passage. We can even move the final stage, the “Grand Arena,” up a month early now.”

“So,” began the second assassin. “He has passed everything the Gauntlet would throw at him: the test of Strength, of wit, of restraint, of anger, of blood lust, of skill, of pain, of dexterity, of resourcefulness, of speed, and even of passion?”

“His wit is there as he used the poor masonry of a human built building in his advantage against a pair of Bloodletters. When we reached a wide chasm between the buildings, the youth used his strength; dexterity, wit, and resourcefulness as he used a close line and his blade, which he can cause barbs to pop out, to pull a furry down and forced it to give carry us to the next building. Against a Bloodthirster, his speed and skill was unmatched. After a great struggle, and a little luck, the youth caused the great monster to kill himself with its own battle ax.” The assassin took a break from speaking, letting the gasps from the crowd eco through his ears. He was not ever going to let the fact his student downed the embodiment of war, now that the others believed him. The fact he had to aim his crossbow at the monster’s sizeable balls would be left out.

When Relik was done soaking in the revelry he continued on. “Of pain, well, very few beings could set their own leg without even yelling in pain, yet this boy only winced. Even then, one had to have the training we assassins reserve to even notice it. His bloodlust, though week, is strong when he needs it to be. According to that minotaur of his, he chased a whole phalanx of chaos warriors down the city streets during the ‘Great Rabblerousing of Chaos’ when they refused to give him a good fight. Only when he saw a thousand of their fellows did he turn and run. His restraint is also great, for he can hold his anger back better than any elf I have ever known or killed. If anything else, it allows him to judge any situation, such as when he threw the knife into that shadow daemon. As for his passion, well, Selexa can attest to that. Now where is she?”

“Right here!” said a gurgling, frothing hiss of a voice. The ground rumbled as a hideous monstrosity came out of the shadows. He wore no armor, only a loincloth, his muscular body pulsating with blues and greens. Like the Bloodthirster, it had massive wings, the size and power that of a dragon, but outside a myriad of arms, appeared human. Even his face was more akin to a man then a beast like the other daemons Ronin saw. Out of the shadows, a long tentacle like arm brought its victim into the light. It was Selexa, alive, but battered. Even one as young as Ronin didn’t need much imagination to know what that thing did to her.

“You’ll pay for that, you bastard!!”

“Shut up. You killed that bloodthirster I was hunting earlier. That was very naughty of you. You took my beloved prey away from me. Hee, hee, I’ll take yours away from you! And there is na….”

The daemon would have continued on, but the sudden swoosh of a battle ax cut his words, and his body, in half. Behind the monstrosity stood the Bloodthirster the two elves had fought earlier. “Just shut up already,” it bellowed, grabbing the woman in its sturdy hand. Despite losing its grasp in this world when the Sevril and Ronin left it, it appeared as healthy and as intact as entity of its nature could be.

In horror, the Relik and Ronin both yelled “didn’t we kill you,” trying to hold back their bladders.

“I’m good friends with a Harold of Tzeetch, specifically one that knows the restorative arts. As for you two, having an ax lodged in my skull is not what I had in mind for tonight, but I must admit it was fun battling you. Here is your prize, boy.” The behemoth gently handed the unconscious Selexa to Ronin. “Worry not for she was simply beaten.

“You, assassin, should be aware I know of another Harold of the Lord of Change, and he would be most appreciative if I provided him an elf to practice his spells on. Remember that the next time you try to shoot my testies!”

The Bloodthirster turned around, and headed for a new battle to earn his glory. There was a moment of silence now, as everyone just realized two things: They just survived a Bloodthirster, and the youth had earned some semblance of respect from it. The silence lasted until dawn, at which point the third assassin could no longer hold back the intentions of his heart.

“Sevril, did you really shoot at that thing’s privates? Seriously, don’t give me look. And don’t lie to me either; you know I can tell the when one is being dishonest, even amongst our kind.”

“Yes, Master, and it’s an experience I wish never to repeat.”

“By the Twilight Pathogens, I wouldn’t either. I’m buying you a drink.”

“Ugh, Master?”

“You got that close and personal to it and that thing didn’t bite your head off, you deserve one. Make that two since its now dawn and only you and your student are alive.”

“Hay!” called out Ronin. “We can drink latter. We need to help her!” demanded the youth.

“She is a spawn of Slannesh. She is better off dead, boy.” said the first Master Assassin with the short sword.

“The woman is the boys, as is his right for surviving this night. I suggest you do not anger my charge or you will have two unhappy elves to contend with.”

The second master assassin on the other hand brought out a green gem, and held it over the woman’s head. It glowed for a moment, then ended. “Be still Sevril’Relik, the boy can have the woman in perfect condition. She has been freed from any and all dark influences. There is still some residue Dhur around her, but otherwise she is as normal as we are.”

“I second him.” said the third master assassin. “But she will need a doctor, and I know a pub that keeps a few on hand. Shall we? She’ll want same food and drink after this anyways.”

Ronin put the pendent Selexa had given him around her neck. It had indeed protected him, but now it was her turn to be protected. “Lead the way.”
Last edited by Saintofm on Sat Aug 13, 2011 7:33 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Post by Syjahel »

Epic rooftop battles! Skyriding daemons! Shooting a Bloodthirster in the ... well less said the better really.

I like the way you've described the character of the daemons of the four powers; it fits very well with them both now, and in days of fluff gone by :)
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Post by Saintofm »

Syjahel wrote:Epic rooftop battles! Skyriding daemons! Shooting a Bloodthirster in the ... well less said the better really.

I like the way you've described the character of the daemons of the four powers; it fits very well with them both now, and in days of fluff gone by :)


Wow, that's the best compliment I've had, since, wow. Great to know I have the spirit of it.
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Post by Saintofm »

Ok, I promise to get more out soon, I've been in the middle of a move so most of my creative juices are spent right now
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Post by Syjahel »

I should be moving myself soon so I know how that goes. Good luck :) We'll be here when you're settled!
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Post by Saintofm »

Ok, besides posting this in the wrong place at first, I realize I skipped this chapter for some odd reason. It should take place between the post where the assassin sees's what Ronin is made of, and under the Chaos Moons post

Chapter Seventeen: Chaos

“Captain Tullaris! We have a problem!” yelled a nearly winded Executioner. He busted through his captain’s door, almost forgetting about his superior’s temper. As he came in, he had to lean against the entry way, his armor making his breathing as difficult as it had in his mad dash to the castle.

“What seems to be the problem?” asked the Captain of the Executioner. He was busy sharing a drink with his new Draich Master, Seow Lohull; the Bourbon easing both of their spirits.

“The Chaos mongrels have wrecked the ‘Gauntlet!’ When the guards forbade them to enter they slew them out and decided to have some fun with that arena! All of the traps have been sprung; all of the beasts slain or otherwise incapacitated; the captured slayers have all met their desired doom, save one who is now slaughters as he pleases in the city with one of the legendary ‘Executioner Axes!’ When the barbarians were done wrecking your masterpiece they decided to continue their wonted destruction upon the city. Every citizen soldier and chaos worshiper we could muster is out to stop these idiots, including Hellios Vlinteh and his hydras, and Car Car Cartotrashe and his private army!”

“Well, what do we have mustered on our side then?”

“Currently we have a hydra, three squads of Witch Elves, every Chaos Marauder we can muster on our side, a Phalanx of Black Guard, and three Blood Thirstiers trying to subdue the Daemon Slayer to no avail. The other champions and wizards who are sane enough to see this madness for what it is doing their part to wipe out the trouble makers. Everyone and everything else is defending the docks, the Temple, or the Noble’s quarter, with some sparse resistance in the market place.”

“Great. Hellebron decides to go on vacation, and the whole Underworld breaks loose.” growled Tullaris, slamming his glass upon his desk. “Since I know how much you hate not being a part of the Action, Tiko, I want you to lead four phalanxes of Executioners and secure the docks. After this, lead as many of the corsairs and reaper bolt thrower crews as can be spared to the Noble’s quarter. Again, after that area is secured take as many of the inbred bastards that you can find with you to the heart of the battle under pain of death. If they refuse, then perform your duties and take the survivors with you. I will go to the temple myself and demand that they send more troops to aid their city’s defense. Now GO!!”

Tiko saluted, and then left.

“Seow, because your wounds were more severe than the others, I want you to stay here, with the defensive forces. You are in charge of the keep while I settle things on the streets. Most of my warriors will be coming with me, so keep the drawbridge raised until my return.”

“Yes, my lord. Do you think the Ronin will be in the middle of the fighting?”

“More or less.”
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“Come back you cowards!” yelled the Ronin. He downed a chaos warrior in white armor with a potshot with his repeater crossbow. This was enough to make the dozen warriors he was with run away. Angered and on the warpath, the Ronin chased after them.

Along side of him was a Minotour, who judging from what the stripling could tell, was either a devout follower of the Plauge Father or simply didn’t like to bathe much. In any case, h pickd up a reaper, and began fireing bolts and smashing skulls with it like he was holding a crossbow. Most of his flesh and fur was an earthen color, save for a thick main of red hair. The beast growled something along the lines of the youth was crazy for going after that many foes all by himself, but he’d follow him anywise. There would be blood for the blood god, and skulls for skull mount and he would be the one to deliver it to his master.

The fleeing warriors turned around the corner of a building that had yet been touched by the battle. Ronin followed after them, yelling at the top of his voice until he caught up with his prey, and one hundred of their fellows. With another pot shot, Ronin turned tail. “Never mind, keep running away!”

Ronin ran past the bewildered beastman, somewhat audible cries of panic coming out of the youth’s throat. The beastman at first scoffed at the youth, thinking of how typical it was for elves to do this. Then it felt the ground rumble. Pebbles danced as the rumbling grew louder and louder, then the war cries of frenzied warriors proceeded the white horde of iron behemoths. “Oh this is bull.” It said at last before it turned tale and ran after the youth.

“Stupid elf!” bellowed the minotour. “This is why you never pursue unless you have an army at your beck and call! Otherwise they come after ya with all their buddies!”

“I get it, I get it! Stay put and eat what you beat, then follow them!” yelled the strippling.

After three city blocks, they managed to find a place to hide. They didn’t move until they made sure their foes hade gave up the chase and changed targets: “The Nobles’ Quarter!” Well at least Tullaris wouldn’t have to worry too much about those “inbred bastards” getting in his way, thought the Ronin.

More of the chaotic champions came running out, this time donning thick black plate armor. Ronin and his friend jumped out from where they were, and fired at the incoming mob. Ronin took out two, while the thick bolts of the Minatour’s bolt thrower plowed through seven individuals like a knife through hot butter. When the ammo was used up, the glorious war machine saw further as the beastman used it to bash whatever he didn’t gore.

The Ronin pulled out a pair of sinister looking black daggers and charged. It was difficult finding a week spot in their armor, but in the end, he found what he was searching for at the neck line. Within moments, two armor clad behemoths had their throats slit. Two more wielding a pair of war hammers tried their luck, but were too slow to hit the youth. With the speed of any elf, he jump kicked one in his skull shaped helm, knocking him on the ground. His companion swatted one of the daggers out of the Ronin’s hands.

The youth tossed the remaining blade at the barbarian’s face, dropping him instantly. Any that remained were either slain or running away, save three. As the beastman was content gorging himself on fallen adversaries, they sought they would go against the boy, earning glory for their name in the process. The largest of the three swung a massive mace as if it was a child’s toy sword. But this was no plaything as Ronin would soon find out. He barely managed to escape the swing, but the momentum continued on until it left a dwarf size dent into one of his compatriots.

At this moment Ronin jumped back on his feet, pulled out his new yellow scimitar and decapitated the aspiring champion. With some more bloodlust, or Khaine sickness as the high elves put it, running through his body he took on the remaining champion. Attacking the joints, the youth severed every unguarded ligament, and nerves. His foe fell bleeding to death. The youth flipped his blade down and gave his foe a mercy killing. A spray of green blood baptized him as a Druchii, a Dark Elf. The thrill of the kill was short lived as Ronin soon noticed an incoming herd of half man, half goat beastmen.

A good number of them were what the minotaur called “gors,” and they were the mainstay in any beastman army. They were large bodied, muscular abominations. They had the heads and legs rams with massive curving horns, yet the hairless, well muscular torsos of mortal men. Most of the brown furred monstrosities were either armed with crude clubs or brutally designed flails and cleavers. Other held spears that were little more than long sticks and staves with a sharpened point. All of them were over six feet in height if not taller.

The leader wasn’t hard to pick out with his bear skin cloak. He savagely beat a pair of poorly kept sabers, as if to challenge any within earshot. The minotaur mentioned that he came to position by challenging and killing his predecessor, making him the strongest, most aggressive member of the herd. He was simply and aptly called a Foe Render.

The majority of the heard was made up of smaller, almost man sized warriors called ungors. They were just a little over five feet in height, just a head shorter than the average human. Unlike their visibly more powerful larger brethren, they were as spindly at best and as thin as the straw bedding a knight’s mount laid on. Other than a pair of small horns, a thick mat of curly red or brown fur, and their hove feet, they resembled man more than they did beast. Because of their diminutive size, small horns, and comparably “timid” personalities, they tend to be bullied by the larger, more vicious gors. However that was more to do to the fact they were cowardly jackals. Waiting to pick off those they deemed weak enough for them to attack without having to fear of being thrown around like a ragdoll. Their timid nature was that of a wolf in the presence of a wyvern, or a wild boar once it is in the jaws of a lake monster.

As ungores didn’t stand a chance against the gors, they often take out their rage upon the realms of men. There were no humans in sight, so an elf child would have to do.

They charged, only to get hewed down by a hodgepodge of dock hands, rowdy corsairs, and livid Executioners. There was barely enough beastmen to keep the oncoming mob occupied for too long, much less able to flee to safety.

“Ah, what lovely weather for a fight, eh boy?” asked the most commanding Executioner.

“Before we break out into song like a Druchii musical, a whole hoard of white clad Warriors of Chaos just stormed their way into the Noble’s Quarter.” yelled the boy, whipping some of the enemy blood off his face. “Me and Sorbeck Here have been hewing our way through this madness all day since the barbarians showed up. Also, I wouldn’t go down to the markets just yet. That Slayer is still hacking everyone and everything in his way to pieces. It’s like he’s possessed by Khaine!”

“Finally, some good news. That stunted fool will do most of our work for us. As for the other Chaos warriors, how long has it been since they entered the Nobles’ Quarter, and how many were there?”

“I didn’t have time to take a good look, but if I had to guess those savages had to have been in the hundreds. The next thing we knew they were followed by these buggars, and we ended up getting delayed.”

Even through his chainmail veil, Ronin could detect a smile from under that mask. “It appears,” began the Executioner. “That we may be too late to save much of the noble houses of Har Ganneth. That said we are now on a mission to save what’s left of their mansions and your new homes!” With a cheer, the mad mob stampeded past Sorebeck and the Ronin, and rushed into the Nobles’ Quarter.

In another hour the remaining noble born dark elves would join in the fray; The Slayer would have made his way to the arena, and freed the slaves and gladiators within so they too could fight with him out of the city. It was here that the assassin Sevril Relik and the wood elf slave girl made their stand.

“I think we took a wrong turn!” said the assassin, as he annihilated a rat like monster the size of a large bear. “We need to get to the boy before the rest of this army dose!”

“That is what I’ve been saying!” said Ronin’s slave girl. She had spent the last clip of bolts slaughtering marauders of Slannesh, the Chaos God of Pleasure and Vice. The years of servitude had apparently never deadened her race’s natural skill with ranged weapons. “We need to move ass-ass!”

“Stop calling me that! I’m an assassin, girly!

“Stop calling me girly and I’ll think about it.”

Suddenly, a blood covered Minotaur plowed through the enemy forces. He had struck them so hard that he sent a few of them flying. The Ronin jumped off from his back, slitting a few stragglers’ throats as he went. He wiped the pink spay of chaotic blood from his face and grabbed the girl.

“We need to get back to the palace, now!” The Ronin commanded. “A Legion of Khaine’s frenzied brides are heading this way. The Dwarf Slayer that’s been butchering everything and anything in his path has made some friends, and I’d rather not be here when they cross blades with the Tuluc!”

“So, you do care?” said the girl, though she was unsure how sincere she was.

“Arhedel Mithrandir, you never have to ask that question ever again. If you ever had to question that, would I still be standing?”

This was the closest to a tender moment they were going to have, so now was as good a time for them to embrace at last. At least now she didn’t have an assassin’s dagger at the back of her neck, and he wasn’t dying from said assassin’s poison. This was more disbelief than either the assassin or the minatour were willing to believe.

“Are they always like this?” asked the beastman.

“No, this is a new development.” replied Sevril’Relik.

“Oh, because they look like they have been…”

“The battlefield does that sometimes.”

“Sounds like something out of a cheesy book meant for a human chieftain’s mates.”

“Yeah, it’s a tad bit clichéd for me as well.” Relik looked around, trying to find some marauder or beastman he could fillet to keep his mind of the two striplings exchanging spit and breath in front of him. Then Khaine answered his prayers.

“Uh, Yoo-hoo! Couple of the year!” Relik eventually had to throw a rock into Ronin’s shoulder to get the couple’s attention. “Yeah, I know we don’t have much time for this and it is a little late for you two to NOW be given Aritha’s blessings and all, but WE GOT A BIG PROBLEM HERE!”

The assassin pointed to the northern street, and the Dwarf slayer and his motley crew of humans, lizardmen, and ogre gladiators following him to freedom. Relik then pointed east, to the Witch elves march down the street , working themselves into a frenzy at the thought of spilling blood. Finally the assassin pointed west, and the army of marauders led by a massive winged daemon wielding a fiery ax.

“So, any bright ideas how we are going to do this?”

Ronin looked at the foes, and assessed their strengths and weaknesses. The dwarf and his compatriots would most likely be unarmored, but their thick hides would prove problematic. That and they were as strong as they were big, with many of them taller than a mounted knight. The witch elves equally lacked armor, but their berserk rage more than made up for it, as did the poison dripping from their blades. Then there were the humans, who had mixed arms and armor. However, as unruly as they were, they lived in constant battle, with the weak killed off during raids. Add the thirty foot greater daemon that was their embodiment of war, and Ronin’s chances were becoming slimmer.

“The only place that can provide any kind of safety is the docks, but…”

Sevril’Relik finished the sentence for Ronin. “And the only way there is through that building.” Relik pointed towards the stone building behind him. It was a spacious building, and one of obvious dwarven craftsmanship. Unless they had a dozen minataurs, they probably weren’t going to get through the masonry.

“Well, let us make some sacrifices to Khaine!” said the stripling at last.

“Well, it’s been fun!” Relik pulled out another pair of daggers, and prepared to take as many to the underworld with him as he could.

Arhedel made a prayer for one last hunt, and Sorbeck roared threats of violence to all around him. As they finally accepted their fate, the gods seemed to have another design for them. A loud bang emanated from the building behind them, the walls crumbling from the exploitation. Anything still standing was quickly swatted away as two ogres in blue platemail armor smashed their way through. Each of them wielded large cannon and had a shaking goblin tied to their shoulders. Ronin heard the assassin gripe something under his breath on the lines of: “Great, Lead Belchers.” One of the brutes fired cannon at the incoming chaos legion, than stepped back into the building. His compatriot did the same thing.

In their place dozens and dozens of Executioners ran out to greet the slaves of Chaos, hacking them down with their axes and swords. In their midst walked a lone warrior who reverently carried his great sword. He wore the attire of an Executioner, had the bulk of the Executioner, but was taller than the average elf. His face was obscured by a skull shaped mask made of gold; blacken by the grime from constant battle. In one hand he grasped his Driache’s handle, the other, caressed the black blade.

The warrior leisurely made his way to the youth, stopping just one seven foot long sword stroke away from the Asur. “Are you the Ronin?” he asked coldly. Ronin responded. “When my warriors have cleared the building, enter it and leave through the other end until you can find a safe place to tend to your wounds. The true sons of Khaine will finish this fight.

“I guess I should thank you for aiding us.”

The warrior swung his blade till it just came into contact with the youth’s neck. “And I guess I should kill you where you stand. Had it not been for you, I would have been handpicked by Tullaris to be his apprentice. Instead I must wait another year as a basic Executioner while an Asur learns our sacred secrets!”

Sevril’Relik leaped at the would-be attacker. The first blow was blocked, but the next three sticks pushed the Executioner back. The Warrior sent a blow that would have beheaded the assassin, but he danced around the blade with ease. Unfortunately for him, the warrior was just as fast on his feet, and sent the butt of the sword to the assassin’s bare face. The blow was just strong enough to break his nose and just pushed the assailant back.

The next thing he knew was that a massive sword was now going to split him down the middle, and he was too disoriented to get away. Just as the Executioner broke his opponent’s skin, the warrior pulled back. Bleeding, disoriented, and confused, Rellik collapsed on the ground. The skill of the Executioners was great, but to pull back a blade that was at least seven feet in length, and anything but light was nigh impossible, even for a master Drachntar na Khaine. Given the tone of his voice, he must have been the same age as the Assassin, if not a little younger.

Sevril’Rellik knew of only one elf that could fight like this and was this young. “Kell’Aithian, of house Hira Kari! ‘The Dreaded Lord of Skulls!’”

“So I am called. Now go. My orders are to ensure your safety. The road is clear, save for the occasional gargoyle and harpy feasting on the remains of these poor excuses of warriors!”

