Hawkseer

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Saintofm
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Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

Havn't done one of these in TOO long. Here we go.

As usual tell me how I did, where to improve, and as always tear this aprart like a manticore with an escaped slave.

Chapter 1. Between a Rock and a Hard Place


The Hawkseer cruise is a right of passage for any dark elf worth their weight in gold. A year long raiding voyage where nobles test their metal as leaders, and all test their skills as warriors. If done right, all those involved come home with vast amounts of wealth, and an early start to their to rise in power. If things go wrong, expext an untimely death, preferably in the heat of battle.
Other times…


Ronan leaned back in his saddle and let out a mighty yawn. “Are we there yet?”

“No, Master Ronan.” The knight next to him said. He wore drab colors, better to match his mood, Ronan thought. “We’ve only been on the road for three weeks, and it’s a month long journey at this rate, and we are making good time.”

“Yes, yes, you told me that before.” Groaned the young warrior. He tugged his sea dragon cloak a little tighter. It didn’t provide much warmth, but at least it kept the ever chilled wind these lands had in abundance off. “But explain to me why we are taking the long way? This time of year the coastal road is clear, and with the exception of some orc tribes, free of bandits. Not that an army this size couldn’t afford a bandit raid or two.” He said, his thumb pointing to the procession of Druchii that slithered as far back as the eye could see. The road was made for armies on the march, be they the savage beastmen, the brutish orcs, the scrawny goblins, or something as refined as the elves, allowing all a comfortable distance from one another.

“The other way was too hazardous. Cocatrices, manticors, and ragnarok spiders breed there in abundance.” The knight replied.

Ronan thought for a moment on this then stretched his arms. “Cocatrices are not stupid; they may attack a lone sentry at night, but otherwise they would give us a wide birth till they could find a weak spot. A manticore could pose a problem, but given the number and skill of the beastmasters that tagged they would either have it in chains or presenting its pelt as a gift to this week’s lord of Clar Karond. The other though, we can give their dens a wide birth. I’ve handled my share of spiders to see signs of the big ones.”

The knight shook his head with the proper disdain of his breeding. “The parents are not the problem; it’s the spiderlings.”

Ronan perked right up from his dreary mind at such a sentence. “Breeding season? Has it been fifteen years already?”

The knight nodded. “And the scouts of seen signs they are big enough to start exploring the outside world to find dens of their own. I do not know how much you know of spider reproduction, but there are bound to be hundreds, if not thousands of the buggars, all the size of a horse, and if they are not on the search for prey Mommy certainly is.” With a quick glare to Ronan it seemed his words sunk in. A longer glance told him not for the right reason. “And no, we cannot capture one.”

“Your no fun.” Ronan weakly protested.

“My orders were to get you and four hundred of other sons and daughters of nobility to the fleet for this year's raiding season. Fun will have to be a byproduct of another activity.”

“Can we go any faster?” Ronan asked in vein hope.

“No. Any faster and we would be found wanting should an opposing force choose to challenge us. Why isn’t any of this sticking in that thick head of yours.”

“House Kistal and house Hackto, that’s what.” Ronan snapped.

“An isolated incident.” The knight said with more disdain.

“One that keeps happening.” Ronan said. His face, his tone, even the way his body straitened, washed away his carefree manner he loved so much. “Thus far its been minor scuffles, but I am not sure how long we can keep this many rival families in one army occupied with something other than each other’s demise.”

“Why such concern for such fools?” The knight asked.

“Because who do you think they’ll target when they can’t get their foes?” Ronan asked back.

“I have taken that into consideration, and so has the Witch King. Look at the banners up front.”

Ronan obeyed the knight and looked. Purple and black war banners with the twisting dragon of Malekith. The black as sin armor told Ronan everything he needed to know. “Five banners? That’s over seven hundred black guard! Sheesh, this is going to be one hell of an Hawkseer fleet.”

“What would you expect with this many lords and ladies. We are leaving nothing to chance. Besides, what could go wrong here?”

Warning horns blared as dark riders sped past yelling for the retreat. One rider in Ronan’s view was turning his ink black stallion red with all the arrows sticking out of his back. The owners of such arrows were easy to spot by the shoddy craftsmanship, the haphazard manner many which the arrows stuck out, the acrid stench that overwhelmed the air, and of course, the squiring laughter. The fact a three dozen forest goblins astride spiders the size of mastiffs came bounding out of the forest, and a dozen more on equally large wolves also helped end the mystery.

The dour knight held back an annoyed gasp, and reached for his lance. “What are they doing here? The Spiderling migration should have had their attention!”

“And a group of prancing elves with shinies wouldn’t?” muttered Ronan just loud enough for the knight to hear. Before the knight could reply with a few choice words, Ronan kicked his spured heals into the flanks of his red nauglir. It never penetrated the reptile’s thick scales, but it was the signal she needed to go to battle. Leaping over a wagon, the ton and a half cold one crushed the first goblin and spider it came across. With a snap of her wide jaws she plucked a goblin from its confused mount, and tossed into the air and snaped the caitiff in half. With a snap of her mighty tail, another rider went flying in his spider squish on the return swing.

Ronan swore as viciously as his sword strikes, taking the crescent shaped head of a drummer that banged on the decapitated heads of elvin scouts. The return swing of Ronan’s cutlass split a rider’s head in half. The goblins tried striking him, but their weapons, even the looted elven spears, could not penetrate his armor, nor could the spiders find a place to jab with their fangs dripping with venom.

Goblins lacked the thick skulls of their orc cousins, and they were found wanting when it came to their spines. When the body parts piled up, and their slushing back forth with every step, many began turning tail. Two by two then three by six, they ran, and the coldone gave chase.

By now the knight had arrived with a retinue of well armed and better armored cavaliers, all with mounts hungry for goblin flesh. With a thunderous charge, the neither goblin nor wolf stood a chance. What wasn’t run through with the lance or bit in half was trampled under muscular rear legs. Cold ones walked and even trotted on all fours, but on the run it was the pure muscles of the rear legs that propelled them. It was all that was needed for quick bursts, and leaving they front claws to slash and grapple prey.

When the goblins were pounded into past, the young nobles howled and bellowed in delight. Numb from the excitement and the ointment that prevented the coldones from seeing their master’s as prey, they could not see what Ronan felt. In vein he called out, but they ignored him. They paid with their lives as green landslide of goblins overwhelmed them. Knights were crushed under the number of the enemy, the soft underbellies of their mounts were shredded with dull daggers and sharp fangs. Those that held strong broke free, but it was too little too late.

Wading above the green tide a massive spider the size of a team of oxen made its casual trek towards the killing. Upon its hairy back sat the ugliest goblin Ronan had ever laid eyes on, and he had seen his share. Sitting upon a makeshift throne of bones, with a thick belly, and an ever grinning with needle like teeth, he lazily sipped wine from an elvin helm.

“Fall back!” The dour knight commanded. “Fall back.” His helm was missing, and his armor badly dented. His black cold one was no better shape, with a spear still lodged in its left eye, and pox marked with stab wounds throughout.