They needed no more encouragement to move. Obeying the Executioner, the group made their way to the docks. As Kell’Aithian expected, the only thing that could possibly pose a threat was the weak, winged daemons and harpies. The Party and the possible threat gave each other a wide birth as the scavengers were content to gorge themselves on the warm flesh of fallen barbarians and mutants, while Ronin’s party was content not to fight them.

As the Ronin expected, the remaining dock hands were glad to have the Ronin, his sharp shooting servant girl, an adept of Khaine, and the biggest minatore they had ever seen join their forces.

Elsewhere, the slayer and his comrades made the escape. They headed south, hoping to find a boat back home, or to slay whatever monsters cross their paths.

All the while, Tullaris mustered the full force of the temple, slaying all who opposed his legion. Within six hours the city was cleansed of the troublemakers, and bathed in their blood. He took off his bloodstained helm and breathed in the stench of fresh carnage that permeated the air like it was the perfume from a lover’s chambers. To Khaine, the battlefield was the greatest of all temples, and no place was holier than this place.

“What is the report, Commander?” he growled.

“Three tenths of our inhabitants, as well as nine tenths of our so-called allies lay slain in their own blood. Most of our people’s casualties came from the Nobles’s quarter, with the market place seeing a good share of the slaughter as well. Had it not been for you orders to rally the corsairs and drive Khaine’s Brides from their temple, we may have lost the city.

“As for the Chaos scum, most of them were killed in bouts against themselves, while the slayer took a huge chunk out of their fighting force. This was followed up by the commoners and your personal legion of Executioners driving the idiots from our city.”

“Yes, I heard Khel’Aithian had already bolstered much of the temple in its defense, and was the one who prepared a massive task force in case I so desired to call upon the temple. Now, has word been sent to Naggarond and to Hellebron?”

“I have made arrangements for a pair of dark riders to deliver the message to their respective locations, sire. I sent my personal Harold, Kimlim, to Naggaround. He should reach there by the morrow.

“And the other?”

“It will take days, even weeks to get down to her location, that unpronounceable golden city of the Old Ones. We are currently looking for a steed and rider that can make that kind of a journey.”

“Why not use the view glasses and Crystals those blasphemous sorceresses gave us?”

“It has been tried, my Lord. I had also taken the liberty of having a Sorceress track down Hellebron’s location is Lustria. Sadly that is all is we can do, under the mystical means. While she was capable to track her location, she was thrown into a state of shock from the mystical barrier of the Ancient Toads of the Lizardmen. We managed to force the location of our Hag Queen to be made known, but little more. Anything else she mentioned was incoherent, something on the lines of battle, plague, death, and rat men. Which is where the dark riders come in. Once we have found steed capable of the long trek, we shall send a Harold.”

“Good. Send a unit of them. They will need the numbers if they should be ambushed. What of my Ronin?”

“He is nursing his wounds at the palace. The assassin and the girl are with him, alive, and doing the same thing. They have also have captured a minatoure that has sworn fidelity to him.”
“Ah, good. We now have something to get rid of all of those scrap pieces of practice slaves.”

“Yes, my lord. This is especially good news as the slaves have over fed the mote monster…again. I think we need to flush him down to the undersea.” There was a brief pause to see what Tullaris would do, than the Execution continued on. “So, what will you do about the boy, and the Gauntlet?”

An evil grin spread around the Draich Lord’s face. “Tell the assassin, Sevril Relik, to make do with what we have. Tell him to make it up as he goes if he has to so long as the youth passes the equivalent there of, I will be pleased.”
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Syjahel
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Post by Syjahel »

“Why not use the view glasses and Crystals those blasphemous sorceresses gave us?”


Sorceress Television: bringing you the news from Naggaroth, round the clock! :D

Good to see more of this :)
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Saintofm
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Post by Saintofm »

Time for another chapter


Chapter Nineteen: The New Girl

It had been a week since the night Ronin and Sevril had faced the Daemons. Their wounds had healed perfectly, and things were adjusting to Ronin’s new concubine, Selexa. Unfortunately his servant girl on the other hand was not as impressed.

While she knew the circumstances of Ronin’s acquisition of the former pleasure slave, she did not like the fact he had a curvier female elf in the same premises as her. This started out as simple irritation, which quickly grew to jealousy, and finally after six days, asked the elvin god of the hunt, Orion, for help in her own “Wild hunt” of Ronin and Sevril’Relik. After a few hours of chasing them with a loaded crossbow, she gave up. At least for today.

“Uh, Lady Arhedel Mithrandir?” asked a timid voice.

The Wood Elf turned around, scowling at the voices owner. It was Selexa, in a black gown, her raven black hair tide into a ponytail with a red ribbon. Arhedel controlled her urge to fire a bolt in-between the other elf’s eyes and opted to respond with a “yes.”

“I was wondering if we could have a chance to talk. They are preparing the noon meal in the main dining hall, and, well…it sounded like a good idea at the time anyways.”

The Wood Elf’s stomach began to growl like an angry manticor. “The noon meal it is.”

It didn’t take long for the elves to finish their meal, and next course, and the one after that. Both elves seemed famished, both were worn out, and both needed the extra energy. All the while they managed to make small talk, and for the most part, enjoy each other’s company. One more bottle of cheap wine, and desert later, Selexa finally felt confident enough to ask what was on her mind.

“You and Ronin seem close. Are you two lovers?” she asked.

At that precise moment, Arhedel began choking on a strawberry.

With a smile, Selexa snapped her fingers and the fruit had been ejected from the Asri’s mouth. Black sparks flickered off her polished nails for a moment, and then subsided. “I’ll take that as a yes then?”

“Na, No, no, no! He is only a boy! I can’t possibly do that to a child?”

“Not for long. He’s not that much younger than you are and this area always gets smudged a little. Besides, he only needs to be crowned a full Druchii in order to be an adult here, something that will happen real soon.”

“When I was brought here, no one touché me until came of age. After that, I had to fight off everyone that thought they had the right to sheath their weapon in me. So how dare you…”

“I too was a slave. When I came of age in that pleasure den, I was auctioned off to the highest bidder to deflower me. That was three days I would never forget. I spent the rest of my life becoming indoctrinated into that cult, so much so I believed I was the chosen of Aritha. Had it not been for Ronin, I would have never had the desire to escape that life. That was beaten out of me a long time ago.” Selexa caressed her cheek, reveling a patchwork of scars that rivaled Ronin’s. She caressed it again, her enchantment hiding it seamlessly.

“Ronin loves you, Arhedel, and would never want to hurt you. But he would have never forgiven himself if he left me there. I’m just here for the ride, and we both know it.

“Oh, well, that’s good.”

“Not really. We both know the laws of marriage of this forsaken place: Both parties must be free and willing to pay the set dowry for the bride. As you are his slave, one does not need to worry about that aspect. But your freedom, on the other hand, is much more difficult. You must wait another twenty years for that to happen, by which time he will be forced to pick a bride to keep up appearances.”

“Wait, but he’s…”

“Sudo free. As much as I hate to admit it, so am I at the moment.”

“But that would mean, you would be, his, his…”

“Fiancé.” said a gruff, masculine voice.

Both elves turned to its direction. He was a distinguished elf, and from the look of his ceremonial sword lying across his shoulders, a Draich Master. His coned helm, which had the scalp of a high elf prince attached into at the top, was held under his arms. He swung his Draich a few times over his blond head, and set it on its near sentient holster on his back. To Arhedel he was just another Executioner, but he was something more to Selexa.

“Papa?” PAPA!” Selexa said excitedly. The she elf got up quickly, nearly turning the table over in the process. She ran towards Executioner as fast as her legs could carry her and embraced him.

“I am glad to see you too. I am also glad to see you are unharmed after being in that vile abyss!”

Just when the father and daughter were about to enjoy the moment, the Arhedel gave a blood curtailing shriek. She remembered who the father was.“Your father is the ‘Barron of Blood? The Duke of Death, the Magnificent Killer, the…’”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda. I go by almost as many names as Tullaris, and he’s still earning new titles. Now, you must be the one who has the young Ronin’s heart.” said the Executioner lewdly. It got the effect he wanted out of it, as the girl was now turning beat red. She was also giving him the glare of death every woman should have mastered by her age. “Answers that. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time a free elf fell in love with one of their slaves, especially after two months of owning them.”

“But, why, who, what…I’m all confused!!”

One lengthy and somewhat disturbing explanation later…

“Remind me why this is happening again,” asked Arhedel. “I mean, could you not take care of your daughter?”

“I am sorry, but it cannot be. For starters, it’s been over one hundred years since my daughter and wife were stolen from me and sent to the service of Aritha and Slannesh respectively, and my days of raising her are long gone. Besides, I have spent so much time as Malekeith’s personal inquisitor, purging the dens whenever I had a chance to exact my revenge, I don’t even think I would be a great father.

“Ronin on the other hand seems decent enough of an elf. I have a feeling Khaine has answered my prayers by sending him here to heal her wounds, both within and without. Besides, he can get more accomplished politically if you become his mistress.” At that last comment, the Wood Elf gave a look that the Executioner had only seen when the Brides of Khaine go through their “Time of Blood Rage.”

“My daughter is Pure Druchii, whose family line goes all the way back to the first Incursion of Chaos. It is more politically sound to marry a pure dark elf then not. This is even more so for Ronin as he is of pure Asur heritage. If he marries into a druchii family, particularly one as close to Tullaris as we are, his status is assured. And before you ask, she has spent too much time as a Mistress of the Goddess of Excess, and you already know of me. Ronin does not seem afraid of either. I can barley say the same about any other elf in this empire of ours. If he marries her, he will legally be a part of my family. Because of me, few will try and attack him outside of a few brave enough to duel him or hire an assassin. My daughter is capable of seducing and interrogating any elf, which will give the youth more of an edge here.

“As for you, rumor has it that you are a Way Watcher’s daughter. Despite the fact your people are quite odd by civilized standards, your casts of warriors have quite a few admirable qualities to them, many on par with our assassins no less. That said, the fact that Roninn could get your trust and your love would only add to the rumors of the Ronin’s prowess on the battlefield and off. Only the bravest or the most fool hardy would dare to attack him after this. I am sorry if this comes to any consolation.”

At that moment, Ronin chose that time to come out from behind the Executioner. A dagger’s blade slid out beneath the warrior’s throat. “You’re making her sad. If you make her cry, I’ll make you cry!”

“How long have you been back there?” asked the Executioner?

“Just long enough to hear a very savvy explanation to why I need a Druchii bride, and why the girl that has my heart must be mitigated to a weekend lover? As much as I want to ascend high enough in the ranks to exact my revenge, and I am sure this is just a ploy to kiss Har Harkon’s butt, I cannot hurt Arhedel like this. It would be like if I tore into my own flesh with a rusty dagger.”

“It would be suicide, both literal and politely, if you did this!” said the Executioner, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Then my life is forfeit. It is up to her what I do; the consequences be damned!”

“Maybe you are not ready to be a true Druchii if you have that attitude, boy.”

At that, Arhedel slapped him. “Pull yourself together child! This is not the end of the universe if I am not your bride, but that attitude must stop now. What good is your desire for vengeance if you have no way to apply it? How can you stop the ones that destroyed everything you have ever loved from doing it to others if you have no army at your beck and call? Tell me, is there another way?”

“There isn’t.” Ronin let go of the Executioner. “Ok, Magnificent Butcher, I will marry your daughter, and slaughter all those who come in-between me and her. However, my heart will remain with Arhedel. If anything more than convenience develops between me and Selexa, well, that is for the Gods to decide.”

“Good.” said the Executioner with a jovial slap across Ronin’s back. “My daughter is now betrothed to you. When you can pay the dowry, I’ll throw the wedding. Until then, she shall be bound to no elf save you. Take care of her Ronin, or I shall take care of you!”

“Am I interrupting something?” asked the Relik, leaning on a pillar near the entryway.

“What do you want assassin?” snarled the Wood Elf.

“Nothing, save this: The Ronin has been summoned to the Arena. It is time to finish his training.”
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Post by Saintofm »

I think it's about time to have another chapter


Chapter Twenty: Thirst for Blood

Summer in the land of chill was a brief period of time, but the welcomed rays of sunlight was a breathtaking experience. It was perfect for a blood bath, one that was going to be filled with the blood of Ronin’s opponents.

The youth was in the middle of the arena, soaking up the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Today they were going to have a treat: The Beast Lord Rackarth had given the arena a captured Dragon Ogre so large it had matured into its adult stage: a Shagoth. It was no easy feat beating it into submission, but this made it all the more savory a treat. The main event was to have the best Dwarf Slayer they had face it in combat. If the dwarf won, he would go free, but if the Shagoth won, he would continue to serve to entertain the Har Gathens until the day it died. In either case, it would be made into the main course of a grand feast. Until then, the Shagoth had to be drugged up to make the fight even, while the dwarf was given time to meditate, and ask his Gods for forgiveness. For right now, Ronin was the opening act and he had a skull to cleave open.

Spinning around, Ronin looped off the head of a Warrior of Tzeetch, which he followed up with stabbing another of the armored behemoth’s in the chest. The mystical and fickle energies of their ruinous patron chose that time to block the blow, allowing the chaos champion to swing his flail at the youth. Ronin, much faster than the warrior of chaos, dropped to the ground just before the spiked balls would have pieced his flesh. The weapon flew over the youth and into the side of another champion’s face. The boy jumped up, kicking his foe to the ground in the process. His elvin senses picked up other opponents behind him readying their weapons. As the youth jumped out of the way, the three warriors slammed their weapons into the warrior on the ground, killing their comrade.

Ronin didn’t waste any time running up to them, hacking and stabbing at the weak spots in remaining mortal followers of the dark gods. Another lopped off head, and two stab wounds in the throats latter, the three were dead, and the crowd was roaring.

Amongst them was Tullaris, applauding the youth. Beside him was the Draich master Kell’Aithian and Tullaris’ new second in command: the Poet of Slaughterer, Geeatus Gibbetose.

The poet was a handsome, well educated elf. Like other Executioners, he perfected his chosen art with each kill, with every victim a canvas to express himself. At the same time he also tried to balance himself out, learning other languages, writing poetry, and creating new decretive handles for the ceremonial Draiches. While other poets talked about giving simple trinkets of gold or flowers to their love, he mesmerized crowds of how he would cover the lass’ house in enthralls and blood.

“What do you think of my charge, lads?” asked the captain. Despite the devastation of his prized killing field, and his nephew away due to the war, he had much to celebrate. He taught the youth well, and what he couldn’t teach the assassin would finish for him. If only the wine came in bigger bottles.

“He has certainly improved. I would love to see how his blade dose against mine. However, resources can be better spent on other important causes of the Witch King.” declared Kell’Aithian. As usual, he wore his golden skull mask, hiding much of his emotion. But to a trained ear like the Poet, one could hear a bit of contempt.

“As Malekith wills it, the youth has been trained by the best of this city, and his training here is coming to a close. Soon his will dictate he will go to another to train.” responded the other, trying to not sound his own contempt, yet ease the younger Executioner’s sore ego. “At least you have a record to break once our Lord takes you under his wing.”

Khell’Aithian turned his head, his gaze boring into the Poet. “And beat it I shall.”

Tullaris signaled one of the city guards to release the next combatants. A half dozen half starved slaves pulled a lever, releasing a group of five Khornite berserkers. Each one wore their blood stained armor with a single braid hanging off their helms, wielding an assortment of bladed weapons. The first one came at the youth in the pit, swinging his sword and ax wildly. Ronin simply stepped aside, letting the frenzied fanatic run into his naked blade, slicing him in two.

“His training is not complete. He’s too nice, even by our weak blooded cousin’s standards. While he has toughened up quite considerably, the life we Executioners can provide will not do. We must send him to another city to train, and soon.” said the Sacred Slaughterer.

He winced as the youth stabbed an unprotected groin, and then lopped the target’s head off. The Youth dodged another blow aimed for him, then got behind his foe. Ronin made sure he was always a step ahead of the turning warrior, denying him a good opportunity to slay him, but also preventing his foe from getting the youth in striking distance. It didn’t take long before the rest of them realized this was going nowhere fast, or at least got tired of all the spinning, and attacked the two of them anyways.

“Where should I send the youth next?” asked Tullaris.

“I hear the Sanctioned Male Sorcerer Furrion is staying at his winter retreat at Ghround for some time complete an experiment he has been working on.” suggested Gibbetose. “He has extensive knowledge of all the known races of the world, and those not seen by the common elf. It might do the boy some good to know their strengths and weaknesses, as well as his own.”

Kell’Aithian glared at the Ronin as he jumped away from an ax strike aimed for him, taking out the bloodied and worn warrior he had his back against. The other one had long been beaten into submission, leaving only one opponent left. Ronin Took his cape off, and shook it angrily. The Khornite stomped his brass clad foot than charged headlong into the youth. Ronin stepped out of the way, revealing the wall of five inch spikes the champion was running into. With the last one only needing a mercy killing, the slaves were ordered to release the next contestants: twelve Chosen Warriors of Nurgle, all of which were covered in thick scales that leaked a green, acidic puss.

“He might do well mounted, why not send him to the Dark Crag and choose a steed? I’ve seen his skills on your dark steed. He has a gift for it. Khaine only knows how much he could probably do better on that then on foot. It might actually make him useful.”

“Watch your tongue Kell, for Khaine is always watching. He is not as forgiving as I.” growled the captain.

“Forgive me my Lord, but I meant no disrespect. While I see much in the youth, I think he would perform our patron little good as he is. On the back of a steed, he may bring about the death and destruction he was destined to do. By how much he needs this, only the gods know, and I only turn to the Lord of Murder for aid.”

“What say you my Lord?” asked the Poet. “What city do you have in mind for the Asur child?”

“I almost thought about letting him go to the port city of Karrond Karr, and study under the beastmasters. He does have a soft spot for stupid animals like humans. Although at this point…” He winced again as a massive club collided with another’s crotch. Despite their reputation, the Nurgleite was not immune to all pain.

Ronin jumped onto one of the other warriors, shifted his wait until the behemoth began spinning around, taking out his own comrades in the process. Two had fallen, while another ripped its now useless arm and used it as a weapon. Ronin slit his throat using a Khornite dagger. With that behemoth down for the count, he then threw the weapon at another foe. Both exalted warriors fell as the acidic blood melting the blade off the handle.

At that moment the last Khornite had returned to life, sprouting wings and growing to twice the behemoth’s original size of six and a half feet. The Newly Christened Damon Prince lunged at the youth, bisecting two of the exalted champions with his daemonic sword. Most of the remaining warriors of Nurgle challenged the prince, knowing they would bring greater glory for their god if they brought him its head. Only two remained on their original opponent, slamming their great weapons into the ground by the youth.

The First recovered, slamming his weapon at the youth’s direction. Nurgle may have given his “children” unimaginable resilience, but he seemed to neglect giving them any sense of the word “speed.” With a short sprint Ronin jumped onto the brute’s shoulders. Sevril’Relik told him the secret of finding a kill point of a Follower of the Lord of Decay: Find the thickest scab on their neck and start hacking away until you get bone. After a minute hacking into the thick neck, the youth was ready for the next step: one strong kick. With a defining crack, his foe would be reborn as a Plague Bearer. The last one patted his weapon in his hand, waiting for the youth to come at him.

“You were waiting until I was ready? How thoughtful.” said Ronin at long last.

“I never liked striking down a man with his back turned to me. I am not going to start with an elf child.”

“Thanks…Look out, behind you!”

“Oh, please! That’s the oldest trick in the book. My looks may have rotted away, but not my mind!” Smack, the Daemon prince crushed the vile warrior with its bear like foot.

“You’re mine, child!” It roared with bestial pleasure.

“Is that before or after the reapers take us out?”

With a confused look, the daemon looked around the arena. While the seats were fifty feet above the arena floor, some creatures, such as a daemon prince, were too dangerous, and often time had to be inhumanly euthanized to ensure public’s safety, namely that of the highborns. In this case, the Champion of Khorne stood right beside the Dread Lords’ seats. For incidents like these, over a dozen reaper bolt throwers, and their barbed four to six foot long payloads, as well as three full regiments of crossbowmen were always at the ready. With a twitch of Tullaris’ fingers, they let loose their armaments. Most bolts passed through the daemon harmlessly, others bounced off his thick hide or reddish gold armor. But some hit home, weakening the monster. With a final bolt thrower shot to the skull, the Daemon was on his knees and claws.

When the last bolt flew, the Ronin leapt from his hiding place amongst the dead, and took this opportunity to finish the monster off. With a daring leap he plunged his yellow scimitar into the daemon’s skull, skewering its brain. Without giving a final glare at the youth, it was gone, and whoever wasn’t killed by stray bolts were cheering the youth.

“Well, that was interesting.” commented Kell’Aithian. “He certainly has good amount of luck about him. While he didn’t technically finish off all of the Nurgle worshipers, I‘d say he still passed this test.”

“We are not done yet, young Draichmaster.” declared the Tullaris. With another wave of his hand, the arena slaves were busy pulling another gate.

When it opened, ten Northern Barbarians, wielding flails and wearing nothing but their horned helms and enough bear skin to cover up their loins, rushed recklessly at the youth.

Ronin dropped his shield, and returned his scimitar. He pulled out a couple of throwing knives, imbedding them into two skulls. This did not deter the berserkers, nor was the stripling afraid. With a smile, Ronin unleashed a weapon he had hidden up until this point. The weapon that had helped him scale the shabby masonry would now allow him to gut a muscle bound marauder as it rushed at him like a rabid dog. Reaching just a little more than a foot past his clench fist, Ronin’s wrist sword was out in the open. Its twin slid out from Ronin’s other gauntlet, its razor edge strong enough to punch through any of the northmen.

The next to fall was a muscle bound brute with a chaos corrupted wolf skin cloak, the head of the animal worn as an intimidating hood. Ronin sliced his belly open with the right gauntlet, which was followed by the left skewering another marauder in the heart. Using his momentum the youth slid between two more, his outstretched blades exposing their innards to the blood thirsty crowd in the process. In their shock, the two quickly spun around to get a better look at the youth, accidentally waking the other’s heads with each other’s flails. Another tried his luck at the youth, only to get his neck snapped with an armored boot to the head.

They were too slow. Ronin knew this as he easily dodged one’s fatal blow to the ground. To keep the crowed entertained, the youth cut every tendon and artery Sevril’Relik had shown him on the average being’s body. Within a few short moments, blood sprayed from every conceivable angle on the barbarian. By the time he hit the ground, he was already dead. The last two, wanting to bring glory to their god, but not wanting to die ingloriously for that cause, ran to the side of the wall, and began climbing. The rumors were true, the mountainous regions these people were accustomed to climbing slick mountains, even without a place to grasp. Two guard masters saw this, and took a single shot at the two warriors. Their helms were not thick enough to stop the armor piecing repeater crossbows.

By the time the two marauders were on the ground, the next opponents were already out on the field: six warriors of chaos, undivided in their worship of the four ruinous powers. Each one banged a weapon of choice on their shields: A morning star, a hand ax, a spiked club, a spiked gauntlet, a war hammer, and the leader wielding a sword. Ronin taunted them forward. Like he expected, they charged. It was time for the stripling to retract his blades, and bring out his scimitar. He leapt into the air at them. As he spun around, he loped the first foe’s head in half at a forty degree angle. Using his momentum, he spun around the next one’s head until he twisted it around three times. By then, he had flown into his next foe, stabbing him in the face.

Between these brutes and his previous matches, his sword had now officially lost its edge. It was a blunt instrument, and Ronin lacked the time and the tools to alleviate that problem. Worse still was he was beginning to feel the wear and tear his own body was going though. In all his life, with all the fights he had ever been in, not once had he had to perform at this intensity, this level of punishment to his body. He was so worn out he didn’t notice a clunking metal behemoth grab him from behind. The Leader licked his blade, than shoved it at Ronin. A red spray covered them, but not from its intended source. A red swirl of Crimson blocked the sword from entering the youth, pushing the blade back. When it subsided, Ronin felt an unnatural aura come over him, giving him new strength. With this new found energy, be broke free from his captor, slicing off his arms and legs at the joint, finishing him off by stabbing him in the face. All that was left to kill was the one with the ax and the one with the sword.

The one with the sword would go first. Using his all his might, Ronin sped towards his foe, and buried his sword in his unprotected face. With one less for, it was time to deal with the one with the ax. With a deathly frenzy, he charged, hacking at the air in front of the youth. Ronin simply dodged it, keeping his distance until the time was right. He kicked the swordsmen’s blade into the air and shoved it into the remaining warrior, taking him down in one blow.

Ronin collapsed onto the ground, trying desperately to catch his breath. He didn’t think he could continue fighting like this, so hoped an intermission would occur soon. Until then he had eight Exulted Champions of Khorn to face, all wilding an assortment of weapons. Just as he was about to give up hope, an idea came to him. “Hay you, you in the red armor!” As this described all of them, they quickly tried to figure out who he was talking about. “The ugly one next to you said something bad about your mother.”

Confused still, they asked each other what the elf child was talking about. As with most followers of the Blood God, this eventually turned into a heated argument about who thought who was an idiot, or who accused the other of lying. Within a few more moments the crowed started laughing as the Khornites started slaughtering each other, save one.

“Very clever elf child,” said one holding a massive double headed battle ax. “You used our own blood lust against us. Well, I guess the Blood God gets another smart one’s skull added to Skull Mount. He swung his weapon over his head, trying to lop his foe in half. Ronin Dodged, and tossed a fallen foe’s ax at the warrior. A field of chaotic energies blocked it. Like with Ronin, it appeared that his war god would not allow him to die in a cowardly manner.

“Ah, mammoth oodoob.” Ronin barley dodged the strike from the enemy general. Now on the ground, the behemoth tried to stomp on the youth, missing each time. Each time the champion crashed his foot in the ground, the youth could be heard using every cursing used by the Executioners. Out of instinct he maneuvered his legs so he could kick the massive warrior to the ground. The youth kicked what he thought was an open wound on the warrior’s leg. When he hit, the youth sprained his ankle, the Chaos lackey’s skin as hard as iron. As for the Northman, he fell to the ground, moaning and groaning. Taking this opportunity, the youth pulled the fallen swordsmen’s weapon out of his last victim, and lopped off the Khornite’s head. Just when he thought it was over, his hopes were shattered again. In the midst of the brawl at the other end of the arena, one of the champions had just received another blessing from his ruinous patron, and the cursing it would bestow upon him.

They say with each worthy kill, the Ruinous Gods of Chaos grant a gift or attribute to the victor. Sometimes it is increased strength, stamina, or resilience; grant the victor with bestial claws or rock hard scales; the ability to command daemons, or whatever else these fickle beings decide to give. After anywhere from a few centuries to a few millennia the warrior will accumulate number of these gifts, changing him to much more then the man he began as. Sometimes this means forgoing their mortal shackles and being transformed into a daemon prince, able to command all forces of the ruinous powers. Yet most only go through a more sinister transformation.

In the latter case, the chaotic powers begin to overwhelm the champion, causing him to mutate into something unsavory, and to the Northman, an unfortunate beast. They become the mindless Spawn of Chaos, neither whole nor able to retain their mortal being anymore. In the end, they are destined to die from either their own overdose of their warped masters or in mortal combat. Until that happens, they simply become a battle hardened berserker, simply seeking battle. Not for glory, and definitely not for survival but simply because they cannot do anything else and know it.

The newly forsaken warrior’s left arm grew three times in size, cracking and popping off chunks of the armor that had been welded on its hide so many years ago. The hand continued to grow in size until it was capable of grabbing the remaining warrior, crushing his foe. He tossed the newly crippled warrior behind him, nearly hitting all of the levers to the gates. Several spike like hairs sprouted from its back until he resembled a Chaos induced porcupine from any of the Hells.

The groaning warrior he tossed grasped one of the gate levers, trying to pull himself up. He fell down, pulling the master lever with him. As he tried to get up again, a guardsman with an enchanted glaive shoved his weapon in his back. To ensure he stayed down, he twisted it around until he heard its spine snap.

Meanwhile the next set of opponents entered the ring. The first to come out were two massive orcs who were about a foot taller and three feet broader than the average ogre. Each of them carried a large sword or battle ax. Behind the Forsaken, a group of seven forest trolls shuffled out, yawning and burping. Near the youth, a dozen forest goblins armed with bows and spears timidly marched out. Directly behind the youth were a group of bickering orcs. Each one held their standard weapon: the crude Chappa’. Although it was nothing more than a simple cleaver, and as in most orc weapons, looked like they could use a month’s worth of sharpening, in their brutish hands they could dismember even the toughest opponents on the charge.

Beside the two green behemoths was a group of eight orcs who seemed primitive even by the crude standards of the greenskins. All of them had on war paint, and repeatedly carved into their skin simple stick figures with their own teach which they plucked from their great maws.

The last two to enter the scene was a pair of black orcs in ornately decorated armor. On ones left cheek was the Rune of Khaine’s aspect of the Cunning Warrior, the other had the Khaine’s Rune for Brutal Butcher on his Right cheek. Guessing from the way the crowd was screaming and cheering, the youth thought they were the arena’s grand champions.

Tullaris rose to his feet, and took out a large funnel to increase the range and volume in his voice. In the simple orcish language he told them: “De bunch ‘dit bashes evry ‘uns elses skull gets te leave. Ya free if ya win. Yuu jis gaatta kill every ‘un else in de pit, skinny and chaosy too.” He then translated what he said in the Druher, than told the youth don’t let him down.

As expected, the forsaken attacked the trolls, but their regenerative properties made it difficult to kill them. The trolls’ bad aim was not helping either as most of the blows that could harm him missed, and the ones that did strike it barley affected the new monster.

The two biggest brutes split up the “fun” with the one with the ax going at the savages, and the other going towards the Trolls. The primeval orcs attacked the larger orc first, but their stone and bone age tools couldn’t even scratch the behemoth’s green hide, much less dent its armor. With one fell swoop, he decapitated two, and broke another’s neck. Another swoop killed half the survivors. The rest jumped on the behemoth, the thrill of the kill blocking out all thoughts of defeat. As expected, the larger orc simply butchered them all, either by cutting them in two or smashing their skulls in. Either way, the only real fun that was left was the five who kept bickering like senile goblins.

“I gotta pee.”

“Oh shut up. SOOOO, how should we fight dis?” asked one of the five.

“Oh shuuve it you ugly git.”

“Ugly? We were born from the same chief. We’re almost the same orcy.”

“No, I was born from eh bigger, badder ‘une.”

“I gotta pee.”

“No you weren’t”

“I gotta pee.”

“Yes I was you s stupid git.”

“I gotta pee.”

The one being called a stupid, ugly git took his chappa’ and cleaved half the face off of the one that needed to pee.

“You killed ‘em! You killed ‘ur own brotha!”

“Shut up you stupid, ugly git.”

At that moment, the bigger orc started slicing and dicing the smaller greenskins. The last one it picked up, and chomped on it, swallowing it in two gulps. Just as it was finished from fighting this group, it began to choke, coughing up blood. Losing consciousness, it slammed its bulk into the walls, nearly knocking a noble into the pit. It spun around, than crashed to the ground. As the old adage went, his eyes were bigger than his stomach. Too bad for him it had to take a chappa’ getting lodged in his throat to realize that.

His compatriot on the other hand was still breathing, and still heading towards the trolls. The Forsaken had finally fell a troll. Its brethren angered at this prepared to spray their toxic stomach acid at the monstrosity. The mutating warrior’s mind somehow managed to retain some of the knowledge of his former self, especially about trolls, and their nasty habits. On instinct the new monster leaped into the air, allowing the trolls to spray each other. The searing acid was too much even for them, searing their flesh off faster than it could re-grow. Spinning around, the mutant warrior lopped off the five of their heads, killing them instantly, their black blood spewing out of their neck less bodies. One, desperate to live, pushed itself up, almost gasping for air as it reached it searched for its head.

The remaining Troll stomped its foot, and roared violently. As it was prepared to charge, the remaining massive orc impaled it with its kris styled sword. Raising him into the air, it swung the brut into the spiked wall, where a group of Sorceresses released streams of fire to kill it. The last thing the city needed was another one of their houses of entertainment devastated by the unsavory forces.

The forsaken, finally seeing a worthy challenge, lunged at the brute. The force of the creature’s leap was all that was needed to knock the green skin to the ground. With its claws extended, what was left of the warrior of chaos tore its prey’s face to pieces.

As for the Black Orcs, they decided to split the fun up as well. The first one, with his massive, seriated sword, charged at the goblins. As a general rule, Black Orcs HATE GOBLINES. This is because as a general rule goblins have no backbone. This is both figuratively, and once one of these grim, battle hungry brutes gets a hold of one, literally. The other thing Black Orcs hated were ranged weapons as it took the fun out of combat. In the case of the Goblinoids, four of them had bows which they fired at the orcs in vain, while the rest gripped their spears shakily. With one fell swoop, four of them were missing their torso. Another swoop and they were missing their arms. The ones with spears poked him repeatedly, barley tickling the orc. With a great bellow, he spun his sword around at an angle, turning the forest goblins into chum. Had a dwarf been present he would have thought it was a gyrocopter blade at the end of the orc’s arms.

As for the other, he decided to take on the elf child. Ronin quickly grasped a fallen warrior’s sword, deflecting the oncoming blows when possible. Despite being in pain from his wounded foot, Ronin did a good job of dodging.

This was quickly noticed by Tullaris, clapping in approval. With a grim smile, he knew what city he should send the boy. Khaine was with him, his divine protection visible for the crowd to see. Just as the youth’s performance was getting good, the captain of the Executioners had his attention drawn elsewhere.

“My lord,” called out a human slave. From his stance and height, he must have been of the upper crest of his society, at least before his humbling experiences as a slave. “May I introduce the Lord of War, Bane of the Undead, Master of the War Hammer: Harold Hammerstorm.” The slave stepped aside, letting a massive Lord of Chaos through. His armor had a green and brown tint to the otherwise golden plates. The Elf guessed it must have been the grime accumulated from fighting one battle after another. Billowing in the wind was a cloak made from a massive polar bear, while each hand had either a war hammer twice the size of a man’s skull, or a shield half the size of the six foot eight Northman.

“It is good to see you again, Master Tularis.” said the warrior in a friendly, comforting tone.

“Likewise. I was afraid that last campaign of yours against the undead was going to be your last. After all, very few of face the Von Carstines and leave with their lives.”

“Maybe had I been a girly high elf, or one of the lesser kingdoms of man, but I am not. Although he was no pushover, I’ll have to admit that, but I still think you should have taken my offer to come and share the plunder. There was more than enough left over to raise three legions of Dark Elves by the time we were done counting. Or was it four legions? I can never remember the number.”

“Either way, I’m sure you had fun. So, what brings you to warmer parts of the world, Harry?”

“My Father, who had long ago achieved the status of Daemon Prince, had asked me to join him in this conquest of Ulthuan. While helping you bags bones is not my idea of fun, he is my dad, and he doesn’t ask for much. So who’s winning down there?”

“See the elf child?’

Harold pulled out a pair of opera binoculars. The child in question leaped into the air, shoving his blades into in and out of the black orcs chest. With one final blow, the youth finally broke his blade on the orc’s thick skull. The youth jumped back. Landing on his good leg. He took one good look at his broken gauntlet, and then threw it at his foe’s face. Angered at this insult, the black orc lunged at the youth. Ronin simply side stepped out of the way, and slit its throat with his good blade, then lopping his head off with a ax left on the ground.

With everything else preoccupied with killing each other, he chose to risk using his magic. While it was just a simple spell for the mending of bones, male spell casters were greatly feared by dark elves. Anything more powerful then that may get him a bolt between the eyes.

“I see him. He did a good job taking out that Black Orc. Those bastards are tough as nails, and ugly as Nurgle’s backside.”

“Oh yes, the “Great Unclean Ones. I had fought against one long ago. I nearly lost my apatite a few times during that bought.”

“Well, I guess it could be worse. In any case, tell me about the kid.”

“He is a former Asur. You know, a High Elf. He came to us as a captured slave, but is lust for vengeance and his fighting skills had him adopted into our grand civilization. In any case, the youth belongs to us, and is currently under my charge. This is the final test I put my apprentices under. Normally I have a specialized arena he would fight in, but you countrymen became too rowdy and destroyed it when they thought they could raid my city. Fortunately, most of the damage was in the weak blooded noble’s quarter.”

“So, you’ll have him fight none stop against countless foes?”

“Not really. The green skins were simply the intermediary section. They were supposed to fight each other to the death while the youth rested. Now we’ll simply have to have the Chaos Dwarves verses the normal ones, give or take if that damnable shaogoth is ready. It’s just the stripling has been fighting some of the captured rabble-rousers from the attack, and well… apparently one pleased Khorne, and the one ripping the big orc apart down below not so much.”

“So, one was elevated to the noble rank of Daemon Prince, while the other simply couldn’t cut it anymore and is now forsaken by his chosen god. What of the prince?”

“Ronin had thrown him against a spiked wall and then began fighting several of Nurgle’s Chosen warriors. All of a sudden, the Khornite came back to life and began attacking again. Most of the Nurglits attacked him, but were slaughtered none the less. The few that fought Ronin were also killed off. While this was an amazing spectacle, we could not risk the rest of the audience safety with the daemon, and shot it down with enchanted reapers. Despite the barrage, the bastard still had some fight left, or at least until the youth pulled out a scimitar and skewered its brain.

“I see, and the forsaken one?”

“He said ‘You in the red, the ugly one next to you said something bad about your mother.’”

“Great.” Harry buried his head in his gauntlet, shaking it slowly. “Typical Khornites.

“Yeah, to make things better, the last one down there tossed one of his compatriots out of the arena, and into the master lever. After the idiot hit that thing, all the gates opened up.”

“Aw, you and your carefully laid plans. I guess this has proven more entertaining than you’d expected. The last time something like this happened, your guards, and seventeen nobles became half the elves they used to, though a draich does do that to an elf from time to time.”

“Well, yes actually. This has proven more surprising than I would have wished for, but in the end it is working towards my favor. But such things I wish to discuss at a later time. I need your opinion of the youth’s progress.”

“That will depend on him. Look.” Harry pointed to the Forsaken, peeling the skin off the black orc.

“Damn, I was hoping that black Orc would have killed that fool by now, but it looks like he’s doomed.” Tullaris signaled a guard to come closer. “Get a rope ladder in there. We’re taking the boy out now.”

“Yes sir.” The Lordling gave a hand gesture to a couple of compatriots, who hung a rope ladder just to the right of Ronin, then called for him to get over to it. “Should we lay down suppression fire on the…thing sir?”

“No, we might hit the boy and waste almost a year’s worth of training.”

“How thoughtful of you.” said Harold sarcastically.

“Shut up.”

“But wouldn’t it be easier to let the youth enter one of the corridors?”

“The master lever was hit, opening all of the gates, and the spawn of chaos we use to clean up the messes. I doubt Ronin will be able to fight one of those things and still escape the berserker.”

Back in the pit, Ronin bit his lip so he could redirect his pain, then ran towards his one way out. The bones in his feet were mended just enough for him to walk on, but he did not have the time, nor the luxury to cast a powerful enough enchantment to take away the mind numbing pain that shot through his system. Just another ten feet, and he would be on his way to freedom. That is if it wasn’t for the fact his foe was faster. With its massive claw, the mutating warrior pulled the rope, and a Druchii guard with it to the ground. Its good, normal hand began to tremor violently, breaking the iron skin. Instead of a hand came a pair of massive blade like claws, perfect for gutting prey. It tested them on the fallen dark elf, and then glared at Ronin. The youth pulled a throwing knife out from his remaining gauntlet, and tossed it at the monster, hitting it in the eye. Distracted by the pain, Ronin ran towards the spiked wall. The Forsaken used its new claws to pull out the knife. It took only a moment to regain its bearings, but once it did it was off. Ronin wasn’t even five feet from it. Roaring with rage, the berserker leaped into the air landing just breaths from the youth.

On Instinct Ronin rolled out of the way, just in time to miss the massive hand that wanted to slash him to ribbons. In the stripling’s mind there was little difference dodging a draich and this creature’s claws, and his assumption was right. The forsaken warrior had lashed at the youth so hard it limb imbedding its claw into the ground. With it busy trying to free itself, Ronin had the time to heal and find a better weapon.

That came in the form of a double headed battle ax, whose blade was sharp enough to sliced the chaotic monstrosity’s limb off like a knife through butter. Ronin wasted no time finished the beast off, hacking away at it until bits and pieces of it could be found in a bloody diameter around the youth. Even then the beast refused to give up the ghost. With one last strike to the neck, Ronin finally took the poor creature’s head off, with the broken ax blade flying in the opposite direction. With the head hanging barley on a strip of skin, Ronin turned his back and left for higher ground. The metal greaves and footwear, the one gauntlet was strong enough to not be sliced open to the top. The other hand would grip his sword, just in case his foe had some fight left in it.

The protected hand began pulling the youth up, while his other slipped his blade in between the cracks. After about thirty feet, the spikes ended, and it was simply a plain brick wall. Another Rope ladder was handed to Trent, which he took greedily. The four crossbowmen from the arena ledge pulled the ladder in as the Ronin climbed up. Ronin let out a sigh of relief as he was pulled to safety, and away from the carnage below. He did it too early as he felt something tug his feet. Looking down, not only did the youth see the last chaotic minion alive and back in one piece. Gripping the boy’s ankle tightly, the bloodied monstrosity pulled the youth down. Desperate not to fall to his death, Ronin dug his remaining gauntlet blade into the wall. It worked, but the blade was now on the verge of breaking.

Cursing one more time, Ronin kicked the monstrosity off. The forsaken warrior grabbed his leg again, tossing him into the air. Ronin grabbed the side of the arena again, stabbing his sword’s blade into the cracks of the wall. Two corsairs dropped the youth a boarding rope on top of him. Taking the initiative, he climbed up.

As the youth climbed his way to salvation, he took a good look at his saviors. He thanked the Gods for it was the two corsairs that had brought him to the Witch King in the first place. Another one, a fresh faced new ensign, was busy firing a hand bow at Ronin’s tormentor. Just as was about to reach the top, his worn hand slipped. Had it not been for a quick movement of a strong arm he would have plummeted to his death. The stranger pulled him up, and then hit the monstrosity coming after him square in the face with a large war hammer. When the youth caught his breath again, he looked up at the one he owed his life to. It was none other than Harry the Hammerer.