“Swell idea.” Ronan groaned between sword swipes. “Get behind the wagons. Hopefully the other warriors will have gotten off their arses long enough to share the fun.”

Without further delay they ran back to relative safety. Dreadspears swarmed around the retreating knights, forming a defensive wall of shields and spikes. It wasn’t long before the clang of battle erupted behind them.

Ronan dismounted, shoving what air he could find down his throat along the way. The knight did likewise, and began removing spears from his prized beast of war. More knights, and now a dozen executioners had arrived to shore up the defenses. Calls for crossbow shots could be heard throughout he procession, accompanied by the hellish shrieks of witch elves itching to join the battle not far from them. Yet there was one black tide of elite killing machines that were still missing.

“Where in the Underworld are the Blackguard!?” Ronan yelled.

“Over there, dreadlord.” Said a spearman, pointing towards the left side of the road with his heavy bladed hooked spear. Ronan hardly could believe it but he was not surprised. The road was sandwiched between a steep forested hill on one side, and a sloping cliff face on the other. There the blackguard held a wave of spider riding goblins. As expected the blackguard held their ground with dire stoicism. Also as usual they put every warrior to shame with the way they worked their halberds.

“This was a trap!” Ronan hissed.

“Ridicules. greenskins lack the brains for this.” The knight retorted.

“Then what would you call that?” Ronan hissed back.

It was hard to notice another landslide of brawn and less brains coming down the hill. From their near nonexistent necks, to their bulbous tumor like noses, this was the ugliest bunch. It was also the tallest and least armored. By now the bolt throwers were brought out, making what should have been lethal shots. Even ogres, who were resilient to pain and could keep fighting even with the most grievous of wounds, would drop dead with a three foot bolt through the skull, or a half dozen skewering their chest.

Only trolls had the ability to heal from such wounds, pushing the barbed bolts out as their flesh restored itself. It also didn’t that a trolls notorious lack of intellect prevented them from caring about such inconveniences.
Then an idea hit Ronan in the head.

“Do we have any dragon’s fire?” He asked quickly.

“About twelve cases available, why?” Asked the dour knight.

“Trolls do well crispy.” Ronan said, his face contorting to a devilish grin underneath the silk scarf covering his face.

The look on the dour knight, though priceless, was not what Ronan hoped for. “Neither will the forest, you fool!”

“You have a better idea with that many trolls?” Ronan shot back.

“The drought has hit this part hard. A spark could light this whole thing up, and us with us!”

“Then excuse me.” Ronan Cleared his throat, swallowed some foul smelling concoction that soothed his throat, and brought out a mega phone. “The goblins are trying to steel our supply of hashish! They just took a wagon’s worth up the hill!”
With that lie, and an obvious one at that, Ronan’s cunning plan came to fruition. With Savage howls, elves of all ranks charged the enemy, running down even the strongest of the goblin’s forces. It was only for a few moments, but it left a much needed dent in the enemy line.

“Aw, Slaneshiis. Oh how predictable.” Ronan Sighed.

“Their coming back!” the knight said.

Ronan knew what to do. “I want a perimeter along the forest side of the path. Anyone not helping the black guard swat bugs will shoot at what every is still breathing up there! Spearmen, form up behind them. When the first volleys are done, melt back into your comrades and wait for my command!”

As the elves complied to Ronan’s voice of reason, dark riders came crashing down the path. Behind each rider rode along the ever lovely forms of damsels of darkly beauty. As they one by one lined up behind the black guard, another set began waving rods at the rampaging hordes above. The first set of damsels slammed both hands to the ground with deafening cracks. With fearful squeals part of the cliff face began sliding off, grinding any goblin in its path too slow to get out of the way. At least that was what Ronan thought. Upon closer inspection, there was no escape. The entire side of the cliff for as far as Ronan could see had slid off, taking the goblins with it.

The other side was not so lucky. Black bolts of disturbing power radiated trolls and goblins till only black husks remained. Another maiden tossed out pebbles from a sack like a farmer with seeds. Despite their small size, each one packed a punch. The moment they landed purple portals to unnerving realms opened and consumed whatever they contacted. Those more attuned to nature, commanded the pine needles to turn into steel barbs and hurl themselves into the goblins, or enchanted the pine cones to explode with fiery might as the wind tossed them at the trolls. The last to arrive was a blue skinned beauty, unleashing a frigid gale that crystallized the enemy’s blood in their veins.

With sorcerers might the goblins and their pets were pushed back. Even the trolls were smart enough to know when they were beaten and ran back uphill. The Goblin king did likewise, falling back as his minions routed. Ronan let out another smile as he saw a familiar glint in the woods. Crossbow bolts pelted the retreating army, and warriors wielding dagger, ax, and sword crept from the shadows like phantom panthers on the hunt. From their midst a black clad warrior with his hair pulled back into a short pony tail lunged at the goblin king. With a quick stroke of his sickle the goblin’s head was freed from his body. The Spider bulked at the new rider, at least until a heavy bladed knife turned the top of its head into mush. The black clad warrior rebound from the falling spider, and continued his work of death.

In an hours’ time any goblin still remaining were caressed by sacrificial daggers, as were what dark elves the doctors could not treat. Plenty of time to regroup and recover. Despite the initial surprise, the training, elven casualties were minimal. More death was caused by a few enterprising youths venting their wrath on their ancestral rivals instead of the clear and present danger. Elvin pride, Ronan sadly noted, made it too easy to underestimate the barbaric greenskins, and many paid for it in blood. Still, had the sorceress’ not finished their mediation when they did, the death toll would have been greater, as would the number of slaves and warriors were dragged kicking and screaming back to the goblins’ camp would have been.

Ronan drank greedily from his water skin as messengers ran back and forth giving him reports. On a whim he set a goblin’s pinky on his cold one’s snout. With the mantra of “stay,” Ronan controlled the beast’s desire to snap at the tiny morsel for three whole minutes. “Now!” With that command, the coldone ate her piece. For her patience, Ronan grabbed a badly trodden pheasant and tossed it into her awaiting maw.

“I see you are laying about.” The dour knight said with the praise of a irritated tyrant.

“Calm down.” Ronan snapped back.

“Calm down? Calm down!?” the knight replied, each word more unnerved then the last. “My reputation is on the line here, and you are asking me to be calm!”

“Yes.” Ronan said simply.

“Many a noble is dead on my watch are dead! A number of valuable slaves were slain or dragged off, as were a hundred of our soldiers. And they were done by goblins of all things! Stupid goblins!” the knight continued to list of gripes, all of which Ronan ignored.

This continued long after the black clad warrior tossed Ronan the head of the enemy’s leader. “Got you something, boss.” He said casually. He had the brass eyes of a devotee of Khaine, with a tattooed line that lead to the jaw under each eye. “He was easy.”

“As usual, you did a fine job, Relik.” Ronan said, with a raised empty water skin.

“You know this Khainite?” the knight gasped.

“Know him? I make sure he never has to worry about his day job.” Ronan Replied. “Besides, its always good to have a Assassin of Khaine on your side.”