“Poor fellow. He just doesn’t know when to quit.”

“Is that thing still alive?” asked Ronin as he dropped his other gauntlet to the ground. Between the spikes, the wall, and the creature, it was pretty well beaten to scrap.

Down in the pit, the monster on the ground continued to morph, change, and devolve into something far less than human. It didn’t take long before it was truly a misshapen creature of chaos spawned from having more of the vilest energy than the warrior could stand.

Fortunately for it, it would have a brief existence. Reaper crews, crossbowmen, and sorceresses pelted the creature with an almost of bolts and sorceries power, denting armor and severing chunks of flesh. By the time everyone needed to reload, what was once a proud warrior had finally given up the ghost.

Ronin could at last release a sigh of relief without worrying about that thing coming after him. However, he had other problems to worry about. Two guardsmen placed the business end of their blades under Ronin’s chin, and barking commands of surrender.

“I’d let the boy go if I were you!” said Harry, his hammer and shield in hand. Several more guards ran up to the commotion, baring their heavy glaives and great weapons at the Lord of Chaos. “Oh, really, is that how you plan on defeating me? Come on then.

Next to the giant of a man, the corsairs readied their swords and hand bows, declaring in defiance that they would defend the youth. While Harry was impressed, Ronin figured their captain must have been threatening them their fate was his.

In any case, Ronin couldn’t help but have a dagger thin smile spread across his face. “Well, its fun, it truly has, but,” Ronin paused only long enough to remove a pair of black daggers and bury them in a chink in the guards’ armor. With a vital organ pierced, and the guards distracted, Ronin turned around and slit their throats. “I’d rather not die right not.”

“You were caught using magic. Sorcery is banned from warrior, on pains of death.” barked another warrior trying to sound tough. Neither Ronin nor his allies were moved by it.

“Like hell it is.” Tularis only needed one swift strike to send half the guard flying into the crowd. “What I saw was a simple healing spell; something most of our medics know all so well. Had he anymore devastating spells, would that mutant have caused as much mayhem as it did; nor would the stripling need to have escape?”

“But, Captain, the law!”

Tularis only gave the remaining guards a vile look for them to hold their tongues. “He is within thee amount of magical skill allotted to a male. He is no more a risk to the Witch King then a lady bug is. And if you so much as try this stunt again, I am going to feed you to the Chaos Spawn! Am I understood?”

The guards responded as such, and backed off. “Now, take him to the medics, and then lead him to the waiting area. He has one more fight today, and I want him ready for it. Or do I need to let my friend here show why he is affectionately called “Spine Smasher” by all elves?”

This was all the encouragement the guards needed, and lead Ronin out of the bleachers as commanded.
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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Saintofm
Malekith's Best Friend
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Post by Saintofm »

I think it's about time to have another chapter


Chapter Twenty: Thirst for Blood

Summer in the land of chill was a brief period of time, but the welcomed rays of sunlight was a breathtaking experience. It was perfect for a blood bath, one that was going to be filled with the blood of Ronin’s opponents.

The youth was in the middle of the arena, soaking up the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Today they were going to have a treat: The Beast Lord Rackarth had given the arena a captured Dragon Ogre so large it had matured into its adult stage: a Shagoth. It was no easy feat beating it into submission, but this made it all the more savory a treat. The main event was to have the best Dwarf Slayer they had face it in combat. If the dwarf won, he would go free, but if the Shagoth won, he would continue to serve to entertain the Har Gathens until the day it died. In either case, it would be made into the main course of a grand feast. Until then, the Shagoth had to be drugged up to make the fight even, while the dwarf was given time to meditate, and ask his Gods for forgiveness. For right now, Ronin was the opening act and he had a skull to cleave open.

Spinning around, Ronin looped off the head of a Warrior of Tzeetch, which he followed up with stabbing another of the armored behemoth’s in the chest. The mystical and fickle energies of their ruinous patron chose that time to block the blow, allowing the chaos champion to swing his flail at the youth. Ronin, much faster than the warrior of chaos, dropped to the ground just before the spiked balls would have pieced his flesh. The weapon flew over the youth and into the side of another champion’s face. The boy jumped up, kicking his foe to the ground in the process. His elvin senses picked up other opponents behind him readying their weapons. As the youth jumped out of the way, the three warriors slammed their weapons into the warrior on the ground, killing their comrade.

Ronin didn’t waste any time running up to them, hacking and stabbing at the weak spots in remaining mortal followers of the dark gods. Another lopped off head, and two stab wounds in the throats latter, the three were dead, and the crowd was roaring.

Amongst them was Tullaris, applauding the youth. Beside him was the Draich master Kell’Aithian and Tullaris’ new second in command: the Poet of Slaughterer, Geeatus Gibbetose.

The poet was a handsome, well educated elf. Like other Executioners, he perfected his chosen art with each kill, with every victim a canvas to express himself. At the same time he also tried to balance himself out, learning other languages, writing poetry, and creating new decretive handles for the ceremonial Draiches. While other poets talked about giving simple trinkets of gold or flowers to their love, he mesmerized crowds of how he would cover the lass’ house in enthralls and blood.

“What do you think of my charge, lads?” asked the captain. Despite the devastation of his prized killing field, and his nephew away due to the war, he had much to celebrate. He taught the youth well, and what he couldn’t teach the assassin would finish for him. If only the wine came in bigger bottles.

“He has certainly improved. I would love to see how his blade dose against mine. However, resources can be better spent on other important causes of the Witch King.” declared Kell’Aithian. As usual, he wore his golden skull mask, hiding much of his emotion. But to a trained ear like the Poet, one could hear a bit of contempt.

“As Malekith wills it, the youth has been trained by the best of this city, and his training here is coming to a close. Soon his will dictate he will go to another to train.” responded the other, trying to not sound his own contempt, yet ease the younger Executioner’s sore ego. “At least you have a record to break once our Lord takes you under his wing.”

Khell’Aithian turned his head, his gaze boring into the Poet. “And beat it I shall.”

Tullaris signaled one of the city guards to release the next combatants. A half dozen half starved slaves pulled a lever, releasing a group of five Khornite berserkers. Each one wore their blood stained armor with a single braid hanging off their helms, wielding an assortment of bladed weapons. The first one came at the youth in the pit, swinging his sword and ax wildly. Ronin simply stepped aside, letting the frenzied fanatic run into his naked blade, slicing him in two.

“His training is not complete. He’s too nice, even by our weak blooded cousin’s standards. While he has toughened up quite considerably, the life we Executioners can provide will not do. We must send him to another city to train, and soon.” said the Sacred Slaughterer.

He winced as the youth stabbed an unprotected groin, and then lopped the target’s head off. The Youth dodged another blow aimed for him, then got behind his foe. Ronin made sure he was always a step ahead of the turning warrior, denying him a good opportunity to slay him, but also preventing his foe from getting the youth in striking distance. It didn’t take long before the rest of them realized this was going nowhere fast, or at least got tired of all the spinning, and attacked the two of them anyways.

“Where should I send the youth next?” asked Tullaris.

“I hear the Sanctioned Male Sorcerer Furrion is staying at his winter retreat at Ghround for some time complete an experiment he has been working on.” suggested Gibbetose. “He has extensive knowledge of all the known races of the world, and those not seen by the common elf. It might do the boy some good to know their strengths and weaknesses, as well as his own.”

Kell’Aithian glared at the Ronin as he jumped away from an ax strike aimed for him, taking out the bloodied and worn warrior he had his back against. The other one had long been beaten into submission, leaving only one opponent left. Ronin Took his cape off, and shook it angrily. The Khornite stomped his brass clad foot than charged headlong into the youth. Ronin stepped out of the way, revealing the wall of five inch spikes the champion was running into. With the last one only needing a mercy killing, the slaves were ordered to release the next contestants: twelve Chosen Warriors of Nurgle, all of which were covered in thick scales that leaked a green, acidic puss.

“He might do well mounted, why not send him to the Dark Crag and choose a steed? I’ve seen his skills on your dark steed. He has a gift for it. Khaine only knows how much he could probably do better on that then on foot. It might actually make him useful.”

“Watch your tongue Kell, for Khaine is always watching. He is not as forgiving as I.” growled the captain.

“Forgive me my Lord, but I meant no disrespect. While I see much in the youth, I think he would perform our patron little good as he is. On the back of a steed, he may bring about the death and destruction he was destined to do. By how much he needs this, only the gods know, and I only turn to the Lord of Murder for aid.”

“What say you my Lord?” asked the Poet. “What city do you have in mind for the Asur child?”

“I almost thought about letting him go to the port city of Karrond Karr, and study under the beastmasters. He does have a soft spot for stupid animals like humans. Although at this point…” He winced again as a massive club collided with another’s crotch. Despite their reputation, the Nurgleite was not immune to all pain.

Ronin jumped onto one of the other warriors, shifted his wait until the behemoth began spinning around, taking out his own comrades in the process. Two had fallen, while another ripped its now useless arm and used it as a weapon. Ronin slit his throat using a Khornite dagger. With that behemoth down for the count, he then threw the weapon at another foe. Both exalted warriors fell as the acidic blood melting the blade off the handle.

At that moment the last Khornite had returned to life, sprouting wings and growing to twice the behemoth’s original size of six and a half feet. The Newly Christened Damon Prince lunged at the youth, bisecting two of the exalted champions with his daemonic sword. Most of the remaining warriors of Nurgle challenged the prince, knowing they would bring greater glory for their god if they brought him its head. Only two remained on their original opponent, slamming their great weapons into the ground by the youth.

The First recovered, slamming his weapon at the youth’s direction. Nurgle may have given his “children” unimaginable resilience, but he seemed to neglect giving them any sense of the word “speed.” With a short sprint Ronin jumped onto the brute’s shoulders. Sevril’Relik told him the secret of finding a kill point of a Follower of the Lord of Decay: Find the thickest scab on their neck and start hacking away until you get bone. After a minute hacking into the thick neck, the youth was ready for the next step: one strong kick. With a defining crack, his foe would be reborn as a Plague Bearer. The last one patted his weapon in his hand, waiting for the youth to come at him.

“You were waiting until I was ready? How thoughtful.” said Ronin at long last.

“I never liked striking down a man with his back turned to me. I am not going to start with an elf child.”

“Thanks…Look out, behind you!”

“Oh, please! That’s the oldest trick in the book. My looks may have rotted away, but not my mind!” Smack, the Daemon prince crushed the vile warrior with its bear like foot.

“You’re mine, child!” It roared with bestial pleasure.

“Is that before or after the reapers take us out?”

With a confused look, the daemon looked around the arena. While the seats were fifty feet above the arena floor, some creatures, such as a daemon prince, were too dangerous, and often time had to be inhumanly euthanized to ensure public’s safety, namely that of the highborns. In this case, the Champion of Khorne stood right beside the Dread Lords’ seats. For incidents like these, over a dozen reaper bolt throwers, and their barbed four to six foot long payloads, as well as three full regiments of crossbowmen were always at the ready. With a twitch of Tullaris’ fingers, they let loose their armaments. Most bolts passed through the daemon harmlessly, others bounced off his thick hide or reddish gold armor. But some hit home, weakening the monster. With a final bolt thrower shot to the skull, the Daemon was on his knees and claws.

When the last bolt flew, the Ronin leapt from his hiding place amongst the dead, and took this opportunity to finish the monster off. With a daring leap he plunged his yellow scimitar into the daemon’s skull, skewering its brain. Without giving a final glare at the youth, it was gone, and whoever wasn’t killed by stray bolts were cheering the youth.

“Well, that was interesting.” commented Kell’Aithian. “He certainly has good amount of luck about him. While he didn’t technically finish off all of the Nurgle worshipers, I‘d say he still passed this test.”

“We are not done yet, young Draichmaster.” declared the Tullaris. With another wave of his hand, the arena slaves were busy pulling another gate.

When it opened, ten Northern Barbarians, wielding flails and wearing nothing but their horned helms and enough bear skin to cover up their loins, rushed recklessly at the youth.

Ronin dropped his shield, and returned his scimitar. He pulled out a couple of throwing knives, imbedding them into two skulls. This did not deter the berserkers, nor was the stripling afraid. With a smile, Ronin unleashed a weapon he had hidden up until this point. The weapon that had helped him scale the shabby masonry would now allow him to gut a muscle bound marauder as it rushed at him like a rabid dog. Reaching just a little more than a foot past his clench fist, Ronin’s wrist sword was out in the open. Its twin slid out from Ronin’s other gauntlet, its razor edge strong enough to punch through any of the northmen.

The next to fall was a muscle bound brute with a chaos corrupted wolf skin cloak, the head of the animal worn as an intimidating hood. Ronin sliced his belly open with the right gauntlet, which was followed by the left skewering another marauder in the heart. Using his momentum the youth slid between two more, his outstretched blades exposing their innards to the blood thirsty crowd in the process. In their shock, the two quickly spun around to get a better look at the youth, accidentally waking the other’s heads with each other’s flails. Another tried his luck at the youth, only to get his neck snapped with an armored boot to the head.

They were too slow. Ronin knew this as he easily dodged one’s fatal blow to the ground. To keep the crowed entertained, the youth cut every tendon and artery Sevril’Relik had shown him on the average being’s body. Within a few short moments, blood sprayed from every conceivable angle on the barbarian. By the time he hit the ground, he was already dead. The last two, wanting to bring glory to their god, but not wanting to die ingloriously for that cause, ran to the side of the wall, and began climbing. The rumors were true, the mountainous regions these people were accustomed to climbing slick mountains, even without a place to grasp. Two guard masters saw this, and took a single shot at the two warriors. Their helms were not thick enough to stop the armor piecing repeater crossbows.

By the time the two marauders were on the ground, the next opponents were already out on the field: six warriors of chaos, undivided in their worship of the four ruinous powers. Each one banged a weapon of choice on their shields: A morning star, a hand ax, a spiked club, a spiked gauntlet, a war hammer, and the leader wielding a sword. Ronin taunted them forward. Like he expected, they charged. It was time for the stripling to retract his blades, and bring out his scimitar. He leapt into the air at them. As he spun around, he loped the first foe’s head in half at a forty degree angle. Using his momentum, he spun around the next one’s head until he twisted it around three times. By then, he had flown into his next foe, stabbing him in the face.

Between these brutes and his previous matches, his sword had now officially lost its edge. It was a blunt instrument, and Ronin lacked the time and the tools to alleviate that problem. Worse still was he was beginning to feel the wear and tear his own body was going though. In all his life, with all the fights he had ever been in, not once had he had to perform at this intensity, this level of punishment to his body. He was so worn out he didn’t notice a clunking metal behemoth grab him from behind. The Leader licked his blade, than shoved it at Ronin. A red spray covered them, but not from its intended source. A red swirl of Crimson blocked the sword from entering the youth, pushing the blade back. When it subsided, Ronin felt an unnatural aura come over him, giving him new strength. With this new found energy, be broke free from his captor, slicing off his arms and legs at the joint, finishing him off by stabbing him in the face. All that was left to kill was the one with the ax and the one with the sword.

The one with the sword would go first. Using his all his might, Ronin sped towards his foe, and buried his sword in his unprotected face. With one less for, it was time to deal with the one with the ax. With a deathly frenzy, he charged, hacking at the air in front of the youth. Ronin simply dodged it, keeping his distance until the time was right. He kicked the swordsmen’s blade into the air and shoved it into the remaining warrior, taking him down in one blow.

Ronin collapsed onto the ground, trying desperately to catch his breath. He didn’t think he could continue fighting like this, so hoped an intermission would occur soon. Until then he had eight Exulted Champions of Khorn to face, all wilding an assortment of weapons. Just as he was about to give up hope, an idea came to him. “Hay you, you in the red armor!” As this described all of them, they quickly tried to figure out who he was talking about. “The ugly one next to you said something bad about your mother.”

Confused still, they asked each other what the elf child was talking about. As with most followers of the Blood God, this eventually turned into a heated argument about who thought who was an idiot, or who accused the other of lying. Within a few more moments the crowed started laughing as the Khornites started slaughtering each other, save one.

“Very clever elf child,” said one holding a massive double headed battle ax. “You used our own blood lust against us. Well, I guess the Blood God gets another smart one’s skull added to Skull Mount. He swung his weapon over his head, trying to lop his foe in half. Ronin Dodged, and tossed a fallen foe’s ax at the warrior. A field of chaotic energies blocked it. Like with Ronin, it appeared that his war god would not allow him to die in a cowardly manner.

“Ah, mammoth oodoob.” Ronin barley dodged the strike from the enemy general. Now on the ground, the behemoth tried to stomp on the youth, missing each time. Each time the champion crashed his foot in the ground, the youth could be heard using every cursing used by the Executioners. Out of instinct he maneuvered his legs so he could kick the massive warrior to the ground. The youth kicked what he thought was an open wound on the warrior’s leg. When he hit, the youth sprained his ankle, the Chaos lackey’s skin as hard as iron. As for the Northman, he fell to the ground, moaning and groaning. Taking this opportunity, the youth pulled the fallen swordsmen’s weapon out of his last victim, and lopped off the Khornite’s head. Just when he thought it was over, his hopes were shattered again. In the midst of the brawl at the other end of the arena, one of the champions had just received another blessing from his ruinous patron, and the cursing it would bestow upon him.

They say with each worthy kill, the Ruinous Gods of Chaos grant a gift or attribute to the victor. Sometimes it is increased strength, stamina, or resilience; grant the victor with bestial claws or rock hard scales; the ability to command daemons, or whatever else these fickle beings decide to give. After anywhere from a few centuries to a few millennia the warrior will accumulate number of these gifts, changing him to much more then the man he began as. Sometimes this means forgoing their mortal shackles and being transformed into a daemon prince, able to command all forces of the ruinous powers. Yet most only go through a more sinister transformation.

In the latter case, the chaotic powers begin to overwhelm the champion, causing him to mutate into something unsavory, and to the Northman, an unfortunate beast. They become the mindless Spawn of Chaos, neither whole nor able to retain their mortal being anymore. In the end, they are destined to die from either their own overdose of their warped masters or in mortal combat. Until that happens, they simply become a battle hardened berserker, simply seeking battle. Not for glory, and definitely not for survival but simply because they cannot do anything else and know it.

The newly forsaken warrior’s left arm grew three times in size, cracking and popping off chunks of the armor that had been welded on its hide so many years ago. The hand continued to grow in size until it was capable of grabbing the remaining warrior, crushing his foe. He tossed the newly crippled warrior behind him, nearly hitting all of the levers to the gates. Several spike like hairs sprouted from its back until he resembled a Chaos induced porcupine from any of the Hells.

The groaning warrior he tossed grasped one of the gate levers, trying to pull himself up. He fell down, pulling the master lever with him. As he tried to get up again, a guardsman with an enchanted glaive shoved his weapon in his back. To ensure he stayed down, he twisted it around until he heard its spine snap.

Meanwhile the next set of opponents entered the ring. The first to come out were two massive orcs who were about a foot taller and three feet broader than the average ogre. Each of them carried a large sword or battle ax. Behind the Forsaken, a group of seven forest trolls shuffled out, yawning and burping. Near the youth, a dozen forest goblins armed with bows and spears timidly marched out. Directly behind the youth were a group of bickering orcs. Each one held their standard weapon: the crude Chappa’. Although it was nothing more than a simple cleaver, and as in most orc weapons, looked like they could use a month’s worth of sharpening, in their brutish hands they could dismember even the toughest opponents on the charge.

Beside the two green behemoths was a group of eight orcs who seemed primitive even by the crude standards of the greenskins. All of them had on war paint, and repeatedly carved into their skin simple stick figures with their own teach which they plucked from their great maws.

The last two to enter the scene was a pair of black orcs in ornately decorated armor. On ones left cheek was the Rune of Khaine’s aspect of the Cunning Warrior, the other had the Khaine’s Rune for Brutal Butcher on his Right cheek. Guessing from the way the crowd was screaming and cheering, the youth thought they were the arena’s grand champions.

Tullaris rose to his feet, and took out a large funnel to increase the range and volume in his voice. In the simple orcish language he told them: “De bunch ‘dit bashes evry ‘uns elses skull gets te leave. Ya free if ya win. Yuu jis gaatta kill every ‘un else in de pit, skinny and chaosy too.” He then translated what he said in the Druher, than told the youth don’t let him down.

As expected, the forsaken attacked the trolls, but their regenerative properties made it difficult to kill them. The trolls’ bad aim was not helping either as most of the blows that could harm him missed, and the ones that did strike it barley affected the new monster.

The two biggest brutes split up the “fun” with the one with the ax going at the savages, and the other going towards the Trolls. The primeval orcs attacked the larger orc first, but their stone and bone age tools couldn’t even scratch the behemoth’s green hide, much less dent its armor. With one fell swoop, he decapitated two, and broke another’s neck. Another swoop killed half the survivors. The rest jumped on the behemoth, the thrill of the kill blocking out all thoughts of defeat. As expected, the larger orc simply butchered them all, either by cutting them in two or smashing their skulls in. Either way, the only real fun that was left was the five who kept bickering like senile goblins.

“I gotta pee.”

“Oh shut up. SOOOO, how should we fight dis?” asked one of the five.

“Oh shuuve it you ugly git.”

“Ugly? We were born from the same chief. We’re almost the same orcy.”

“No, I was born from eh bigger, badder ‘une.”

“I gotta pee.”

“No you weren’t”

“I gotta pee.”

“Yes I was you s stupid git.”

“I gotta pee.”

The one being called a stupid, ugly git took his chappa’ and cleaved half the face off of the one that needed to pee.

“You killed ‘em! You killed ‘ur own brotha!”

“Shut up you stupid, ugly git.”

At that moment, the bigger orc started slicing and dicing the smaller greenskins. The last one it picked up, and chomped on it, swallowing it in two gulps. Just as it was finished from fighting this group, it began to choke, coughing up blood. Losing consciousness, it slammed its bulk into the walls, nearly knocking a noble into the pit. It spun around, than crashed to the ground. As the old adage went, his eyes were bigger than his stomach. Too bad for him it had to take a chappa’ getting lodged in his throat to realize that.

His compatriot on the other hand was still breathing, and still heading towards the trolls. The Forsaken had finally fell a troll. Its brethren angered at this prepared to spray their toxic stomach acid at the monstrosity. The mutating warrior’s mind somehow managed to retain some of the knowledge of his former self, especially about trolls, and their nasty habits. On instinct the new monster leaped into the air, allowing the trolls to spray each other. The searing acid was too much even for them, searing their flesh off faster than it could re-grow. Spinning around, the mutant warrior lopped off the five of their heads, killing them instantly, their black blood spewing out of their neck less bodies. One, desperate to live, pushed itself up, almost gasping for air as it reached it searched for its head.

The remaining Troll stomped its foot, and roared violently. As it was prepared to charge, the remaining massive orc impaled it with its kris styled sword. Raising him into the air, it swung the brut into the spiked wall, where a group of Sorceresses released streams of fire to kill it. The last thing the city needed was another one of their houses of entertainment devastated by the unsavory forces.

The forsaken, finally seeing a worthy challenge, lunged at the brute. The force of the creature’s leap was all that was needed to knock the green skin to the ground. With its claws extended, what was left of the warrior of chaos tore its prey’s face to pieces.

As for the Black Orcs, they decided to split the fun up as well. The first one, with his massive, seriated sword, charged at the goblins. As a general rule, Black Orcs HATE GOBLINES. This is because as a general rule goblins have no backbone. This is both figuratively, and once one of these grim, battle hungry brutes gets a hold of one, literally. The other thing Black Orcs hated were ranged weapons as it took the fun out of combat. In the case of the Goblinoids, four of them had bows which they fired at the orcs in vain, while the rest gripped their spears shakily. With one fell swoop, four of them were missing their torso. Another swoop and they were missing their arms. The ones with spears poked him repeatedly, barley tickling the orc. With a great bellow, he spun his sword around at an angle, turning the forest goblins into chum. Had a dwarf been present he would have thought it was a gyrocopter blade at the end of the orc’s arms.

As for the other, he decided to take on the elf child. Ronin quickly grasped a fallen warrior’s sword, deflecting the oncoming blows when possible. Despite being in pain from his wounded foot, Ronin did a good job of dodging.

This was quickly noticed by Tullaris, clapping in approval. With a grim smile, he knew what city he should send the boy. Khaine was with him, his divine protection visible for the crowd to see. Just as the youth’s performance was getting good, the captain of the Executioners had his attention drawn elsewhere.

“My lord,” called out a human slave. From his stance and height, he must have been of the upper crest of his society, at least before his humbling experiences as a slave. “May I introduce the Lord of War, Bane of the Undead, Master of the War Hammer: Harold Hammerstorm.” The slave stepped aside, letting a massive Lord of Chaos through. His armor had a green and brown tint to the otherwise golden plates. The Elf guessed it must have been the grime accumulated from fighting one battle after another. Billowing in the wind was a cloak made from a massive polar bear, while each hand had either a war hammer twice the size of a man’s skull, or a shield half the size of the six foot eight Northman.

“It is good to see you again, Master Tularis.” said the warrior in a friendly, comforting tone.

“Likewise. I was afraid that last campaign of yours against the undead was going to be your last. After all, very few of face the Von Carstines and leave with their lives.”

“Maybe had I been a girly high elf, or one of the lesser kingdoms of man, but I am not. Although he was no pushover, I’ll have to admit that, but I still think you should have taken my offer to come and share the plunder. There was more than enough left over to raise three legions of Dark Elves by the time we were done counting. Or was it four legions? I can never remember the number.”

“Either way, I’m sure you had fun. So, what brings you to warmer parts of the world, Harry?”

“My Father, who had long ago achieved the status of Daemon Prince, had asked me to join him in this conquest of Ulthuan. While helping you bags bones is not my idea of fun, he is my dad, and he doesn’t ask for much. So who’s winning down there?”

“See the elf child?’

Harold pulled out a pair of opera binoculars. The child in question leaped into the air, shoving his blades into in and out of the black orcs chest. With one final blow, the youth finally broke his blade on the orc’s thick skull. The youth jumped back. Landing on his good leg. He took one good look at his broken gauntlet, and then threw it at his foe’s face. Angered at this insult, the black orc lunged at the youth. Ronin simply side stepped out of the way, and slit its throat with his good blade, then lopping his head off with a ax left on the ground.

With everything else preoccupied with killing each other, he chose to risk using his magic. While it was just a simple spell for the mending of bones, male spell casters were greatly feared by dark elves. Anything more powerful then that may get him a bolt between the eyes.

“I see him. He did a good job taking out that Black Orc. Those bastards are tough as nails, and ugly as Nurgle’s backside.”

“Oh yes, the “Great Unclean Ones. I had fought against one long ago. I nearly lost my apatite a few times during that bought.”

“Well, I guess it could be worse. In any case, tell me about the kid.”

“He is a former Asur. You know, a High Elf. He came to us as a captured slave, but is lust for vengeance and his fighting skills had him adopted into our grand civilization. In any case, the youth belongs to us, and is currently under my charge. This is the final test I put my apprentices under. Normally I have a specialized arena he would fight in, but you countrymen became too rowdy and destroyed it when they thought they could raid my city. Fortunately, most of the damage was in the weak blooded noble’s quarter.”

“So, you’ll have him fight none stop against countless foes?”

“Not really. The green skins were simply the intermediary section. They were supposed to fight each other to the death while the youth rested. Now we’ll simply have to have the Chaos Dwarves verses the normal ones, give or take if that damnable shaogoth is ready. It’s just the stripling has been fighting some of the captured rabble-rousers from the attack, and well… apparently one pleased Khorne, and the one ripping the big orc apart down below not so much.”

“So, one was elevated to the noble rank of Daemon Prince, while the other simply couldn’t cut it anymore and is now forsaken by his chosen god. What of the prince?”

“Ronin had thrown him against a spiked wall and then began fighting several of Nurgle’s Chosen warriors. All of a sudden, the Khornite came back to life and began attacking again. Most of the Nurglits attacked him, but were slaughtered none the less. The few that fought Ronin were also killed off. While this was an amazing spectacle, we could not risk the rest of the audience safety with the daemon, and shot it down with enchanted reapers. Despite the barrage, the bastard still had some fight left, or at least until the youth pulled out a scimitar and skewered its brain.

“I see, and the forsaken one?”

“He said ‘You in the red, the ugly one next to you said something bad about your mother.’”

“Great.” Harry buried his head in his gauntlet, shaking it slowly. “Typical Khornites.

“Yeah, to make things better, the last one down there tossed one of his compatriots out of the arena, and into the master lever. After the idiot hit that thing, all the gates opened up.”

“Aw, you and your carefully laid plans. I guess this has proven more entertaining than you’d expected. The last time something like this happened, your guards, and seventeen nobles became half the elves they used to, though a draich does do that to an elf from time to time.”

“Well, yes actually. This has proven more surprising than I would have wished for, but in the end it is working towards my favor. But such things I wish to discuss at a later time. I need your opinion of the youth’s progress.”

“That will depend on him. Look.” Harry pointed to the Forsaken, peeling the skin off the black orc.

“Damn, I was hoping that black Orc would have killed that fool by now, but it looks like he’s doomed.” Tullaris signaled a guard to come closer. “Get a rope ladder in there. We’re taking the boy out now.”

“Yes sir.” The Lordling gave a hand gesture to a couple of compatriots, who hung a rope ladder just to the right of Ronin, then called for him to get over to it. “Should we lay down suppression fire on the…thing sir?”

“No, we might hit the boy and waste almost a year’s worth of training.”

“How thoughtful of you.” said Harold sarcastically.

“Shut up.”

“But wouldn’t it be easier to let the youth enter one of the corridors?”

“The master lever was hit, opening all of the gates, and the spawn of chaos we use to clean up the messes. I doubt Ronin will be able to fight one of those things and still escape the berserker.”

Back in the pit, Ronin bit his lip so he could redirect his pain, then ran towards his one way out. The bones in his feet were mended just enough for him to walk on, but he did not have the time, nor the luxury to cast a powerful enough enchantment to take away the mind numbing pain that shot through his system. Just another ten feet, and he would be on his way to freedom. That is if it wasn’t for the fact his foe was faster. With its massive claw, the mutating warrior pulled the rope, and a Druchii guard with it to the ground. Its good, normal hand began to tremor violently, breaking the iron skin. Instead of a hand came a pair of massive blade like claws, perfect for gutting prey. It tested them on the fallen dark elf, and then glared at Ronin. The youth pulled a throwing knife out from his remaining gauntlet, and tossed it at the monster, hitting it in the eye. Distracted by the pain, Ronin ran towards the spiked wall. The Forsaken used its new claws to pull out the knife. It took only a moment to regain its bearings, but once it did it was off. Ronin wasn’t even five feet from it. Roaring with rage, the berserker leaped into the air landing just breaths from the youth.

On Instinct Ronin rolled out of the way, just in time to miss the massive hand that wanted to slash him to ribbons. In the stripling’s mind there was little difference dodging a draich and this creature’s claws, and his assumption was right. The forsaken warrior had lashed at the youth so hard it limb imbedding its claw into the ground. With it busy trying to free itself, Ronin had the time to heal and find a better weapon.

That came in the form of a double headed battle ax, whose blade was sharp enough to sliced the chaotic monstrosity’s limb off like a knife through butter. Ronin wasted no time finished the beast off, hacking away at it until bits and pieces of it could be found in a bloody diameter around the youth. Even then the beast refused to give up the ghost. With one last strike to the neck, Ronin finally took the poor creature’s head off, with the broken ax blade flying in the opposite direction. With the head hanging barley on a strip of skin, Ronin turned his back and left for higher ground. The metal greaves and footwear, the one gauntlet was strong enough to not be sliced open to the top. The other hand would grip his sword, just in case his foe had some fight left in it.

The protected hand began pulling the youth up, while his other slipped his blade in between the cracks. After about thirty feet, the spikes ended, and it was simply a plain brick wall. Another Rope ladder was handed to Trent, which he took greedily. The four crossbowmen from the arena ledge pulled the ladder in as the Ronin climbed up. Ronin let out a sigh of relief as he was pulled to safety, and away from the carnage below. He did it too early as he felt something tug his feet. Looking down, not only did the youth see the last chaotic minion alive and back in one piece. Gripping the boy’s ankle tightly, the bloodied monstrosity pulled the youth down. Desperate not to fall to his death, Ronin dug his remaining gauntlet blade into the wall. It worked, but the blade was now on the verge of breaking.

Cursing one more time, Ronin kicked the monstrosity off. The forsaken warrior grabbed his leg again, tossing him into the air. Ronin grabbed the side of the arena again, stabbing his sword’s blade into the cracks of the wall. Two corsairs dropped the youth a boarding rope on top of him. Taking the initiative, he climbed up.

As the youth climbed his way to salvation, he took a good look at his saviors. He thanked the Gods for it was the two corsairs that had brought him to the Witch King in the first place. Another one, a fresh faced new ensign, was busy firing a hand bow at Ronin’s tormentor. Just as was about to reach the top, his worn hand slipped. Had it not been for a quick movement of a strong arm he would have plummeted to his death. The stranger pulled him up, and then hit the monstrosity coming after him square in the face with a large war hammer. When the youth caught his breath again, he looked up at the one he owed his life to. It was none other than Harry the Hammerer.

“Poor fellow. He just doesn’t know when to quit.”

“Is that thing still alive?” asked Ronin as he dropped his other gauntlet to the ground. Between the spikes, the wall, and the creature, it was pretty well beaten to scrap.

Down in the pit, the monster on the ground continued to morph, change, and devolve into something far less than human. It didn’t take long before it was truly a misshapen creature of chaos spawned from having more of the vilest energy than the warrior could stand.

Fortunately for it, it would have a brief existence. Reaper crews, crossbowmen, and sorceresses pelted the creature with an almost of bolts and sorceries power, denting armor and severing chunks of flesh. By the time everyone needed to reload, what was once a proud warrior had finally given up the ghost.

Ronin could at last release a sigh of relief without worrying about that thing coming after him. However, he had other problems to worry about. Two guardsmen placed the business end of their blades under Ronin’s chin, and barking commands of surrender.

“I’d let the boy go if I were you!” said Harry, his hammer and shield in hand. Several more guards ran up to the commotion, baring their heavy glaives and great weapons at the Lord of Chaos. “Oh, really, is that how you plan on defeating me? Come on then.

Next to the giant of a man, the corsairs readied their swords and hand bows, declaring in defiance that they would defend the youth. While Harry was impressed, Ronin figured their captain must have been threatening them their fate was his.

In any case, Ronin couldn’t help but have a dagger thin smile spread across his face. “Well, its fun, it truly has, but,” Ronin paused only long enough to remove a pair of black daggers and bury them in a chink in the guards’ armor. With a vital organ pierced, and the guards distracted, Ronin turned around and slit their throats. “I’d rather not die right not.”

“You were caught using magic. Sorcery is banned from warrior, on pains of death.” barked another warrior trying to sound tough. Neither Ronin nor his allies were moved by it.

“Like hell it is.” Tularis only needed one swift strike to send half the guard flying into the crowd. “What I saw was a simple healing spell; something most of our medics know all so well. Had he anymore devastating spells, would that mutant have caused as much mayhem as it did; nor would the stripling need to have escape?”

“But, Captain, the law!”

Tularis only gave the remaining guards a vile look for them to hold their tongues. “He is within thee amount of magical skill allotted to a male. He is no more a risk to the Witch King then a lady bug is. And if you so much as try this stunt again, I am going to feed you to the Chaos Spawn! Am I understood?”

The guards responded as such, and backed off. “Now, take him to the medics, and then lead him to the waiting area. He has one more fight today, and I want him ready for it. Or do I need to let my friend here show why he is affectionately called “Spine Smasher” by all elves?”

This was all the encouragement the guards needed, and lead Ronin out of the bleachers as commanded.
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Saintofm
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Post by Saintofm »

Ok, time for another chapter.

Honor and Rage

“Lord, Malekith!” yelled a Harold, bursting thought the brass doors of the black court. “I have word on the Asur youth sent to the Great Death King, Tullaris. He marched forward, disregarding the nobles and their playthings until he was a hundred sword passes away from his lord and king.

“Well, go on with it. What is it?” demanded the Witch King as he summoned two lobotomized sorceresses to buff his armor.

“The boy known as ‘Ronin’ has completed nearly all of the ordeals of Tullaris’ Gauntlet, and is finishing off what little remains of his testing.”

“How in the world is he doing this? Those mongrels destroyed it months ago!”

“The Great Lord Tularis has had an assassin named Sevril’Relik train the youth. During the Night of the Chaos Moon, he took the boy around the city, fighting untold horrors of the ruinous powers. In one instant, he not only survived a Bloodthirster, but forced it to slam its ax against its own skull. For surviving the night, he is to wed The Magnificent Slaughterer’s daughter. By the time he reached Har Ganeth’s front gate, he had already accomplished the equivalent of all but a few of the Gauntlet’s perils.

“Now he fights in the Grand arena, preparing to fight who ever the lords wish him to slaughter. How he is faring, I know not, for they sent me the moment he was announced to fight in it. However, considering all of the rumors flying about the youth, I think he could take on a whole army and live.”

“I see.” The Witch King, stroked his chin with his iron hand, hiding an amused smile. He beckoned the Harold to come another ten sword lengths forward. “Tell me more.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

It had been eight hours since Ronin had last fought the chaos warriors and barbaric green skins. For the last five hours, Ronin barley slept, waking at the first little change in the environment. Not that much changed in that moist, musty dungeon below the arena. He shifted positions, trying to forget the morning.

His little stunt nearly coasted him his life. Male elves are banned from becoming wizards. Those who do become sanctioned are restricted to simply healing spells and small enchantments, if that. Because of the mistrust of and the restrictions on male sorcerers, most are killed them on sight. Although there were occasions where they are used so one dose not earn the ire of the Covenants of Sorceresses. Still, had it not been for Tullaris’ threats of violence, Ronin most likely would have had an entire city of killers come after him.

At least for now, he was safe, if one could use that term. He was still in a cell and most of the guards were not in his favor, and his neighbors were not too fond of elves to beguine with. The only consolation was all parties gave the youth a wide berth after he broke the neck of the strongest berserker in the arena as it tried to turn the stripling into a smear on the wall. Fortunately for Ronin, the other gladiators were taken out to appease the crowds, with none staying save he.

That was four hours ago, and the healers of the arena did their job well enough for the stippling to move around without handicap. If only the current combatants could quite it down, and the excited crowd. Ronin wasn’t too far from the arena’s pit, and the noise vibrated down the stone prison he was in. Ronin thought hard on who was fighting no, and recalled something on the lines of the two factions of dwarves were waging battle, butchering their much hated kin. This was to be followed by a chaos spawn feeding on the gore, then followed by a few pleasure slaves dancing for the crowd’s pleasure. Soon it would be his time to fight; soon it would be his time to kill.

That time was now. Three guards marched down the steps leading to the youth’s cell. The leader opened up his bared door, and tossed a sheathed sword at the youth’s feet. “It is time.”

“So it is.”

Ronin was the first to the field. Behind him a small regiment of Wood Elf Eternal Guard, with their traditional double bladed spears in hand. To his left, five bowmen slunk to the middle of the field like green wraiths. They setup a defensive stance around Ronin, just in case there were a few surprises. To the right, a dozen more bowmen ran towards the center. The last to accompany him was a regiment of War Dancers, each wielding variety of weapons.

“Asri? I thought I was fighting beastmen.” said the youth. He wished he could have said it in their language, but Wood Elves never speak it to outsiders. So, he opted for a language they probably still new, that of his nativity: Tar-Eltharin. He hoped the heavy Cothique accent didn’t confuse them. Unlike the Dark Elves, they probably had no dealings with it.

“As did we, young one.” said the leader. From that elf’s minimalistic attire the youth figured he was a Way Watcher, the elite guardians for their forest home, and by the tenor of his voice Ronin figured the face behind the black scarf was that of a woman. Actually, there were only a few males amongst this group, namely Ronin and a few of the spearmen.

Tullaris rose to his feet, his megaphone brought to his face again. “Dread Lords and commoners, I am pleased to bring you a reenactment of a battle our strange kin stuck in the old world face every day. Every day, their precious forest is assailed by the Children of the Ruinous Powers, seeking to destroy their world. As they are dire enemies of our strange kin, we shall have them face the chaos miscreants. If they succeed, then they will have earned their freedom!” While the crowed murmured, Ronin translated.

The lead Way Watcher scoffed at this. “Freedom to you Druchii simply means a hundred meter head start before the barbarians decide to chase us down with
their dark riders.”

“Better then death I suppose. And I thought you Way Watchers were the best ambushers in the world?”

Before she could respond, the opposite side released its opponents. The first to come out were was a chariot pulled by two mutant boars, with a single charioteer riding the scythed vehicle. Behind it two dozen gores and ungores skittered across the field of battle. On either side of them a dozen gores in heavy armor and wielding heavy axes, and a dozen more who decorated themselves with fine jewelry and blue war paint made their march like organized fighters. More of the tribal leaders ran out of the open gates, each with various weapons and marks of Chaos. The last to leave was a brown Minotaur with a massive meat cleaver.

The Bowmen let loose their barrage of fire, killing a dozen of the lesser warriors, and at least one of the tribal leaders. Ronin looked at the Way Watchers, than charged the enemy. The lead Way Watcher followed him. With a burst of strength, Ronin leaped into the air, slashing the charioteer’s head off in the process. The moment he landed, he took control of the reigns, turning the vehicle around. The leader of the Wood Elves jumped aboard, shooting any fool that came too close. Within minutes much of the lesser gores and ungores were slaughtered.

The Eternal Guard took on the gores with great axes. Despite the militaristic training they had received, the Wood Elves were better still, slaughtering them all. The rest of the tribesmen were butchered by the war dancers and bowmen. The next to attack was the Minotaur. Romnin forced the two boars pulling the chariot to charge full speed at the behemoth, hoping to run it over. It was unfazed by the show of force, grasping both beasts with its hands. The sudden stop caused both elves to fly out of the chariot. Ronin landed on the foes head, barley missing its mighty horns. The Way Watcher landed over by the jewel encrusted gors. The Minotaur crushed the boars’ bodies, than attempted to kill the youth. It was all in vein. Ronin was too fast, and had plenty of experience hanging for dear life on a horned servant of the dark gods. With his broad sword still in hand, he shoved the weapon into the beast’s skull. With a mighty roar it was no more. Ronin pulled his weapon free than ran towards the remaining gores.