“I do not trust their ilk.” Growled the knight.

“I don’t care if you trust him, but you better thank him; that and the sorceresses. They need to be given compensation for such potent magic.”

“The black guard have already done so.” Said the blue skinned sorceress. She was lovely to look at; large in breast, and donning a skin tight black riding suit that covered her body save for her right arm, reveling a red scar that grew as it snaked up from her finger to past her shoulder. Her large locks of hair was pulled back, giving her face the appearance of a swooping hawk after a rabbit.

“Apparently they took the liberty of passing along our noble commander’s share of the loot to them.”

“They what?” The knight sqeeled.

“If the path was as secured as you claimed it was, we wouldn’t have been in this mess.”

“You dare talk to me like that, wench!” the knight bellowed.

Before the two could come to blows, Ronan’s cold one stepped between them. “Good girl, flower.” Ronan tossed his mount another chunk of meat, this one goblin in origin. “We can deal with this later. We have company.” Before the knight could protest, Ronan spun him till he saw the procession of black knights trotting up the road.

There didn’t seem to be and end to them, but at least a battalion or two’s worth were making their way towards them. Lances were at attention; not tilted for battle, but not resting harmlessly on their lance arms either. With horns blaring, they halted just far enough back to build up momentum.

Ronan pulled out his spyglass. They had no distinct markings on their armor, not even trophies like enemy skulls as was custom for the lords and ladies of this land. They also had an unnerving amount of uniformity about them. Most warriors distinguished themselves in some manner, but not them. Without warning or threat, a dozen knights continued to move forward.

Ronan spotted the leader in the middle; though he had to look hard to find him. His lance may have had the same thick blade as the others, but his sword was longer and thicker then the long swords his fellows had.

Ronan grabbed one of the messengers as he ran passed, nearly dragging the youth to the ground as he went. “Get me the commander of the black guard and a few dozen warriors. We have large squadron of dread knights, and their leader wants to talk.” A few silver coins entering the youth’s hands made sure the deal was sealed.

“Surly you don’t think that was nessisary.” The dour knight moaned.

Ronan Ignored him. He simply mounted up and rode to greet the new comers. The knight did likewise, with Relik and the sorceress not far behind them. By the time the two groups met, the Black guard Tower Master and his own detachment of guard had arrived.

“Impeccable timing, Master.” Ronan Said with a salute.

“We try our best.” The black guard said, returning the salute.

“If black guard are here, then this must be the three legions worth of souls heading for the Breadbaskit of the Land of Chill.” The Dreadknight said coldly. “Who was in charge of this operation.”

“I still am.” The dour knight replied. “Master Kes Martir, at your service.”

“I can live without that foolishness.” The Dreadknight. Ronan was not sure if he should laugh or luck dumbfounded by that statement; a sentiment shared by his two retainers. The black guard, if they had an opinion to that matter, hid it behind their typical stone faces. “This area has been a war zone between the Goblin King Crackmoon and the Witch King’s Black Watch for the past five months.”

“The Black Watch?” Whimpered Ronan.

Ronan had heard of them, in the same way one hears about phantoms over a few drinks at the camp fire, or how an old war hero got his various scars on a feast day. An eleite band of warriors; the unwanted cast offs of the society elite. Most were the bastard children of lords and ladies with little hope of climbing the political or military latter; others were cast off from their families for one transgression or another. Some were the remnants of houses that could no longer defend themselves from their rivals. Regardless they were Malekith’s personal legion of warriors. When the black guard were not enough, this legion was sent. When a foe absolutely needed to be decimated, they were called.

“Fool?” The dour knight parroted back. “I was hand chosen by Malekeith for Khaine’s sake.”

“Did you not find the threats of the area?” the dread knight scolded. “Did you not hear this area has been in constant battle long before you stopped sucking on your mother’s tit?”

“I heard there was a goblin problem.” The dour knight replied.

“A problem?” The dread knight snorted. “That is being generous. Every land caravan has been raided, five large armies decimated; did this not reach your ears.”

“It did, Dread Knight.” The commanding Black Guard muttered. “He just didn’t think it was important enough to have more soldiers on the ready, or risk the spider migration.”

“Aw, the spiderlings…They may be the size of oxen, but a few bolts is enough to kill a few. Oh, and did you know they are cannibals? That would have been enough to keep you safe.” The Dread Knight glared at the would be commander of this procession. Ronan wished he could see the face beneath that helm. Oh, how glorious his fear must be. But he never got that opportunity.

“The Assault was repelled.” The dour knight replied. What strength he had left must be faltering, Ronan thought. After years of training he could detect a slight flutter in an otherwise pride soaked tenor

“And by whom?” The knight demanded.

“The knight on the red coldone, Dreadknight.” The black guard said. “He was the first to charge the enemy, the first to detect their retreat was a set up for a trap, and the first to organize the rest of the column. It was his assassin that finished off their highest ranking officer.”

“Do you have proof of this.” The Dreadknight simply asked, his tone unchanging.

Ronan tossed him the severed head of what appeared to be the goblin king. The knight handed it to one of his cohorts who took out a black gem stone that glowed once it came in contact with the waxy skin.

“This is him.” Said the knight. “This will take the bite out of them.”

“Dragons above us, this is fine news!” The Dreadknight signed.

Ronan, though much more relaxed, held up a hand to interrupt the celebration. The sudden movement drew the attentions of a few lancers, but the Dreadknight signaled them to stand down. “They dragged off a hundred slaves meant for the fees, and a hundred warriors. Shall we get them back with interest now they are in disarray?”

“Agreed.” Said the Dreadknight. “We will need someone to lead the assult.”

“What about me?” the dour knight whined.

The Dreadknight replied with a swift stroke of his sword. “What about you?” He asked just as the other knight’s head hit the dirt. “What of you, knight?” The dreadknight asked Ronan.

Ronan simply pulled the hood of his sea dragon cloak, the horned head and skull of the beast that made it, over his head, adding a much needed air of intimidation. “I Ronan Hydra Kin accept the responsibility of leadership.”

“Good.” Said the Dreadknight. “And your first decree?”

“The children of nobility in our group are still itching for battle. Let the goblins scratch it.”
Last edited by Saintofm on Mon Feb 15, 2016 7:32 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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Calisson
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Calisson »

Fine story, however, there are too many small irritating imperfections which spoil the pleasure to read.

Please separate clearly your comments (first two lines) from the story itself. Could be a different color, italics,...

Check for the appropriate use of capital letters, grammar and punctuation. Do not publish until serious double-check is done, otherwise it ruins the reading:
Ronan Leaned => Ronan leaned.
“No, master Ronan.” The knight next to him said. =>
“No, Master Ronan”, the knight next to him said.
better to match his mood Ronan thought. =>
better to match his mood, Ronan thought.
the procession of druchii => the procession of Druchii
something as refined as the elves => something as refined as the Elves
manticor => manticores
Cocatrice are => Cocatrices are
but the number of beast masters here would =>
but number of beast masters here would [comment: the subject is BM, not their number]
“Your no fun.” Ronan weakly protested. => “You're not fun”, Ronan weakly protested.
this years Raiding season. => this year's raiding season.
nurglir=> nauglir
cavalires => cavaliers
the neither goblin nor wolf stood a chance => neither goblin nor wolf stood a chance
Those that held strong broke free, but it was too little too late. => Those that held strong broke free, but it was a little too late.
...
I'll let you firgure out for the rest of the text.
Winds never stop blowing, Oceans are borderless. Get a ship and a crew, so the World will be ours! Today the World, tomorrow Nagg! {--|oBrotherhood of the Coast!o|--}
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Saintofm
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

Working on edits now. Thank you.
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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Saintofm
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

Just finished this second chapter today and did a once through for spelling. Will do one again in the morning (looking at the time) the sunlit hours of the morning. Hope you enjoy, and if you can think of a better chapter title please do so.


Chapter 2, Bloody Buisness

The warning bells were alerted throughout Clar Karond as a long precession of warriors marched ever closer to their door. A Signal horn was blurted out, met in kind by the oncoming army. With relaxed sighs, the defenders set their weapons in a safe position, though still on the ready.

Leading the parade of this walking threat of violence was Ronan and his black knights. “I am Ronan Hydra Kin, here with the Sons and Daughters of Ghround, Naggrond, Har Ganneth, and Hag Greif for their hawkseer cruises, and warriors to bolster the gain of gold and glory for this city!”

The sea dragon cloak donning city guard replied in kind with gold and glory. From amongst them an officer strong in body marched forward and saluted the young knight. Ronan saluted back and nodded his head in respect.

“Ronan Hydra Kin. If half the rumors about you is true, we are bound to have some good times on your hawkseer cruise. Are you ready?”

“Of course.” Ronan replied kindly. “I am going to interesting placed, meeting interesting people, and bringing them back in chains.” He along with the city guard got a good hearty laugh at that.

“I apologize, but there is a toll for visitors. The Lords here try to fill their coffers however they can.” The officer said.

Ronan simply tossed him the head of the Goblin King. “We have dealt with the goblin problem in the land; and have brought enough of the squealing pests for every man, woman, and child in this city to offer ten sacrifices to the temples.” With a snap of the fingers, the knights parted, revealing caged cart after cart filled to the rim with snarling goblins, whimpering and uttering insults in equal measure.

“Let them through! Let them though!” The officer yelled.

With that out of the way, Ronan lead the precession through the city to the dockyard. The smell of sweat, salt, and fish filled Ronan’s nostrils. For others this would be a horrendous stench, but for one born to a sea side kingdom such as Ronan, it might as
well be the welcoming scent of a lover’s perfume. The streets were narrow, and the buildings tall with arrow slits for windows; the perfect defence against the ever rare attacker.

It was an hour’s march before they reach the first set of docks, and offloaded the cargo, and another hour before they made it to their destination. To Ronan’s surprise, other lords had arrived. There had to be a six hundred highborn here, and another four hundred that still breathed with him. Add the sorceresses and the beastmasters, and you had a full legion with just them.

“How in the underworld do they expect us to get anything done with this many nobles ploughing the seas?” Ronan hissed.

“Who know, brother, but I like a good challenge.” Said a highborn. He was dressed and armored lightly, with robes that combined extravagance and practicality in equal measure. On his left was a long thin blade with a large elegant guard and handle. On his right was a thin dagger, perfect for parrying blades and getting through the chinks of armor. “I am Chersyum.”

“Ronan.” Said with a Salute. “The greatest swordsman to grace the Druchii since Anerion. That about right?”

Chersyum nodded with approval. “Aye. And you would be the one the most vicious of hydra would follow as if it were a lost puppy, and the one cold one’s obey without needing that ointment. I think there maybe only a dozen elves alive like this; and you would be the third one I’ve met with that gift.”

“Oh?” This piqued Ronan’s interests. “Who are the other two.”

“One would be me.” Said a noble, on a blue cold one that held a long ore in its maw as a dog carries a stick. Her rider lazily carried a large bladed glaive on his shoulders, while bearing a cloak made from the hide of a reptile; judging from the scale pattern a nurglire like her rode upon.

“Aw, Lacertus. Glad you could get away from business to have some fun. This is Ronan…”

“I know of him. My father spoke highly of him when he was in Ghround. Although I am still not sure what he meant by his queer character.” Lacterus said in a humblest of tones.

“And your father is?” Ronan asked, his mood shifting between insulted and gratitude.

“Drachau Malus of Hag Greif.” Lacertus said.

“That demon infested drunkard?” Ronan coughed. “Oh, I am so sorry you have to put up with him.”

“He has his moments.” Lacertus said with a shrug. “And speak of the devil, there he is.”

Malus appeared on his black cold one Spite on a raised platform. Gongs and chimes alerted all to his presence, and all were silent. “I am Drachau Malus of Hag Greif; and yes I am the very Darkblade that is the hand of Malekeith. I am here today to welcome you in this grand experiment.” He paused to catch his breath and for a bit of effect. “You will all join together on a mission to capture loot, slaves, and an army of monsters to be used against our most hated kin. To do so you must work together. To ensure that this will succeed, you shall ride in style upon my personal Black Ark: The Crown of Darkness. Behold, your chariot of glory!”

Thunder rumbled and flashed in the swarming black clouds. Piercing though them a towering city; a grand spacious building that floated just above the surf. Yet for all its grandeur, Ronan could help but snicker at the many towers that priced the sky; especial a long cylinder shaped one with a ushoom shaped cap in the center.

“We’re all thinking the same joke, right?” Ronan asked. TO his relief the other sons of nobility indicated as much. “Glad I’m not the only immature one here.”

“No, but you are the only one that does not deserve to be here with us.” Said a stranger’s voice. It belonged to a stripling just a little older then Fairoun, dressed in armor shimmering gold armor, and draped in the deepest purple cloak. At easy reach of his hands were a pair of well-loved sabers, pampered in their gem encrusted sheaths. Yet Ronan had fought enough foes to tell when this was a pampered callow prince and a true killer. The way his arms had an air of lazy tension, the placements of his feet for support, the glare in his eyes; all telltale signs of the latter.

“Gorindo, now is not the time.” Lacertus said, stepping between the two.

Ronan Dismounted. With fingers dancing on his cutlass, he weighed his options. For now he would hold his tongue. “Fair enough.” Ronan told Lacertus.

“We’ve been gone fifteen minutes and you are already getting into a fight?” said a voice in a tone only a disappointed fiancé could make. It belonged to a lovely female, covered in mail and plate armor, save for her head as she held her helm on the trophy hook meant for an enemy skull. Her face was unblemished, oval, and peach in tone, while long amber hair flowed freely. The armor prevented Gorindo from seeing how the rest of her body was truly formed, but he was sure it was as lovely as her face.

“My, my; what a delicate flower. Maybe I should pluck your petals to see what is beneath.” Gornida said with all the slavering sleaze of a cesspool. So entrapped by her looks, that Gorindo failed to notice Ronan, nor his naked blade till his breastplate clanged against the flat of it.