The monstrosities, singing praises to Slannesh, had forced the she elf onto the ground. With one holding her legs, and another grappling her arms, they were going to show their god their gratitude. Before the first one could remove its belt, Ronin flung his blade at them, impaling one of the besastmen to the wall. Its compatriots glared at the boy.

“Well, well boys,” growled their leader. “We must make a sacrifice before we make our dedication to the Dark Mistress.” They gave a bestial cackle as their champion rushed to kill the youth.

Ronin simply grasped his scimitar blade at the base of his neck. Within a split second, the champion’s torso was just hanging onto its body with a strip of flesh. Ronin flicked the blood off his blade at them, challenging them. With another of their ilk slain before their eyes, they lunged at the boy.

Pulling out his shield, and with the strength of Khaine running though him, Ronin decapitated, disemboweled, and the Har Ganthen version of “disarming” his enemies. It wasn’t even a challenge. The last two seemed to understand this. They rushed back to the woman, preparing to get at least one kill in before they died. To the one prepared to cut her in half, Ronin tossed his sword, impaling it in the heart. The she elf pulled out her blade and lopped the remaining beastman’s arms and head off.

Ronin helped the woman to her feet. Then an idea came to him. “Want to do me a favor?” The woman slapped the youth in the face. “Not that kind of favor.”

Back in the bleachers, Tullaris thought about how to deal with the wood elves. Their freedom had been granted, but there was no way he could take them back to their homeland, nor risk them living in the forests. Then an arrow flew past his face, with a note with Ronin’s hand writing on it. He ripped the parchment off, and got his idea.

Tullaris, the Sacred Slaughterer. I know you are probably going to let these elves be hunted down, however I think it would be wise if you let them have their weapons. Not only would it give them a sporting chance, but it would truly test the skills of your best trackers as they would most certainly find themselves fighting similar quarry in our ancestral home. That and you can just send the village idiots after them so you will not have to worry about them causing you much headaches in the battles to come.

The Sacred Slaughterer rose to his feet, and brought the Megaphone to his lips. “They shall go free as promised. Free to traverse our cold, unforgiving land; free to explore all the dangers within; free to see our best trackers and hunters in action.” The crowd cheered at the thought of the winners being hunted like animals. “But to truly test our best dark riders’ skills, we must use caution, and more importantly, we must see how they will do against an armed foe. The Asri will keep their weapons, only to test the mettle of our finest.

A dozen guards lead the wood elves out to their freedom. The Woman that had
fought alongside Ronin turned her head to have one last look at the stripling. He in return gave her a salute that only the highest officer receives.

However, the Captain of the Executioners was not done with the youth yet. “Now, let us see what my charge can do against some real combat monsters! Release the denizens of the Mountains of Mourn!” The first gate behind Ronin opened. A group of a half dozen big nosed goblinoids came rushing out. Ronin Sheathed his scimitar then yanked his other sword free from the wall. Undaunted by his diminutive foes, he lunged at them, lopping four of their heads off in one swipe, then the last two in another.

The next gate opened up, releasing three hungry ogre bulls out. Smashing their large clubs against their gut plates, they bellowed insults and unlogged pieces of slaves at the boy. Like the others, Ronin showed no fear, hacking a club arm off of one, then the top of the skull of another. The one with the lopped off arm used his fallen limb as a weapon, swinging it at the youth. His bad aim forced him to hit the other ogre in the face. Angered by this, the other bull swung his club so hard what little brains the other had was now covering the walls. With his foe distracted, Ronin grabbed a beast mans spear, and chucked it at the behemoth’s butt. With the point now across, the brute gave another threatening bellow at the youth. Smiling, Ronin tossed another spear at the ogre’s open mouth, skewering his brain.

The Next gate flung open. Wearing the hides of every conceivable race in the world, the next ogre was large and in charge. The Brute pulled out a couple of modified rifles it used as pistols, and began firing at the youth. Ronin dodged the hail of fire, again, and again. Each time the ogre fired one of the black powdered weapons he’d drop them, and then pick up a new set to shoot. It didn’t take long before the ogre had a good sized pile of the rifles at his feet.

Picking up the pace, Ronin grabbed a couple of spears and flung them at the brute. Between its hard skin and harder armor, they didn’t go through. Ronin picked up a couple of more, tossing it at the brute’s head. He made it, taking out an eye. Picking up another spear, Ronin dodged the pot shots as the behemoth covered its bad eye up. Ronin chucked another spear, sending it strait though the throat. With his last weapon, he ended the ogre’s suffering, jamming it through the creature’s armpit, and into its heart. Scavenging the body, the youth picked up a couple of the hand guns. They were crude, and unfit for average hands, but they would have to do.

The next foe was going to need something like this to take it down. The brute looked thinner then the last bunch, practically famished. Its skin was so pale, the thin light of the late afternoon sun were causing its skin to blister. It wore nothing save for a dirty purple loincloth, and a pair of soiled bandages keeping a pair of weapons made of bone strapped to his wrists. It reminded Ronin of the creature that Tularis slew on the stripling’s first day of training.

The beast sniffed the air a few times, searching for action, searching for blood. Its beady black eyes glared at the stripling for a moment, then looked around in a daze. Sniffing the fair, it gorged itself on the fallen beast men. The wind began blowing through the arena, striking the battle pit below.

The Creature sniffed the air again, detecting a new scent. With a low growl, it ran towards fresh meet. Ronin took a shot, wounding in the shoulder. Ronin grabbed another weapon, shooting it in the skull. The creature took a step, back, examined the trickle of blood coming down its face. It quickly lost interest and continued on. Ronin took one last shot from the rifle, hitting where the thing should have had its heart. The youth learned instantly something about gorger physiology: it was truly a heartless monster. That or not all creatures keep their organs in the same spots. The youth slammed the butt of the rifle against the thing. Sensing the shifting moments in the air, the gorger lifted an arm to block the weapon, unfazed by the shattering workmanship of man.

“Bad idea.” said Ronin, holding what was left of the rifle to his face.

Before he knew it, the thing had already made a swipe for the youth. Ronin ducked, loosing half of a horn from his cloak. Well, if he was going to die, he was going to take that ugly monster with him. The creature’s maw came crashing down upon the youth, ready to swallow him whole. Ronin broke one of the ungor’s spears in half, shoving it into the monster’s maw. Despite the flimsy polearm, the poor excuse of an ogre found it difficult to swallowing the youth whole. While the gorger tried to get the spear out of its mouth, the stripling got out of the beast’s way as it stumbled over the dead ogre. Taking the opportunity set in front of him, Ronin took the other half of the spear in hand, he shoved the pole in and out of the back of the monster’s neck, holding on to the few locks of hair the beast had while it gave its death thrashes. With one final flail, it was no more.

Ronin took a deep breath, grinning devilishly as the crowd cheered his name. Tullaris took note of this. A month ago they would have thrown him into the manticore’s den. But now, in the arena, he had done what any of the champions of lesser races have done: become equals in their eyes now. Few heroes had ever been elevated to such statues, but now he was the new crowed favorite

“Well well, I was hoping those slaves would at least put up some kind of a fight, but this is pathetic! And what idiot put goblins in? This was supposed to be an ogre match!”

“Yes.” replied Khell’Aithian. “The Goblins were a surprise, but they were of no threat to the youth. However, what I want to know is how he managed to single handedly take on the ogre bulls, much less the maneater or gorger, is amazing. Even we Executioners have trouble slaying an experience Maneater, and that gorger is best dealt with draiches, not pointed sticks. Yet, the youth still stands on top of their fallen bodies.”

The Poet Slaughterer stood leaning against the wall, admiring the youth. “Such cunning. He was able to commandeer that chariot like a veteran. I have never seen a child, much less a young charioteer do such damage with such a weapon. He is a master.”

“Not yet. The city of the beast masters should be enough to beat some sense in the youth. I know just the patron of that city to send Ronin to. Until then…”

Tullaris signaled for the fights to continue. Out of another gate, two drunken ogres, each with a burning torch shoved through the fat surrounding their skull, and a canon strapped to their arms stumbled out. Ronin waited for them to make their move closer. The two idiots must have been completely ignorant of the boy as they were rather content to stay where they were, sitting on their butts and eating mutated beastmen flesh.

Confused, and just a bit curious about the two new ogres, Ronin walked slowly towards the duo. He tried his best not to disturbed them, but they had somehow, someway greedily shoved everything edible, and then some, within reach down their throats. That just left Ronin.

“Eh, Bubby, you like girly elves right?”

“Ya, de taste gooooda.”

“Well, we’s got ‘un riiiighhhht herrrre.”

The first ogre slammed his cannon down upon the ground, missing the youth. With his weapon logged in the dirt floor, Ronin climbed up the thing’s arm then sliced out one of its eyes. Wailing, it pulled out its weapon, trying to swat the youth with it. When he couldn’t reach him, he undid his bindings, lit the cannon’s fuse, and pointed it at the youth. Sadly for him, he was right behind his head, and already preparing another blow the other ogre. Before it could finish the job, the ogre smacked the other in the head. He missed the Ronin, but was just in position to take the full assault of the cannon’s grapeshot. Between the blast, and the wake to the back of the head, they were no more. With the crowd roaring for more, the next set of ogres came in.

Unlike the others who wore no armor or simply a shield on their gut, these three were covered head to toe in thick metal plates, most of it nailed to their hides. In their hands was either a massive club or maul ready to crash down on anyone foolish enough to fight them. With a guttural roar, they charged.

Panicking, Ronin looked around for a weapon. He noticed that the one cannon that hadn’t fired yet was still loaded and pointing strait at the oncoming ogres. Grabbing a still lit torch, Ronin waited for the three to get closer. He didn’t have to wait long. Lighting the fuse, he jumped out of the way, just in case the thing exploded. Just as the ogres were about to swing their weapons at him, the cannon blasted them with shrapnel, cannonballs, and what else the ogres could fit in there. The first of the iron giants fell, with another getting a spearhead lodged in its crotch. Screeching at a pitch no one thought it could achieve, it swung its maul square in the other’s face, breaking its neck, and its head clean off its body.

Ronin, as well as the other elves, were in a state of shock. Elvin senses were keener then most species, including their super human sense of hearing. In a situation like this, it was more of a handicap. It took the youth a while to get his bearings back. He needed more time, but the remaining ogre was already trying to smash the youth to pieces. Khaine must have been watching over the youth for the blood of the fallen yet another barrier around the youth. Whipping out his yellow blade, Ronin went to work, hacking, slashing, disemboweling and destroying all life his foe had left. By the time he was done, Ronin was standing in a pile of mush made from fat, gore, and chunks of metal.

He breathed in heavily, unable to calm down. Stabbing his sword into the sky, the Khaine sickness was taking over his being. He was ready for more carnage. “Give me more blood!” the voice in the back of his mind said. It was masculine, cold, vicious, and evil. “More carnage, more death, more desolation!”

“Don’t Listened to him!” begged another voice. It was feminine, gentle, pure, and compassionate.”

Coming too his senses, Ronin dropped to his knees in the bloody mess. “It broke my horn.”
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Post by Norelle »

Ronin heard Khaine!!! I think...
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Saintofm
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Post by Saintofm »

Who wants another battle scene?


Next Chapter: Of Men and Monsters


The Ronin enjoyed his stay in the victor’s pen. In all intensive purposes, it was the luxury lounge for the combatants that faired the best in the arena, where the champions can relax, heal, and feast on Naggaroth’s finest. To assure every need was met, the combatants were tended to by the best slaves, including a few damsels that the youth was sure were more priestesses of Aritha.

The Healers’ skills were still just as amazingly powerful. Within moments, all of Ronin’s injuries, and most of his scars were removed from his body. Even his Sea Dragon Cloak, the hide’s original owner long since flayed, was within their reach. All of the scratches and holes made from the youth’s ware and tear were removed, and the horn on top of his hood was restored. Once they were finished, a good, nice long body message was in do order.

All the while, a dwarf slave pounded away at repairing the youth’s shield and armor. He had no love for the elf, and waited for the day he would be forgiven of his great shame, but being a smith was better than toiling in the mines of Hag Greif. For now, he would need to remind himself of this, and bide his time.

“Guards!” yelled the Ronin. “Get us some wine, and give the dwarf a barrel of whatever he wants!”

The Dwarf popped his head up from what he was doing, and yelled the first thing that came to mind: “Burmangus.” One of the guards bowed, then left to find the spirits.

A half emptied hourglass later, Ronin was in his full gear, and the group were sipping the finest the Land of Chill had to offer.

“So, little boy” began one of the elvin damsels. “What do you want to do now?” She walked her fingers across the youth’s shoulders till she had wrapped her arms around him.

“Just to relax. Although, talking to you is a nice little diversion.”

“Eh,”

“I’m a hundred and eleven. Just because I’m coming of age does not make me of age.”

“So, it is true.” said another slave girl. “The Great Slaughterer that was abandoned by his mother country of Ulthuan, is nothing more than a mere child.”

“Who in the realm of the underworld started that blasphemy? I enjoy a good fight, and I’m as susceptible to Khaine’s great influence like anyone else, but overall I just want to exact my vengeance and return to the farm I grew up at.” The slave girls were not sure what to believe. He hoped they took his word about his pure desires for them, despite the fact sword in-between his legs had other plans.

“A farm boy?” bellowed a familiar gruff voice. “You’re in the wrong city for farm work. It’s too cold up here.” Out of the shadows, Harry the Hammerer marched forward. “Kid, if you’re gona survive this, you’re going to have to focus on the fight. You only have a few more ‘em left, and this next set is going to be easy as smashing Zombie skulls, but the one after that is going to be a bit of a doozy. Unless you are truly ready for this, you are not going to live long. SO…Are…You….Ready?”

As Ronin thought upon these worlds, his flash back from a few moments ago ended, and he returned to the all out brawl he was in. With both his black dagger’s in hand, he slashed and gutted everything. The thugs the dark elves rounded up were just that, thugs from some Militia of a no name town. Well, they started out well enough, thirteen rowdy humans versus one elf kid. Now, there were hardly any that didn’t have both hands slashed off, or had their guts on the floor.

“They are finished!” yelled Ronin.

“Not until they are dead, Great Slaughterer!” yelled back the crowed.

Ronin looked down at the blooding, crying mess at his feet. Fodder for captured spawn of chaos, fodder for the Witch Elves. Ronin chose the high road, and ended their miserably short lives.

The Next to come out came from that same little village, Great Swords with their trademark six and a half foot long blades. With his daggers now sheathed, Ronin pulled out throwing knives. The first swordsmen went down with a knife entering his skull. His comrade next to him suffered a similar fate with another in his throat. The next one dodged a blade, only to get another one in his dominant hand. The human behind him wasn’t as lucky as he pulled the blade out of his good eye. With the last two blades in hand, Ronin tossed them at his foes, which were now just spitting distance away. The weapons hit home, gouging out a kidney and heart.

Now up-close and personal, Ronin opted for his daggers again, slicing open bellies, and slitting throats. The display of violence was not as exciting as the crowd had hoped for, but none the less gave a polite two clap: the sign for nice try but next time might be your last.

Ronin would have to try harder to please them. But it wasn’t like he was going to get much of a chance. Two sets of three spearmen marched forward towards the center of the arena. They were too small to be a real unit, and obviously lacked the military training, or the shear thuggish tenacity of the militia to pose a real threat. Ronin knew this, and so did they as they huddled together for protection. Unfazed, Ronin somersaulted into the air over them, decapitating the front row, and landing on the shoulders of the middle man on the back row. With quick jerk, the human’s neck was broken. Without looking, the youth landed on the ground, shoving his black bladed daggers into their backs. With a disenchanted sigh, he twisted the weapons deeper into them. The rest fared even worse.

With the current foes dispatched, the final gladiator of the day was now fast approaching. Amongst the veteran warriors, be they commoners or Black Guard, one can hear tales of past skirmishes, and foes they wish to fight again. Sometimes it is because how easy it is to slay them, others because of the level of skill was respectable for a lesser being, while others were just too much fun. Of latter, the White Wolves of the Empire of Sigmare had come up a number of times. Mounted or on foot, they were all the same: Blue and grey armor; a long handled war hammer that they could use on foot, but were even deadlier with on horseback; and finally a wolf pelt wrapped around their shoulders. There was one other trait they all shared: the same contempt for weakness the Druchii had. There was not one of these hated traits within the man standing in front of Ronin didn't have.

Without a word, he charged swing is weapon at the youth. With only a split second to get away or become another splatter on the ground, Ronin rolled to the left. While the youth was fast, the White Wolf was faster, slamming his hammer on the youth’s cloak. With a well placed boot on the sea dragon cloak’s hem the warrior kept the child within striking distance.
“This is too easy.” said the knight in his native tongue. With a well practiced arch of his weapon, he brought down the boy’s skull. Crack. The knight examined the cloak, and the lack of a body underneath it. With a single hand, he yanked the hood at his level. No blood, only the cracked bone lining the inside of the cloak’s hood. A soldier’s helm hit his. Turning around angrily, the White wolf finally let out a growl at the fool.

It was Ronin, panting, and on the verge of wetting himself. Unlike the lackeys of Chaos, green skins, or ogres who either toyed with the youth or opted to use savage brutality over real skill, or the other humans who simply were untrained, this one was good. He entered the arena for one purpose and one purpose only: To kill his enemy in the quickest, most efficient way possible. His weapon slowed him down, but the White Wolf was able to compensate for this hazard. Ronin pulled out his Scimitar, dumping the shield and broadsword.

With another deep breath, the Ronin was off, slamming his blade into his foe’s polarm’s shaft. With each stroke he cut deeper into the metal, all the while dodging the occasional hammer blow. This was an opponent he needed to find a weak spot soon; otherwise he was indeed good as dead. Well, time to play dirty, thought the youth.

With a well placed kick to the groin, the knight was caught off guard. Still, he must have been well accustomed to pain, for he stood his ground, pushing the youth back. With a well placed poke to the gut with the bottom the knight’s weapon, the youth was on his back. The White Wolf stomped his steel right boot into Ronin’s stomach, forcing a spray of blood out of the boy’s mouth. The White Wolf then swung his weapon all around him, building up momentum for a finishing blow. A strike that would ultimately end the youth’s life.

It would have finished Ronin then and there, but that was a fate he would not have. Still grasping his sword, the youth stabbed it at the only unprotected section of armor at the inner most part of his joint. Again, the foe winced in pain, but this time just as he began lowering his hammer. The momentum the stroke, though not strong enough to make him fall over, was enough to take away his balance. Despite this, the lower he went, the higher the blade rose until the youth could push it out of the plated thigh!

With his most of the strength in that foot fleeing him, Ronin finally had a chance to free him. With all the will he could muster, the boy twisted the wounded leg, forcing the heavy warrior to the ground. Back on his feet, he kicked the warhammer away. The White Wolf was willing to keep fighting, but a swift kick from to the head told him otherwise. Now all the youth had to do finish this fight and pull his sword out. Dagger in hand, Ronin stabbed through the face like visor of the knight; killing him in one blow.

The crowd cheered him on for a long time, too long for Tularis’ temperament. The youth was just glad he could catch his breath. With no one else to fight, the stripling marched to where he discarded his shield and broadsword. To Ronin’s dismay the crowd demanded more blood and the Captain of the Executioners was more than willing to comply with the people’s needs.

Like the spearmen before, they were lowly humans who were given a short sword and shield. Each man came from opposing ends of the arena floor; all of them were willing to make a killing. With little incentive, they rushed madly at the youth. The first was cut down at the naval as he came running. The second was bumped away with Ronin’s shield before a swift stab to the chest ended their fight. The Third thought he could fight the kid off while he pulled his weapon out, only to have the youth bend down, then get up suddenly underneath him. Confused, and now disoriented, the youth flipped him over on his back, pinning him to the ground with his blade.

Ronin tossed his shield up in the air so he could grab the bottom of it. With his new weapon he slammed it into the face of the last swordsman. The blow was so hard, the hit sent the man, and most of his teach, flying to the ground. To make sure he was down for the count, the Ronin shoved the triangular point of the bottom of the shield into his foe’s chest.

This was to be the last of the fights today. Ronin would go home to the castle keep, sob, and purge his worries out of him. Maybe if he was lucky he would do this in the arms of the first woman that showed affection to him in this land. It was too early to be love, and such a thing was as fleeting as a frightened deer perused by wolves. It was a sad fact he was learning to come to grips with. At least Arhedel made him feel noble.

Until then he would have to wait as today must have been engineered by goblins, for nothing was going to plan now. Ronin twitched as he heard the tell tale sounds of something massive pounding against the metal doors behind him. Ronin grabbed his shield, and then reached for the scimitar still lodged in the White Wolf’s leg. A few more poundings later, the youth put his armaments away and opted for the war hammer. As expected, the door was thrown to the ground. As the dust settled, everyone waited for the monstrous foe to show itself.

“It’s a dwarf, child!” yelled a member of the crowed. Ronin heard, and looked down.

“Great, a Slayer.” Ronin said under his breath.

The dwarf smiled, his teeth black with tar and disease. Most dwarves loved to grow their beards as long as they could, and to shave it was a mark of great shame. As all dwarf slayers became what they were because of some great shame, perceived or otherwise, they shaved and kept their mighty beards short, and in this case, down to a pair of goatees. The Slayer’s hair brought a new scent into the air, one that was anything but noble. He could smell and the sweat of women, and all of it coming from the crimson hair on top of the Dwarf. Ronin could also smell fresh blood in it.