“Touch her and die!” Ronan growled, his eyes going from the comforting green to blood drenched red.

“You really want to do that? I think I got you outnumbered!” Gorinda said. With the snap of a finger, a dozen warriors came forward, with one hand on his shield, and their other freeing their strait bladed swords.

Ronan simply smiled at the show of force. The woman Gorindo leered at leveled a repeating crossbow at them. From the shadows, Relik appeared with a pair of daggers and a mousy young girl armed with razor sharp throwing stars. Others came with more sorcerous armaments. The Blue Skinned Sorceress readied her staff for an unearthly chill. Another sorceress, fair of skin, with short black hair, brought her hands together till an unstable ball of lightning, while another earthier elven lady enchanted her allies with a green healing glow.

Behind them a pair of swordsmen stood on the ready, while another Elven lass, and two human girls awaited to see what could happen. One girl had the light complexion of a girl of a more mountainous region of the Sigmarite Empire, short brown hair with some blond streaks, and a nervous disposition and humble build and dress. The other human was slightly older and had the obsidian skin found with the Nooban Kingdom between Araby and the Lands of the Dead. Light in breast, heavy in hip, she was interesting looking, Gorindo thought. The elvin girl, between them must have her moments, he thought, but was too young to have the build to truly entertaining.

However, the most vicious of the group was easy to spot. Wearing little more than a loin cloth, bandages to keep her bosom in place, and a leering demon mask, was a Sister of Slaughter; a gladiatrix armed with scourge and bladed buckler. He had seen gladiatorial matches where one slaughtered ten Witch Elves of Khaine, and five brought down a rouge manticore.
“Gorindo, allow me to introduce my my retinue.” Ronan said with all the restraint of a volcano ready to explode. “Relik is an assassin of Khaine. His little protégé is a servant of mine named Sulfura. The blue skinned beauty is Sepacuna. The One with the lightning ball is Yoofeemia, and the one with the healing spells is Pupilla. My scribe, map expert, and medic are from Asure, to Empire, to Nooban are Frontini, Helga, and Zintat respectfully. Kanel and Lustel are the two bleak swords in front of them and well worth their weight in silver. Swift silver is the one that can take your head off with a whip, and the one that can take the hat off a high elf from a thousand yards is Arhedel. Want to piss me off further?”
When one of Gorndo’s thugs stepped forward, it was Flower’s turn to let loose a menacing growl. “And I am sure you are well acquainted with my mount: Flower.

“That runt?” Scoffed one of Gorindo’s warriors. “Word has it he doesn’t need the Knight’s Ointment to ride the thing. I bet I could walk up to it and…”

Get one one’s head bitten off. With a one good snap, iron helm and all, was crushed and ready to go down the reptile’s expanding gullet.

“What part of flesh eating reptile, sharp teach and sharper claws did you not get?” Roanna hissed.

“He was my best warrior!” Gorindo hissed back.

“He was also an idiot.” Ronan shot back.

Before the two could come to blows, Ronan was tackled by a squealing girl in heavy armor. Between them and Gorindo, a massive black stallion of a pegasius. Large enough to give an ogre a run for its money in strength, it also had a grace only a warhorse could hold.

“OH, I haven’t had a chance to thank you for keeping the other nobles in line after the goblin raid.” She said. Ronan could only thank his heavy armor that her bear hug didn’t constrict him further.

“Goblin raid? What raid?” The pompous noble asked incredulasly.

“Apparently Ronan did what five armies and ten of the wealthiest Dreadlords could not do: Kill Crackmoon and wipeout his entire tribe.” Lacertus said. “I expect the soldier taxes will go down, but the wealth will only rise for the great cities.”

“And who are you?” Gorindo finally asked, his right arm pointing viciously at the new armored damsel.

“Sinestra Skyborn; Eldest daughter of the Fulkrum Shadow Eye.”

“She is also the favored niece of Morathi’s right hand Supreme Sorceress: Nagra Formidine.” Lacertus added.
Gorindo and his surviving thugs stepped back. There were few names that were uttered that could send a primal fear in the heart of even the most hardened of elves; Malekeith, Tyrion, Tullaraus, Black Guard, Kuron, Malekeith’s inner council, Teclis, Phoenix Guard, Chosen of Chaos, Bloodthirster of Khorn; all names that would put the fear of the gods in even the most lack wit of elves. Nagra, whose cruel experiments chilled even the vile blood of the Druchii, was hand forged by the gods to be on that list.

“Eh Hem.” Arhedel exhaled. “Please release my fiancé. He’s no use to me not breathing.”

Sinestra grasped, her hands trembling at her mouth. Before she should utter her apologies in rapid fire precession, Ronan was face first on the dirt. “I am so sorry. I just get so excited, and…SHE’S SO BLUUUE!” Before Ronan got his brain to readjust to blood flooding into it, it was his sorceress’ turn to feel the squeeze.

Lacertus let out a smile that was both genuine and terrifying at such a sight. “As much fun as this has been, I believe my Father is done expounding on the ‘virtues of Druchii culture’ and back on point.”

“And so it is,” Malus continued. “that when every Noble Born comes of age, they go on a hawkseer cruise to test their mettle both as warriors and as commanders. All others here, the Beastmasters, the sorceresses, and the rank and file common blood do likewise when they are of age, though for different reasons. Yet we all share the same goal, the same desires: Blood and Glory! Gold and Power! It is here for the taking, and you shall be the ones that grasp it in your fingers! If you survive our tests of course.”

There were low rumbling of whispers and murmur from the throng. All of this was unusual, all of this felt like it was a trap. The intellectual part of Ronan’s mind told him to be wary of the other striplings; the animal part of him told him to be wary of Malus. He still had nightmares from working with him last, and he’d hoped to be as far away from Malekeith’s Master of Arms as much as possible.

“Those of you that are retainers, and not going to test your skill in leadership, spell craft, or the taming of wild beasts but skill of arms: move to the schooners and Dragon Corvettes.” Malus Darkblade commanded, pointing his sword, a blade that radiated its own kind of evil, towards ships of black polish frames and red sails. “The rest of you louts; the sons and daughters of Dreadlords; the beastmasters; the sorceresses: You will take the stone dock leading towards the black ark. Between you and the welcoming halls is a whole tribe of ogres that have been paid to do one thing and one thing only: Kill every last one of you darkblades!”

The insult cut deep for many a lordling. There was a Druchii saying: Maternity is certain; knowledge of the father not so much. Those known to be the bastard children were often given the cruel name of Darkblade; a shoddily made sword more likely to break then kill your enemy. Those that were tended to be like Malus: Ambitious in the extreme. Despite his successes or perhaps due to him the name still meant bastard none the less.
“I want each of you to kill at least one ogre. There will be a line of safety that will allow you to pass once the deed is done. As long as one of you lot remain that have yet to pass such a simple task, the barrier will remain up. Should there be no more elves that need to pass the test or ogres left to slay stand before this lane, then it will fall. Now go! Time is money, and yours is running out!”

With little hesitation, the elves leaped onto their steeds, mounted their chariots, or just started running towards the enemy.

“Relik, Arhedel, Sepacuna: Take care of the others for me.” Ronan asked gently.

“We always do love.” Arhedel answered. With a strong tug, she pressed her lips upon Ronan’s till his bruised. “There is more where that came from should you survive.”

Ronan needed no more encouragement then that. With one leap, he landed on his saddle and rode off to death and glory. Gorindo, not wanting to be outdone, followed suit, as did Lacertus and Chersyum. All that remained were the entourages of Ronan and Gorindo. One glare from Relik’s brass eyes was enough to send them away, but he had a feeling this would not be the last time they would have to deal with the louse.

:badh: :badh: :badh:

Fleetmaster Tritak Red Tide was not a man given to extravagance. He certainly had his moments. His crown made of gold and lined with large emeralds was one. His cutlass and katar enchanted to go through armor like a dragon goes through a herd of sheep was another. However, the most expensive was the nearly nude plaything on his lap. She was lightly muscled, having spent much of her time pleasuring her master, but much of her warrior glory remained. A few scars here, the faded tan lines from a helm’s visor; and the ever present glare on her face. Combined with her long raven hair, denoted her as a Nagarythian; traitor kin who shared his race’s ancestral home but chose to side with the weak willed Asure instead. She was worth every copper.

As he drank deeply of her crimson lips, a messenger arrived. He bowed before handing one of the halberd wielding guards a letter. When the deed was done he was dismissed. The guard read the letter, then nodded to his Red Tide.

With a cruel smile he pushed the girl aside, and placed a boot upon her back. “Bring out the Weirding mirrors.” A pair of ogres yanked on heavy chains with guttural grunts and some flatulence as a seemingly delicate mirror was raised from the ground. It was thirty sword lengths wide and nearly as high, with a polished silver frame and a sickly green glass. Nearby four sorceresses of great power grasped the hair of four innocents so their exposed throats would dangle above a large crystal. On and off it would glow a faint green to the rhythm of a heartbeat in its brass holder. With a slip of the dagger, blood mingled with tears upon the crystal, and the beating took a sudden allegro.

“Mirrior, Mirror!” Red Tide Bellowed. “Show me Malekeith, the Witch King, and show unto him I and my court!”

The mirror obeyed. First as a spark, then as an explosion of light till the phantom forms of the Witch king in all his bleak glory on his black marble throne, and that of his council: one hundred of the deadliest and most conniving of all elves.

“We are ready.” Malekeith simply said.

“Yes.” Red Tide said, with all the bravery he could muster. Even the humblest image of the black hearted lord of the Dark Elves was enough to steal the courage of the bravest of elves, and no fleetmaster gained their position by being cowardly. “The experiment is moving swimmingly. Mirror, Mirror, show some of the hopefuls for this grand plan of our Lord’s!”

The Mirror complied. While the center remained on Malekeith and his entourage, the far right was reserved for the hopefuls dying the fastest, and the far left was for those that stood a chance. Each hopeful, be they sorceress, beastmaster, or lordling took the space of a large platter. All changed periodically, the ones the mirror deemed least of concern usually after they went splat, while the elves with the best chances changed to show them all, except for the ten the Mirror felt would be most promising.

Near the top of the list was Gorindo. “Aw my King, this one should be interesting. Mirror, Enlarge and show the name of the most promising lord.”

The mirror complied. Gorindo was shown leaping upon the strongest and most heavily armored and armored ogre. It swiped at him with an oversized cutting blade from the orient, slashing knight and cold one in two as if they were paper dolls. Gorindo landed upon his foe’s chest, and with a swipe of his twin blades, the ogre’s head was no more. As he rushed forward to his next foe, the mirror wrote down the glory he had achieved, and what a foe would wish to know.

“Your boy definitely going to have a golden future.” Chuckled one of Malekeith’s inner circle as he poured himself winter wine.

“Of course he is.” Said another lord. He sat at the end of the table, the most recent vacancy for Malekeith’s advisors. “He has been trained to achieve nothing short of this.”

“Yes, but he is easily riled up. He has more pride then a squadron of knights, and the libido of a temple’s worth of Atharttians.” Said a sorceress advanced in years, though her spell work hid most of it well enough.

“Yes, the temple of Atharti has already bared him from their sacred grounds.” Morathi, Mother of Malekeith replied. While her son was the image of terror, she was the image every elven boy has of the Lustful Goddess Atharti.

“Yes, but his swordsmanship seems to get him out of most predicaments.” Said another of the Inner Council. “Let us hope he keeps his luck up.”

“Move to the Next one.” Malekeith commanded. “He bores me.”

If Gorindo’s father felt insulted, he hid it well. The next to be showcased was Lacertus. “The Darkblade’s own bastarard.” He bellowed to the laughter of his fellow highborn.

“Actualy they are legally married.” Said a Morathi with a sickly smile. “The Temple of Khaine has assured me of such.”

“I see.” Said Malekeith. “He is the last to seek battle, but that is due to wanting to build alliances. But he does seem willing to slaughter with ease.” With a motion of his clawed gauntlet, the image enlarged till all could see Lacertus hack off an ogre’s arm and head in one swift blow of his glaive. With another downward swing, he split another ogres head crown to chin with little effort, but all the delight of a madman.

“I thought he was the quit type?” Asked one of the ladies of court.

“He is, but this is when he allows a little fun in his life.” Said another. “Glad that’s the case. Such a tightly bound ball of control is unnatural for an elf his age.”

“Wish I could say the same for his betrothed.” Said another. The Screen widened to another warrior, this time a woman that shrieked with hellish delight as she smote her foes apart. “Dea has her moments, but she has little self-control”

As the inner court bickered more elves were showcased. Chersyum, a duelist who’s one true desire was to start a school of swordsmanship so he can train the greatest swordsmen of the elves, and dueled what the world had to offer and steel their secrets. So skilled, a simple thrust from his rapier was enough to drop an ogre.

Other elves were more destructive. Barus stood on his staff as it blazed across the bridge with childish laughter. Once it stopped, the weapon changed to an ax more than capable of splitting an ogre from head to crotch.

“Was that magic he used?” gasped one of Red Tide’s guards.

“Yes.” Red Tide confirmed. “He may have slugs for brains, but he has some skill in the arcane. Had he any ambition or a desire to spread his seed, we would have had him bound in chains years ago. As is, he is no more a threat to Malekeith then a minnow is.”

As he said this, the so called minnow summoned a ghastly hand of shadows. As he whistled a happy tune the hand slammed the first ogre it found into all before the young master. By the time he had his fill, all that remained of the ogre were crimson smears of guts and a leg.

As the guards gave each other dubious looks, the next pair of lords garnered nothing but cat calls from the corsairs. One was named Aramture, the other Ornahanas. They were the daughters of Aneth Rama and Kuronos, or so others called them. Aramature hunted from her dark steed for the thrill of the hunt, it mattered not what. With a swing of a spear from side to side, she butchered any elf or ogre that got in her way.