“Glad ta see da’ armoir still holden tagether, ya beardless runt. Oh, and thanks for de’ beer. It tasted like a troll’s backside, beh’t it was better den nothin’.”

“You’re the black smith! How did you get that great ax, and why do you smell of blood?”

“How can yee tell with all of da blood and guts covering te place?”

“Almost all of the foes I killed are in one spot, and the breeze is caring too many strange scents from you.”

“Well iz simple boy: dar aint no red die, so I had ta make do wit the guards and lovelies you’d back there. I think one of em is still alive and well enough to for ya, the hee, hee.”

“You, you…spawn of Chaos, mutants, even Naggarothy are less detestable then you! How could you? Don’t you and your kind have some kind of honor thing that prevents you from killing innocents?”

“There are no innocents in Har Ganeth, and for you information, if I had any honor left would I commit myself to the slayer’s oath?”

“I knew plenty of slayers before my capture, and they all kept their dwaven pride. At least they deserved to have their names remembered as heroes!” Ronin Dropped his shield and sword, and placed his other hand on the great war hammer. He was going to need all the leverage he could get. “You’re dead!”

“Stop!” commanded Tularis. “This is no longer your fight. This dwarf must be dealt with more professional help.” Tularis ordered a Reaper to take the dwarf out. The weapon’s aim was true, but so were the reflexes of the slayer.

“I got somethin furr you!” he said, tossing the bolt back at them. Within moments, the wood and steel frame of the ballista was splintered, and no more.

“Guards!” yelled the Captain of the Executioners. “Kill him! Send all of the city guard down here if you have to, but want him dead!”

“I’ll hold him off for you then! But first!” announced the youth, grabbing his cloak. He swung it around him once, and then wrapped it around his neck. The finishing touch was pulling the hood over his head, giving him the fierceness he desired. “Time to meet your maker!” He was off, slamming his hammer into the Slayer’s ax.

It was common knowledge that all dwarves treated their honor as divinely given by the gods, and if they feel they have lost that divine nature then they lose the will to live. This can be because they could not keep an oath, no matter how miniscule; lost their family do to famine, disease, or war; a great engineering disaster; faced a horrific defeat by their mortal enemies; and so forth. One’s honor was so integrated into the mentality of the dwarves that it wasn’t uncommon for young dwarves to take up the oath if the object of their affection turned them down. Regardless of the case, they would lose the will to live. However all dwarves found it physically impossible to even think of suicide, so they went out to find a foe strong enough to give them the doom they so desired. However dwarves never fought to lose either, as their pride prevented them from doing so. This meant if they survived long enough, they would have killed some of the most vicious monsters in the world. This was a fate the youth would deny to the maddened warrior.

When Ronin had fought the other combatants he was mealy trying to survive. But this monster had betrayed his ways, and was willing to do anything to achieve his revenge. While the same could be said about Ronin, there was still one difference between the two: the boy still had a conscience, and more importantly: standards. There were things even he would not do. The Slayer was different, he was a true monster. Like the Asur general that caused him to be exiled in a new land, or the daemon that started this whole disaster to beguine with, he was a true evil in the world.

The two fought as ferociously as two manticors over a kill. Only the stronger beast would win, and that beast was not the boy. With a single stroke of his ax, the Slayer cut the polearm in half. Another strike batted the hammer away. No matter, the Ronin shoved the other half, with its new spear like edge, in and out of the dwarf as fast as he could. Anything else would have keeled over from the wounds, but a slayer welcomed pain, and sent the flat of his ax in the youth’s face. With a head spinning, and a broken nose, the child could not muster much more than he did. He fell to the ground, a half toothless grin spreading wider and wider

Yelling praises to his ancestors, the dwarf spun his ax so the spike at the back of the blade would crash into the youth’s skull. Willing to except his fate, the youth spat a wad of blood into the dwarf’s face. He knew he was going to die, but he would be defiant till the end.

Just as death’s embrace would soon take the boy to his family, fate seemed to have another plan for him. Clang, the next thing Ronin knew an ominous shadow was over him, and the axe’s spike was as flat as the top of an anvil.

“Picking on little kids now? I thought you Slayers had a code of conduct!” yelled she shadow’s owner. With another clang, the dwarf was pushed back five feet. “I’s think it’s time Old Harry taught you moron some manners!” With that, the flat of the hammer waked his foe in the face, forcing him a few steps back.

“Harry the Hammer. How many Grudges have my people piled up against you?” growled the Slayer, spitting out a tooth.

“Three. One was stealing a kill when I smote some vampire queen’s head off, preventing a Thane from getting his well deserved revenge; another for drinking another dwarf Thane under the table; and finally one for taking part of siege against some long forgotten city of yours when I was the tender age of thirteen winters. Ahh, those were the days. So, what grudge will you be settling?”

“I’ll decide latter!” said the dwarf, charging the Champion of Chaos.

With the heavy ax blade, he slammed it against the Warrior’s massive shield with tremendous force. Normally this would be enough to cleave a man in half, but the ruinous powers infused his shield, and his armor with the most resilient of energies, bouncing the weapon back at the slayer. With the full weight the stunted foe put in, the ax backed into his skull. He did it again, and again, all with the same result, all with the Chaos Lord mocking him with “Stop hitting yourself” with each strike.

“Stop that!”

“Why? If you keep waking yourself like that, there won’t be any brain’s left for me to smash!” That said Harold as swung his mighty hammer into the left side of the Dwarf’s temple.

The stunted foe was visibly shaken, but still had the tenacity and strength to still stand. Another blow was parried by the dwarf’s great ax, and the next blow. The two fought veraciously, ignoring the screams of the blood thirsty crowd. Even when Tularis and his elite guard stormed in, and commanded the two to stop, they continued to fight. The honor of being the one to finish the other was too great to do anything else.

Finally the slayer shoved the blade into the belly of the beast. His grim smiled faded quickly, as his only reward was getting the blade stuck in the sheets of metal, and Harry growling a “Ha, ha, ha.” The Exalted Lord of Chaos spun his weapon then slammed the four inch long spike at the rear into the dwarf’s brain. He received his desired doom.

“Let’s go home, boy.” commanded Tullaris in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

“No.” responded Ronin. “I have something I have to do first.”

Forcing himself up, the Ronin went in search of any survivors of the dwarf’s massacre. He finally found one, scared, and shaken, hiding in the dark corners of the pleasure room. Over the months, the boy had grown. He was now almost as tall as the average elf, with his muscular arms just strong enough to make light armor useless to his foes. He learned how to fight, how to kill, and how to survive from the best of the best: First Tullaris, then an assassin of Khaine. But this was different.

Every room looked as if a massive battle had taken place, the scale of which no one has seen since the siege of Har Ganeth. As expected, there were the dismembered bodies of warriors: Gladiators, Druchii spearmen, swordsmen, and Masters of the Draich laying in their own gore and rivers of blood. But what took the youth by surprise were the noncombatants: The healers, the concubines, and even members of the dwarf’s own kin that forged and repaired all of the combatant’s weapons. All of them were in no better shape; some even still had the look of fear in their eyes as the hour of their death was soon upon them. This was look was even more horrid upon that of the dwarves as one of their kinsman chose to betray them at the end of an ax.

Had life here in this accursed land driven the dwarf mad? Did the turmoil and despair of serving his enemies make him loose all hope in life, and all that is good? And worse yet, was the same happening to the boy? All these questions were to be answered in time. For now, in this pit of despair, the Ronin picked the surviving, weeping she elf and carried her away in his arms.

Even before the child left the tunnel leading to the arena floor, he and the two Executioners could hear Tullais and the arena’s owner arguing.

“What’s going on?” Ronin asked at long last.

“What’s the damage?” asked Tullaris.

“The room looks like a pair of dragons were fighting over a female. The place needs to be completely rebuilt. All of the slaves and many of the soldiers are in twenty pieces. All save for the girl in my arms, and the black smith Harry killed.”

“Damn it, do you know how much your boy is going to coast me?!!” demanded the arena’s owner. Ronin now took the time to examine the very well dressed elf. He probably would have appeared as any other noble had it not been for the fact he had some hideous scars across his face. Judging from the pair of cutlasses at his side, he must have been a corsair at one point, then bought his way to infamy.

Even if this was pure speculation, he was still having a heated argument with the captain of the Draich nya Khaine while his elite soldiers are all around. Without a hint of fear emanating off of the arena’s owner, the man continued to curse out the captain, and Tullaris chose to just take it.

“This was not the first time this has happened. Remember when that one slayer escaped? Besides, you earned enough from this to make this sacred structure even grander.”

“That’s not the point! Every time I let you have one of your pet projects in this coliseum something terrible happens. Do you realize how many concubines I have to procure from the pleasure cults now? Not to mention the dwarves! Oh the dwarves! Where am I going to get those kinds of slaves in this economy?”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the youth. “What of my winnings?”

“What winnings?” demanded both arguing elves.

“There wasn’t any decree stating participant couldn’t bet on themselves, so I just kept betting on myself.

“How much did you bet…?”

“I took a few coin purses from some dead nobles during the ‘Rabblerousing.’ I figured I had forty four pieces of silver the first time I bet on me, then I just kept outing my winnings on the table.

Both the arena’s owner and the Captain of the Executioners were speechless. At first, no one cared if the youth lived or died, and once word came he was a High Elf traitor, the odds were pitted incredibly against him. A few matches latter, and the stripling should have enough to own three of these arenas.

“I’ll donate two thirds of it to rebuilding this place. Keep the rest. I’ll also be keeping the girl.”

“What? No!”

“She’s no good to you like this, and I could use a pet project once I get to the Karond Kar.”

“How did you…”

“I have an assassin. Spying is a much a talent as carving out spines for him.” Ronin made sure both warlords got the point. “I think I can get her back up to speed. Besides, I could always use another lovely.”

“You think that you can…”The sound of rustling chainmail and the movement of great swords moving swiftly through the air silenced the arena’s owner.

“I get the girl and hear you shut up, and you get enough money to buy a small army. I think this a fair and fruitful arrangement.” Another rustling of Executioners forced the dread lord to agree. “It’s settled then.”

Ronin, his new servant girl, Harry, Tullaris, and the Executioners left for the Grand Palace soon after. Ronin was unsure why he received so much help, but he was glad it was available none the less. Harry did seem like he liked the youth, so there was no reason for him not to act accordingly; The Executioners were just happy to shut the master of the arena up. In any case, he had a scared and scared girl to care for, and he had no idea what he was going to do.

He hoped the others would be prepared to help. To his surprise, the moment he entered his new, larger living quarters, things were already being prepared for such action. Like his old one, it was sparsely decorated, with some coat hangers, a couple of dressers, and a few beds for Ronin and his retinue. However, now it including a dining table, and weapon’s rack, and a small laboratory for the assassin. At the moment it consisted of nothing but a small still and several voiles of toxins.

Selexa pushed a crystal ball into the dresser, and pulled out a few scrolls. “We have a bed set up for her. Place her on it.” she commanded. The moment Ronin did so he was pushed into a chair. “You carried her the whole way here, so your arms should be worn out. We’ll handle the rest.”

“You were spying on me again, weren’t you?” demanded the youth. He removed his cloak, and tossed it to his bed. “Enjoy the view?”

Sevil’Relik slapped the youth hard on the back. “We took bets to see how long you could keep your viper in its den. I owe you’re lover five silver coins, but it was worth it to watch you squirm.”

Horrified, the stripling looked at Arhedel. He quickly calmed down when he saw she was just grinding herbs.

“It was rather cute. So much self-restraint. How do you do it?”

“Naw, he was waiting for a cow strong enough to carry him.” Interrupted the minotaur. He was surprised no one knew what he was talking about. “What, aren’t all females stronger than the males?”

“Yeah, not every race is built like you buddy.” Replied the Assassin. “But how strong is your lady folk?”

“It’s not uncommon for an inexperienced cow to throw her mate across a large encampment during mating season.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“You have no idea. My old heard has a competition to see who flies the farthest and…”

“You, shut up; you stop encouraging him, and you, how is the salve coming?” demanded Selexa to Sorbeck, Sevil’Relik, and Arhedel respectfully.

“It’s almost ready. Just a few more moments.”

“Good, now to see what’s in her mind…Oh, by the underworld, she’s running away!”

The new girl was down the stars when her pursuers were on her trail.

The assassin pulled out a vile, released its contents. It was a small sprite, one that appeared to be a little brain dead. “Find me the female elf my master has brought back to his quarters. The new one you idiot!” After a few moments of delay the sprite zipped down the passage way. “That thing can find anything within ten miles. Once it’s found it, it will come back and lead me to her. Until then, how good is your nose, big guy?”
“I can smell a human wetting himself from over a mile away.” responded Sorbeck with pride.

“Well, see if you can find a scared elf girl doing the same. Damn, what the hells was she doing in a pleasure den?”

“Couldn’t you tell by the way she held herself up, the way she talked, or how pale her skin is? She’s a noble. “said Selexa at long last. “She was probably a member of some greater family that fell into disfavor, and was whipped out by a rival.”

“Druchii try and enslave other Druchii?” asked Ronin, examining the stone floor.

“I am pure Naggarithian, and I was sold to the pleasure dens. She probably did the same.”

“Yeah, but she has to be no older than Ronin, and yet she acts as if she was experienced…”

“She was probably possessed, or put into an enchantment. The Dwarf must have taken pity on her because of her age, and snapped her out of it.”

“Black smiths can do that?”

“Dwarven metal smiths are known for their ability to capture magic into their runes. He probably built some magic weapon for one of the arena champions, and made something on the side.”

“So, he did one good thing before he died.”

“Do not judge him harshly. He is a monster, but the slaying of the slaves was probably the most merciful thing he could have done. Besides, by breaking her enchantment, he brought her back to reality, but and the memories of what happened to her. What horrors do you think a Druchii warlord could do to a young woman like that? If she had a lover, there is no telling what could have happened, but if she was a virgin she could be sold to the highest bidder. Then there are the memories of what happened to her after the enchantments? They probably left her mind active, imprisoned so it could watch what was happening to her, while some other entity let someone ravage her. Just be glad she is a recent convert.”

Ronin couldn’t argue with anything she said. How could he judge anything here? This land was still too alien to him, too savage by his tastes. And what were the terrors was this girl forced to embrace? That was another thought he didn’t want to think of.

For now he was on the trail of the girl. “She went this way!” Ronin said at long last.

“Wow, that’s good. I just caught her sent going that way.” said a very impressed Sorbeck. “How’d you do that little man?”

“My father taught me how to hunt. I wasn’t sure if my skills would work indoors, but look!” Ronin point down the north hallway. “The Candles are dimmed or put out; there are a few table cloths that have slid off the tables. Someone clumsily came this way, and I doubt it was a servant.”

A spark of a sprite popped up in front of the group, surprising most of them enough to warrant their blades. Relik managed to keep his fellow warriors from going out of control, but barley so. “Hold on, hold on. This is my tracker. So where is she boy?” The sprite sped off down the hallway, leaving a trail of glowing dust in its wake. It didn’t take long before the found the sprite in-front of armory.

“She does realize these things are left unlock and have a couple of guards inside?” griped Sevil’Relik. Almost on cue there was a blood curdling scream.

“She does now.” Ronin kicked the door in, and found a sight that was all too familiar to him.

A dozen guards had cornered the girl, laughing and telling of the horrors they would inflict upon her. It didn’t take long for one of the spineless retches to work up the courage to attack the girl, and even less time for Ronin to throw a blade into his unprotected arm.

“You know, I am getting real tired of this filth.”

“So are we!” Arhedel emptied an entire clip into three warriors. Sevril’Relik snuck up behind a few more, and slit their throats. With them distracted by their closest foe, they didn’t notice the charging minotaur as he rammed three of the warriors into the wall. All that were left standing were Ronin, those loyal to him, and those having their bodied burned to a crisp by black lightning emanating from Selexa’s fingers. The new girl, still trembling, tried to crawl out of the way, trying to escape from anyone and everyone. The only thing stopping her was Sevril’Relik.

“So, how were you planning on escaping a castle full of warriors who haven’t seen a woman in months, much less a city that thrives on murder, and a forest infested with ungors and Chimeras?”

The girl responded by grabbing a short sword and attacking the assassin. The girl was fast, and nearly struck the assassin’s legs. Sevril’Relik responded by grabbing her hand and throwing her against the wall. Before she could recover, he was on top of her, his hands gripper hers like a dragon’s maw.

“You’re a Har Gathen. No one else could come close to doing that to me. However, you are surly out of practice. I can fix that.”

“Get away…get away from me!” screamed the girl. Try as she might, she couldn't escape the assassin.

“Shut and listen girl!” growled Relic with the furry of a daemon. “We just saved your hide, and it’s from the goodness in our hearts, as scary as that sounds.”

“You must forgive my friend here. He doesn’t like it when someone waves a sword at him. However, he is right. You are part of my retinue now. I don’t need body slave, so no worries there; and none of the others here are into forcing themselves on you. Trust me.”

“Liars, all liars. No one tells the truth in this land, that is the only truth.” The girl mumbled.

Relik simply shook his head. “I don’t like lying. Never have, and never saw the use for it. It would be easier just to take an envenomed dagger and slit someone’s throat. Or your case, find that sweat spot that would paralyze you for hours, but allow you to feel and see everything around you. Believe me when I say this: We may be monsters here, but we have standard.”

Relik moved back a foot from the girl, crouching down so he wouldn’t tower over her. When she got off her back, Relik thought it best to hand her back the sword she grabbed off the wall. “Now, are you going to let us heal your wounds, or are you going to attack me again?”

To his surprise, the girl fell into Sevril’Relik, wailing even louder. “Well this is a first.”

“Come on.” Said Ronin at long last, holding out a hand. “I have no idea what has transpired in your short life, but if it is anything like ours, your seek revenge, do you not?” The girl nodded in response, still soaking Relik’s cloak with her tears. “Then join us of your own volition. I am here so I can have my revenge against the Asur Prince that chose to let my home be butchered, and the daemon that killed my parents. Arhedel is my most trusted servant, and has been in this land long enough to see the horrors that it has. There are a few corsair lords that will meet their end at her crossbow.

“Selexa was once forced into the cults of Aritha against her will, and now she has taken her knowledge from that and will crucify those that destroyed her life. She is also my bride. Sevril’Relik is an assassin of Khaine, so he must have a few people he’d like dead. We can all help each other in this. Would you like to join us?”

The young girl timidly stretched out her hand, and with great deliberation took Ronin’s hand. “Welcome to the family. What is your name?”

“I, I, I am Sulfura, of house Kisrey.”

“Kisrey? House Kisrey?” shouted out Sevril’Relik in an oddly joyous tone. “I thought you were all wiped out! By the Underworld, you are one of the households that produced the greatest number of heroes of all of northern Naggarond. There was no greater house outside of all Naggarrond until…”

“Until the last raid, when the family was accused of threatening the most powerful family of all of Naggaroth.” chimed in another voice. It came from the doorway and it belonged to Tullaris’s personal assassin. “I’m sure you remember them, Relik.”

Servril’Relik shook his head in shame. “The Desgardy. Any more treacherous a lot and you’d think they were Tzeetchens.”

“They may still be, all things considered. But with their influence and wealth, they faked enough evidence to warrant a blood feud, and warrant the need of three regiments of Malekith’s Black Guard to help annihilate them by the laws of blood feud. Normally, the Kisrey would have the advantage with elite units but key assassinations, threats, and bribes have been enough to turn the tables. It wouldn’t b until years later that the reports were falsified, however the extent of which could never be confirmed as the blood line was either too diluted or extinguished. At least until now. Keep her identity a secret, or there is going to some complications.”

“What kind of complications?” demanded Ronin. The assassin simply turned and left.

“The kind that an Asur traitor with nothing but an assassin, two slave girls, a minotaur, and an illegal spell caster cannot handle on his own. You need to learn the art of fighting a secret war if they choose to make you a target. Until then, just be glad you’re an anomaly, and out of their view.”

“I think they should pray they not anger us. We can do in kind to them thrice fold.”

Sevril’Relik only shook his head, though it wasn’t in disgust. “Oh, you are going to be fun to work with kid.”
Last edited by Saintofm on Sun Jan 01, 2012 7:55 am, edited 2 times in total.
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
Norelle
Executioner
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Post by Norelle »

Hehehe, I love the part where the sword inbetween Ronin's legs had other ideas...XD
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Saintofm
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Post by Saintofm »

I figured that would get a few laughs.

I'm also glad apparently I had enough interesting things going that it wasn't just a scary wall of text.
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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Saintofm
Malekith's Best Friend
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Joined: Sat Mar 19, 2011 2:28 am
Location: California

Post by Saintofm »

Time for another chapter, and this adventure is coming to a close soon.


Kin Slayer.


As Ronin and his compatriots sharpened their blades, and prepared themselves for what may come as servant rushed into their room. He was lucky Arhedel’s crossbow was being repaired otherwise this messenger would have been killed.

“I have a message from Tullaris: The final portion of the gauntlet is to see how well you can command troops, so take a handful of your most trusted warriors to the Arena floor.”

“That will be Arhedel, Sevril’Relik, and Sorbeck.”

“Hold on lover, what about us?” demanded Selaxa. “You think you can leave us out of this fight?”

“You are not a sanctioned Sorceress. If you are reveled to be as such, you will be punished, and Relik will kill me for trying to save you.”

“Oh no, I like her. I think I can fake your death’s well enough to get you out of here.” boasted Sevril’Relik.

“And the Chaos Spawn?” Interrupted Arhedel.”

“What?”

“They release chaos spawn to devour the bodies. Do you think they will distinguish between dead meat and meat not quite dead yet.”

“Ok, that could be a problem.”

“Fine,” Selexa growled at long last. “I will wait in the stands, observing the battle.”

Ronin put a hand on her cheek, and caressed it gently. “Watch us, but be mindful of any tricks that might be played. I have no idea what is going on, but I’m sure you can see where the webs of deceit beguine, and where we shall cut them to cause the most damage.”

“What of me, my master?” asked Sulfura, her voice more of a hushed whisper. It was her normal meek voice, and Ronin had to wonder if she was like this prior to being sold to the pleasure dens.

Ronin in turn shrugged his shoulders, and took out a pair of sheathed daggers. “Someone has to protect my bride. Save us some seats.”

When the servant left, they quickly finished their preparations. Selexa checked her crystal ball, seeing what treachery lay ahead. There was none she could see, but none the less, she still felt uncomfortable with what she was going to happen. Sulfura sat beside her, examining her blades. They were well crafted, with the precision only a dwarf could harness. Sevril’Relik wasn’t too far from them, applying rattlesnake venom to his blades, and enchanting them to absorb the toxin.

Not too far from them, Arhedel sat next Ronin, and helped him don his war gear, and he hers. They took this task as if it was an elaborate ceremony, wedding the warriors to their weapons and their armor. This may be their last moments on the mortal plain, and what they did was more intimate than anything achieved in one’s bed chamber. This was the nature of their lives, and it was a nature they chose to accept whole heartedly.

Even long after they waited in the underneath the arena floor, and Sulfura and Selexa took their seats in the stadium, they couldn’t take their gaze or their passions from each other. This was also to the dismay of the assassin and the beastman as this almost led to more intimate displays of affection at times. Thankfully for them, this was generally interrupted by the pounding of shagoth a mere thirty feet above them. The least romantic spot would be underneath the massive dragon ogre, so they chose to keep their hands to themselves from time to time. During one of these times, Ronin pulled out a simple black pendent etched into the rune of “penance.” It hung around Ronin’s neck on a simple gold chain, but it was all that was needed to bring back memories of better times.

“Pretty. What is it?” asked Arhedel, her arms wrapped around Ronin’s neck.

With a smile, Ronin caressed her cheek, easing all of their tensions. “It used to belong to my father.” lamented the youth, “He gave it to my mother as dowry for a marriage. After they were killed, the chain broke off as I went to bury them. I took it as a sign I was to keep it in remembrance. When the Drucii came to my second home, I hid it in my body with my father’s ring, just in case I was captured.”

“How did you do that? When I was captured they checked every crevice in my body to see if I was hiding anything.”

The thought of such a thorough strip search took the youth back, but it wasn’t something he wasn’t expecting. Still, if he learned what ship those mongrels were on, he’d burn it to the ground when he got the chance. In the meantime, he had a question to answer. “I dug out my flesh, and buried the trinkets within. A healing spell later, and all of the corsairs were none the wiser.”

“Good trick. I’ll have to remember that.”

“Just remember it hurts quite a bit, and getting it out is a bit of a pain.”

It was at that time, that one of the guards unlocked the gate leading to them “It is time.” she yelled.

Ronin simply gave a passing look at the fellow youth, and raised a gauntleted hand. A new blade sprung out just a foot and a half passed Ronin’s hand. “So it is.”

Lead by the guard, they marched into the early morning light caressing the arena floor.

“All Arise!” yelled the announcer. “Our Most gracious Lord and Ruler, the true Phoenix King Malekeith wishes to make an announcement!” Everyone, be they rich or poor, stayed their tongues, knowing that the next sound they made could be their last.

“My people,” began the Witch King, standing in the lavish “Royal’s Box.” It was the gaudiest thing Ronin saw since he was in the Black Court. Purple silks and mighty furs caressed the floor and walls, while torches with flames of ever color and shade lit chased the shadows away with flickering spears.

Behind the Witch King stood a detachment of his most elite black guard, the Endless; and his mother, the Hag Queen Morathie. Like the rest of the audience, they waited anxiously for his speech. “This child has forsaken his corrupt and weak blooded ways, and has joined our fold. He has proven himself as a capable fighter, now he must prove himself as a capable Druchii! His blood burns too hot for those vipers sitting in thrown of the Phoenix King, so in their short sightedness chose to abandon him to us. But when they abandoned a weapon such as him into our hands, they only gave it to us in a hand basket.

“And it is this short sightedness that those Warriors of Chaos that chose to ride our Black Arks, have already begun weakening the weak blooded kin of ours. Two gates have fallen just from their aid alone, and now a third is under siege. No doubt the fools of the Phoenix Court will push them back, but in doing so they will kill off another generation of warriors, warriors we will not have to fight. My people, it is warriors such as these that the barbarians are fighting, so our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers do not suffer the shame of falling to weaklings!”

With that, the first gate was opened. A small squad of spearmen nervously entered the fray. They were of fair skin, and from the look of their stature, and the lack of lines in their faces, just thirty or forty years older than the Ronin. Their warrior tunics and gowns were in the traditional white of the Asur armies, the color of morning and death.

“My countrymen?” spat the Ronin. “What is he trying to do?”

Sevril’Relik placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder. It wasn’t there to comfort, and the fresh smell of venom on metal made sure of that. “I’ll be the first to admit this is a foul move, done by a true bastard, but it is one that must happen sooner or later. When your training is complete, you will have to fight those who were once your people. You chose this path, and no one else has made you do this. You knew the consequences when you chose to live as a Druchii, so here it is. But if it makes you feel any better, we have all decided to make their deaths as painless as possible, though the crowd is going to boo us out for it.”

“You knew this would happen?” Ronin asked.

“No,” replied Sevril’Relik. “But I knew they would try and hit below the belt. No wonder Selexa didn’t see anything in her crystal ball: It is the most obvious and strait forward of a trap the lords could use on you. Malekeith wanted to see where your loyalties lie, and what is before us a better trick than any magician can come up with.”

Ronin sighed and pulled out his sword. “Let go of me. If I am to face them, I need to get going while the sun is still up. Arhedel, cover me.”

With that, the wood elf took well placed shots at the spearmen, shooting down the scarcely armored phalanx. By the time Ronin had unsheathed his scimitar half of them were on their way to the underworld. They stuck their spears out, using their length as an advantage, yet this did not hide their lack of skill. If the youth had to guess, these elves had just entered these ranks. Without hesitation, he slit their throats then prayed for their safe journey into the Underworld.

“Too easy. They just entered the ranks of spearmen.” yelled out the boy. “I thought you wanted to test me, not give me foes that even a fool thinks is too pathetic to fight?”

The chains of the second gate began retracting back into their craven daemon skulls above them. Out came five of the legendary guardians of Asuryan’s fire: The Phoenix guard. Grim, and eternally silent, they marched forward, prepared for battle. Unlike the others before them, each one of them looked as polished as their legendary skills with the halberds they brought to battle.

“You know Ronin, there are times when it’s best if you kept you mouth shut. This is one of those times.” With that, the Wood Elf girl fired off her salvo, but each shot ricocheted around them, as if some untold force was controlling it. “I can’t hit them. I have a clean shot, but…”

“Phoenix Guard, girly!” yelled the assassin. “They are the guardians of the All Father’s sacred shrine. You think he isn’t going to protect his sacred servants?”

With fire in their eyes, the said guardians lunged in for the kill. The minotaur was first to strike, goring two down and batting another into the spiked wall. As with the bolts, neither the tree trunk size arms nor the five inch long spikes would penetrate the field. The Beastman’s sword, on the other hand, was capable of slicing down such fickle of wards, and elves in half.

However the legendary prowess of these guardians was well earned. Even with the brute strength of the beastman, or the martial training of the legendary dark elf assassins, the silent guard kept parrying the rest of the fighters’ attacks. Even Relik had to admit he had met his match.

“You’re in for a real treat. Time to pull out my favorite weapon.” The Assassin bragged.

In one hand was a small, scythe like sickle. Attached to the jagged farming implement was a metal skull at the end of a chain. The assassin threw the iron skull at the enemy. As he expected, the Phoenix guard tried to block it, only to get the weapon wrapped around the poll arm. With the entire warrior’s might, the guard yanked on the chain, pulling the assassin close enough to head butt. While he now had a splitting headache, the Dark Elf didn’t seem to mind. In fact he was smiling. All of a sudden a bloody oomph could be heard coming out of the Asur’s mouth.

With a grin, the assassin whispered into his prey’s ear: “I bet you saw that coming too, didn’t you?” He released his grip on the weapon, allowing it to loosen itself from the enemy’s halberd. On one of the straps on the Sevril’Relik’s leg, a bloodied spike retracted itself.

Another one of the Guardians gracefully swung his halberd at Arhedel. She was fast on her feet, but the speed and grace of her cousins were second to none. She tried her best to kill her attacker, but between him deflecting her bolts with his choice weapon and his deity’s divine protection, it was useless. Finally, he kicked the she elf to the ground. The warrior flipped his halberd so the spear tip of this weapon hoisted above her heart. He was going to finish this. That is if someone didn’t have anything to say about it.

With a bloody cry of pain, he looked down. More blood spewed from his lips then through the open wound the yellow scimitar caused.

“I thought you guys had a code of silence?” said the cocky voice of the owner, pulling his weapon out of his victim. He pushed the corps out of the way, and then extended a hand towards the woman. “My lady, this is no time to be sitting down.”

Arhedel took his hand and was pulled up. She gave a genuine smile, and then looked past the youth. “Watch out! Bow men!”

Ronin rapped the two of them in his cloak, and fell as close to the ground as possible, the arrows bouncing off his sea dragon cloak with ease. Sorebeck simply grunted as he placed both his arms in front of his face. Despite how sharp or how fast they were going, the arrows only seemed to do nothing more then get knotted up in its hair or bounce off his rock like skin. As for the assassin he simply hid behind the minotaur.

“Hay big guy, how far can you throw me?” Relik asked the beastman.

“As far as I want, little man.”

“How about as far as the bowmen?” With that the monstrous brute flung the assassin, blades first, into the chest of an unsuspecting victim.

The bowmen’s five compatriots took little time to fire another salvo at the assassin. Using the still breathing victim as a meat shield, he turned the bowmen towards the majority of the fire, swatting everything else out of the air with a dagger. With the quivers finally emptied, the assassin finally had a chance to look at his prey. They were very minimalistic, only having enough clothing to protect against costal winds, a thin sword, and a compound bow. They also had the ancient Naggarythian runes of murder etched into their right cheeks.

In an instant he knew who they were: the Shadow Warriors. Though they shared the same Nagarythian heritage of that of the Druchii, these warriors’ ancestors had sided with the Phoenix Kings since the beginning of the Sundering. They have lived a life as harsh as the Shades, and are as determined to wipe the Druchii out as the Druchii were of the Asur. They must have been drugged the whole trip to this city just to keep from causing an insurrection or biting off their tongues.

“You know, for soldiers with your kind of legends and rumors fluttering around you like black butterflies in the death fields, I was hoping for something a little more interesting to fight.”

The remaining High elves gave it their all, but they fought with more fury and hate then they did skill or precision. The Assassin, on the other hand, had all of them in droves. Since birth he was taught to despise his weak blooded kin, and trained to the highest caliber available. Whipping out his chained weapon he slammed the metal skull against the side of one of his attacker’s heads, smashing the right side of his skull in. Pulling it back, Relik rapped the weapon around one of the swords men’s arms, and pulled him in close. He spun the surprised foe just so he could see his brother stab him in the heart. Now with the scythe in hand, Relik brought the weapon down upon the final Shadow Warrior’s unprotected crown. Uncharacteristically of a Dark Elf, Relik managed to kill his foe swiftly and painlessly. For the last two, the assassin simply took out a pair of hand bows and filled them with bolts.

With fresh blood offered to his patron god, the elf was about to make a snide remark, only to have to dodge a few dozen arrows. He did it deftly enough, though, with no harm done to him, but a few arrows came too close to a few vital parts; some more sensitive than others.

“Great… more bowmen. Sorbeck, toss me at them, now!

With a smile Sorbeck flung the youth, blades first, into the bowmen. As was tradition, the younger, inexperienced warriors started their service in the rear, pelting the foe with arrows. After a few years they are accustomed to the horrors of war enough to fight in the front using the Asur long spear. As it was with these youths, they were between a hundred and eleven and a hundred and twenty. They were still children in the eyes of their elders, and had to wait another ten years before they should have received another ten years of training before they were even sent to battle. But for youth such as this to be captured in a fair that local garrison was either desperate for warriors or these youths were taken from a training camp.

Ronin dropped his sword and shield, and opted to test his new gauntlet swords. His father taught him how to wield them, how to make them, and how to let them sing. It was time to see if he had truly learned his lesson.

The first of the bowmen went down easily enough, a sword stroke cutting across this chest. They had no armor, and only their reflexes and a cheap sword to defend them. This was not enough. Even before shoving his blades into two more victims, Ronin knew this was going to be too easy. He had no more love for his homeland than his new compatriots, but he felt he needed to at least take these fools out as painlessly as possible.

At least this was the case with the ones not foolish enough to try to stab him in the back. Angered by this cowardice, Ronin shoved his elbow into the attacker’s gut, and then flipped him on his back. To ensure his fellows got the point, he split him in half from the crotch up. From there the crowed moaned and booed as the youth killed them all in recode time.

“Mother?” beckoned Malekith from his cautioned seat. “How long do you suppose this brawl has taken?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A quarter of an hour, maybe half an hour’s time?” she cooed. “I lost track of time with the assassin’s handy work.

“Hmm. It seems that our kin has become more weak blooded then I originally thought. Forgive us Khaine for giving you watered down gore to drink, but we will offer you the every living Asur by the time I am through with the isle.”

“Is there not one more obstacle our young Ronin must face before he shall be blooded in?”

Down in the pit, the victorious four caught their breath.

“The Spells and enchantments the high elves enjoy didn’t save their pretty asses this time, no offence kid.” said the assassin.

“None taken. The vanguard forces must have killed off most of the serious contenders. Except for the Phoenix guard and the Shadow Warriors, I doubt any one of them saw a single day of combat before today. All the same, don’t get too comfortable. We still have one more gate to go through. We can’t underestimate them yet.”

“Pff, if it’s like the riffraff we’ve just butchered, we’ll be done for my mid afternoon tea.” Despite Ronin’s warnings, the assassin went off gloating for another minute. Then the Underworld broke loose.

A dozen Sorceresses channeled the mystical winds of Chamon to warp the metal cover into a thick iron grate that covered the top of the pit. As the mettle cooled and reformed itself, a deep throated growl, a series of unsettling footsteps echoed though the arena. Without warning the last gate was torn from its bindings, and thrown at the warriors. From out of the darkness, one of the few noble creatures spawned from the chaotic rifts emerged: A War Griffon. With a blood curdling, and ear piercing sheik, it glared at the four across from it. Its long tongue licked its brown beak in anticipation. The white, brown, and black spotted feathers covering its body rose to intimidate the four puny morsels.

“You know those times where you need to just shut up because you are going to get us killed Ass-ass?” asked Arhedel Mithrandir. “This is one of those times. We are all going to die, and it’s all your fault!”

“Blame each other on the run, SCATTER!” yelled Ronin. They obeyed. No Sooner had they done so done the great beast lunge. While its flight was greatly hampered in the small arena floor, it could still pounce on its prey like the panther that formed its main body.

Each contender in the arena had little to no luck against the monster. None of Arhedel’s bolts had the power to do more then go through a layer of feathers and fur, and nothing else. Just the same, it was not thrilled with the idea of being pelted with the bolts and swatted the girl away.

Coming to the rescue, Ronin grabbed a bow, and took a shot in-between the beast hind legs. The shriek of pain made the nearby elves dizzy, their heighten sense of hearing becoming more of a cures at this moment. It didn’t take long for the likes of the Ronin to get his bearings and fire a few more arrows at the griffon. With its attention no longer on the girl, Ronin now had to figure out how to take it down. At least he was fast enough to dodge most of its swipes.

With a guttural war cry, Sevril’Relik ran along the back of the great beast and shoved his blades into its neck. Thrashing to and fro, the Griffon tried mightily to dislodge this annoyance, but the assassin would not move. Groping for a few of his more noxious brews, Relik poured as much as he could on to the open wounds before he was finally bucked off. Years of training had taught him how to handle this situation: Run like a Blood Thirster was after you and hope the poisons took effect! Since there was nowhere to go, he had to wear the beast out.

“We’ll need to have to keep that thing as active as possible to let the poisons run their cores.”

“How long will that take?” asked the Ronin, taking another pot shot at the monster.

“A half an hour at most, why?”

“We don’t have that time! Do you have anything that’ll work a little faster?” demanded Ronin as he dodged a swipe from the beast’s talons.

“I got a couple of vials of some of the new stuff the temple has been concocting, but it has to swallow it, or at least shoot it in…gods below us!” With that, one of the massive back paws kicked the assassin into one of the gates.

Licking its beak, the griffon lunged at the Ronin. With an audible crunch, Sorebeck came to the rescue. He held both the beast back and its jaws open. Bright florescent green oozed from the cracks on his scales as the pressure the mighty monster was putting on the old bull was more than his thick hide could handle. Sorebeck knew he couldn’t hold the beast for long, but it didn’t have to. He just needed to hold the Griffon back just long enough for Ronin to get back on his feet and fight.

Sevril’Relik, against his better judgment, climbed back on the griffon, tossing a vile to the Ronin, and another to Arhedel. “Dip your arrows in it and aim for the eyes.” With that he plunged both his toxic daggers back into the griffon’s neck, twisting them deeper into its flesh.

The two elves on the ground wasted no time dipping their arrow heads in the noxious paste. Both Arhedel and Ronin took aim and fired. Within a moment their weapons would penetrate the soft eyes of the creature, causing blood and pain to flow from it with untold measure. Thrashing from the sting, the griffon took out great chunks form the stone walls as he rammed itself against it. Screeching and terrified, it bucked both the assassin and the Minotaur into the metal grating above them.

Getting their timing correct, the two remaining elves loaded another toxic projectile, and waited. It didn’t take long for their adversary to screech at them again. They fired their last shot, penetrating the back of the creature’s throat. With one final roar, it was no more. Its fall shook the stadium and many a noble out of their seats.

“It’s over. You two can come down now!” yelled Ronin.

Relik and Soreack held on for dear life to the grating above, knowing a fall from this height in their condition would kill them. “No, we’re good, thank you.” yelled back the assassin. Without warning the metal began warping, snaking its way away from the arena. When the two combatants were close enough to the wall, it threw them into the walkway behind it.

With his iron hands, Malekeith began to applaud. Then came his mother, then Tullaris, and slowly but surely, the whole arena. “It brings me great pleasure and honor to award the Ronin all the rights and privileges given to all Druchii. He has shown great courage, cunning, brutality, and skill this past year. What his former people could not see within him we forged, refined, and polished.” With a daring leap the dark lord landed gracefully inside the blood stained arena floor. Despite the height he felt no worse than falling out of bed. “Kneel,” he commanded.

Ronin obeyed. The Witch King pulled out his sword, and aimed at the youth. It first landed gently on one shoulder, then another. With the blade under his chin, Ronin was ordered to rise. A request he was happy to take from anyone pointing a naked sword at his throat.

“Let it be known that this youth is no longer associated with the wrenched Asur race then we are, for he is baptized in their blood, and soon his name will be what brings terror to them all!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>>><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

That night at the Grand Palace, Ronin feasted. Tonight was to be his last in the City of the Executioners, and he was glad. While he counted his blessings for the allies and friends he had made, it felt hollow to him. This was the life his father tried so desperately to escape, and here he was, learning how live in it. He thought about this as he stood at the main dining hall’s baloney, staring at the soot filled sky.

“Why am I here, what am I doing here, and why am I doing this? Gods, tell me! I need to know.” He yelled. No one inside heard him over the music.

“You are here,” said a strong female voice. “Because you wish to survive. You are doing this to avenge the father you never knew, the mother who always loved you, and the man who treated you as his own flesh and blood. You are doing this because the blood of your friends who did not escape died needlessly, and that those that did who still met their fate at the end of an Asur’s spear, a weapon that should have been used to save them. You are here, my child, because you need to become strong. Survive the trials that lay ahead of you and I guaranty that not only will vengeance be yours but that Lillith will offer her forgiveness to thee.”

“Who is this?” demanded a scared Ronin. He turned around swiftly, darting his head left and right to single out the voice, but it was to no avail.

“All will be answered in time. Goodbye my child. Oh, a word from the wise: Show the Temple of Khaine much respect and you will live. Do not and you’re death will be as needlessly wasted as that of your parentage.”

These were words of wisdom indeed. He was here in the hellish, frozen lands the Dark Elves called home, a place he had come to call home. He would think about this from time to time, but for now even he felt he needed to attend the celebration. Quickly fixing the collar of his hand me down dress gown, he marched back to the feast.
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
Norelle
Executioner
Posts: 191
Joined: Sun Jun 05, 2011 11:19 am
Location: In the realm of my imagination...

Post by Norelle »

Cool, I wonder who the mysterious woman was?
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