Orahanas was fussier with her prey. Those that did not meet her criteria were pelted with her repeater crossbow. Those that did, the ugliest and strongest of the lot, her lance would be lowered. With but a thrust the shaft, spine, and heart were well out of the brute’s back. Grasping the lance as she rode passed, the lordly lady yanked her weapon free.

Finally came Ronan, to the ire of all that saw, save for a pair of glowing green eyes; eyes of the true lord of the Dark Elves.

:badh: :badh: :badh: :badh:

Ronan leapt from his mount towards a cannon wielding brute. With momentum, and a quick turn, he brought the cannon towards the ogre’s fellows just in time for a kaboom. The battered weapon took the wilder and his compatriot out. Before the third could launch a hail of shrapnel at Ronan, Flower slid between its mighty legs. A muffled moan came latter as muscular tail bludgeoned crotch.

Back in the saddle, he severed the arm of another would be attacker, keeping an ever watchful eye for any threat. Or in the case of Sinestra. Her lance was well bloody from the fray, and she simply trotted along the domes of the other ogres. Even in his exhausted state, he thought that was the funniest thing he saw all month. Momentary distraction, gone, he spied a mousy girl in the raiment of a corsair. With swift thrusts of her sword she held off the ogres that surrounded her. Nearby, another noble born, armed with a staff, cracked skulls and crushed win pipes with the best of them.

With a swing of Ronan’s sword another ogre was dead. With momentum on his side, his outstretched hand scooped up the now screaming girl. “Get on!” Ronan yelled to the other noble. Without thinking he leapt onto the back of Ronan’s cold one, and they were off.

Two more ogres bared their path, donning the dress and oversized pistols of the human empire on their so called old word. Before they could level their weapons, a pair of bolts flew out of the sleeves noble riding behind Ronan.

“I am Ipan,” the noble introduced himself as. “I am a connoisseur of all things Cathay.”

“Ronan; Prefer Nippon myself, but can’t argue Cathay has a more impressive set of arms.”

“That be the truth.” Ipan said as he took a swing at another ogre to delightsome effect.

It took ten minutes of running and fighting but Ronan made it across the barrier, and on the ground panting. A good three hundred elves had arrived there. A dozen were of the beastmaster ilk. There were a pair from Karond Kar Ronan reconized. One was a promising lord that could get a manticore to do what he wanted just with a glare, while the other was the first daughter in a long line of beastlords. While the other simply continued the family’s good name, she had the most to prove to her father. Not far off, a trio of elves identical to one another shared bawdy laughter, and the admiration of a few dreadladies.

The majority were highborn; a motley crew of knight, charioteer, and infantry that soon began slaughtering each other. Sinestra was easy to spot with her stallion and radiation of cheeriness. Lactertus was surrounded by a few nobles, including Chersium, a dreadlod with an odd looking staff, and a woman knight that glared at him in the same manner a cold one looks at a steak. Gorindo was also here, to Ronan’s dismay, with the largest assortment of nobles. Amongst them was a charioteer Ronan had placed bets on when he studied in Naggrond.

Only a handful of sorceresses managed to get through. Most were in a disheveled shape, as if this was the first time they were dragged away from their tomes to do field work. The worst case one was a cackling maniac, even by Druchii standards, donning the smooth mask reserved for some Asure funeral rights. Others had a barbaric or vicious streak carved into them either scaring or tattoo work. Some appeared as flawless porcelain.

Regardless of who was here, and the number grew and waned as the survivors trickled passed the barrier and noble born settled feuds while the blood was still hot. A few tried their luck against Ronan, but a missing arm here, a strike to the gut there, and a decapitation latter and the other lords gave him a wide birth; save for one.
“Perfect form; very fluid swordsmanship, yet with just a pinch of brutality. Beautiful.” The stranger said. He was plainly dressed armed with a sword and shield, and a crossbow slung over his shoulder. His build and face was nothing noteworthy from the common foot soldier, nor was his jaw length scruffy hair that was perfect for being in a helmet day in and out.

“Thank you for noticing.” Ronan said while he wiped his blade the hem of a dead elf’s cloak. “Most Druchii just try to slash me to bits.”

“I think most Druchii are fools.” The lordling said. “I am Nat Maidat.”

“Ronan Hydra Kin.” Ronan Replied. “Is that sword clanging giving you a headache too?”

“Maidat shrugged. “I do not understand. The sounds of battle should be…

“Music to the ears?” Ronan interrupted. “Except when we are battling ourselves when we should be focusing on the enemy at hand. Look.” Ronan commanded, his cutlass pointing towards the brawling brutes before them.

Sorceress, beastmaster, and highborn blasted, impaled, and hacked the towering ogres to no real effect. A few died, but it was clear they had no experience fighting anything more robust than an elf. “What do you see?” Ronan asked the youth.

“I see the wheat being separated from the chaff.” Said Maidat.

“Is that really what you see?” Ronan scoffed. “I see maybe a five hundred elves that were not lucky enough, not lack of skill, just unlucky. Half are potential allies, to be used and exploited for mutual gain either on this trip or on some future date. The other half are nothing more than meat shields. And when the ogres have gone through them, who will they attack next?”

“So what do we do?” the lordling asked.

“This.” Ronan stood up, and grabbed the megaphone on his saddle bag. With his throat cleared, he brought it to his lips. “You inbred, Pheonix King’s Boot Licking, under endowed, impotent Darkblades; Do I have your attention!”

Nat Midat slowly, and carefully stepped back as the glares of the highborn, many of which were leveling repeating crossbows at Ronan, spelled out murderous intents. “Well you got them to stop fighting.” He said, voice cracking under the pressure. “Now what?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, they have yet to let us in, and there is still fighting over there. There are, what, a hundred of us on this side of the barrier? Out of what, a thousand elves? There were half as many ogres and they manage to kill three of us for everyone we slay. At this rate we might actually take Ulthuane in five more millennia.”

The irritation on the other elves were palpable. Dark Elves were creatures bred to delight in carnage; Now they were creatures that wished to bath in Ronan’s gore.

“We may have made our kills based on skill of arms, but we made it beyond that little line only because we were lucky. Luck runs out.” No sooner had Ronan said this, a pair of cannon balls connected by a chain whirled past. Any noble caught in its path was reduced to past till the red tornado hit the side of the black ark. Too exhausted to have more than a flat face, Ronan continued his ramblings. “And apparently they can still shoot at us; damn.”

“What do you want us to do, weak…” the noble would have continued, but Ronan was wickedly accurate with his throwing blades. With blood gushing from the center of his face, the blue blooded corpse fell.

“Anyone else what to call me ‘Weakblood, call my parentage into question, or call my mother some variation of the word ‘WHORE!?’” Ronan roared. The crowd was silent save for grinding of helms moving left and right against their pouldrons. “Didn’t think so. We have thirty minutes to collect our breath; plenty of time to sharpen blades, pull out arrows, and reload crossbows.”

“And when time runs out, then what?” Nat Midat yelled.

“Anyone with a chariot or a dark steed will ride out and grab anyone they believe will be worth having as an ally, or for at least a meat shield. Anyone with a Coldone that can won’t just charge into battle or devour the elf you’re trying to recruit, will come. Do Not even think about mounting up until I do.”

“You?” a knight forced his mount to waddle forward, the look of disgust painted on his face. “Why you?”

“My idea.” Ronan replied. “Might as well put my money where my mouth is. Anyone else got a better idea?” None of the other nobles said a thing. Ronan waited, to see if anyone would try to siolence him, but none dared.

Then Gorindo stepped forward. “I hate to agree with the Asure born, but he is right. Better allies and perfect minions to die at your command are out there; might as well save our future profits.’

“It’s a wonderful Idea, Ronan!” Yelled Sinestra.

“He’s got my Guan Doa for the cause.” Yelled Lacertus.

“And my lance.” Said a woman of wild beauty astride a dark steed.

“My crossbow is his to command!” Yelled another lovely damsel also on a dark steed.

One by one, the other lords and ladies chimed in.

“When do we race?” asked a triplet next to his identical brothers.

Ronan brought out a large timer, and set it down. “When this is done.”

What was thirty minutes felt like thirty days as the white sands fell lazily. The nobles called a truce; the missed shots from the ogres were a now constant reminder of why they were working together. Thankfully the beastmasters were more willing to work together then the conventional nobles. The Sorceresess, though just as cut throat as the highborn, largely kept to themselves. Sepacuna once told him many a sorceress go out into the world out in the world for more real world applications of their craft; sometimes this meant with their armies, other times they would lend their services to the Tillaians or pirates for a price. Regardless each one had their own agenda, and each one was a snowflake in their goals.

When the last grain bounced off the pile, Ronan erupted from the ground. With sword in hand, and a leaping bound into the saddle he was off, with the rest of the cavalry following suit. It wasn’t long before Ronan spotted his prize. It was another mousy girl in the garb of a corsair, this one even shyer and more frightened of the world then the last. They must be breeding their women to be like this, he thought. At least she was a good shot with her pair of handbows. She was also fast on the reload. Before she could spin around and aim at Ronan, his cold one had already leapt on the back of an ogre trying to smash her head. With savage precision and a belch of victory, the ogre was dealt with.

“Hop on!” Ronan yelled through the hustle of combat.

“I hope you won’t feel insulted, but I don’t trust strange elves on florescent lizards.” The girl said in the manner a child trying to be tough would. On closer inspection, Ronan nearly chocked. She was a little girl! Well, one just a few steps into puberty at least, but she didn’t even look old enough to have hair grow on her legs and armpits yet.

“If I wanted to inflict upon you harm, do you not think I would have done so by now?” Ronan asked. “Besides; thick skinned mount and Druchii plate; handbows don’t penetrate that so well.

The girl sighed, and stowed one of her weapons. “Promise you will not harm me?”

Ronan held up his sword so the flat of it would caress his face. “I swear on the Blood of those I seek to see avenged that I will protect you. Now get on! The dead guy’s friends are coming!” With a good yank, Ronan pulled her behind him. “One arm around me, other arm taking potshots!”

As they left, another noble came running up behind him. Like with the other girl, Ronan grabbed him and held him on his lap. Before the youth could complain, a pair of bolts plucked his eyes out, and sent him to the underworld. Ronan dropped the corpse and raised his sword on instinct. The block saved his life as a rune covered broad sword arched towards his skull.

The hand that grasped the attacking sword belonged to a rider in a black billowing cloak, and equally bleakly colored clothing. His skill with the sword was only matched by the way he controlled his coal black charger.

“Do me a favor and just die!” The rider snarled.

“Bite me.” Ronan hissed. “Flower: kiss-kiss!” With that command his cold snapped at the enemy’s reigns. “And pull!” A quick tug latter and horse and rider were on the ground. Before the rider could respond, the nurglire’s tail nearly sent him into the murky water.

Cursing loudly, the dark rider forced his dark steed up. With a quick inspection of his repeating crossbow, he took aim, and waited till the shot was just right.

“Come here, tooth pick!” bellowed an ogre. The dark rider turned around and without skipping a beat, punctured its skull and throat. By the time he turned back to Ronan he was well out of effective range.
Cursing his luck, he turned his attention to the next best thing: an ogre with blazing tattoos and not much else on his skin. He didn’t need it. With a simple exhale, lord and beastlord were hit with smeltetering blue flames. Driving his steed to death or glory, he took a clean swipe through the ogre’s gut. A feral smile spear across his lips as a lasso flew from his hands and around the brute’s neck. A Quick tug and a grunt latter, the top half of the ogre smashed to the ground, molten ickor flowing past his still standing legs. With another tug the lasso was rolled up back into his hand.

“Too easy.” He scoffed before riding off.

The sun was setting now, and even as Ronan came into view, the shadows and the sun’s remaining glare kept ruined his aim. Cursing his luck, he moved closer; a decision he would soon regret. There was a sorceress riding on his lap, side saddle, summoning corporeal beasts of amber light to savage her enemies. To speed their retreat, another summoned a tide of shadows that moved them along. Any elves they came across were dragged along, their heads bobbing just above the miasma, while any ogre in their way was swept casually aside.

An ogre swiped at Ronan with his club, but swift relexes sllowd him and his mount to lean out of the way. Unfortunately he did not compensate for the other riders. He fell just short of the barrier while the two elves riding with him made it safely across with Flower.

“Hay big guy!” Called out a ghostly waif of a sorceress. Get down here.” She called out to the ogre. In return it simply roared into her face. Her expression unchanching, even as a bit of goblin slammed into her face, she poured a vile concoction down his throat. With manic laughter, she walked passed as her victim slowly melted away, as did much of the stone he stood upon. She seemingly floated towards where Ronan had landed. With her hand outstretched, Ronan took it up.

“Used a little too much I think.” She laughed.

“Naw; no kill quite like overkill.” Ronan replied.

The two walked togeather through the barrier, followed by the shadowy sorceress phased through like a phantom. With a snap of her fingers the shadowy waves dissipated, revealing a dried riverbed of a dozen shaken and stirred Druchii in heavy armor. Half made it through the barrier, the other half could only slam their fists upon it and beg.

As much as Ronan pitied them, he knew they had to slay their own foe. Unfortunately, one still wanted his head, and he came upon a black charger. Ronan dodged out of the way of a sword swipe meant for his skull. He had enough time to curse his luck before a lasso wrapped around his arms. Thankfully his sword was there. As it tightened, his cutlass’ runs went to work, slicing through the thick cords. In a heartbeat’s time he was free and the rider distraught.

“Nothing cuts my cords! Nothing!” He roared. Before he could ready his crossbow, a half dozzen lances rested upon his shoulders; their tips uncomfortably close to his neck.

“As much as I hate the little turd, he’s the only one with a plan smart enough to keep us alive, so wait until the fatties are done with.” Said a knight in dark purple armor.

Surrounded and beaten, he stowed his weapons. “What’s the plan.”

“There is no way we can risk another run out there.” said Ronan. “Anyone still out there, they have to make it on their own. The rest of us, form up!” It took a little bit for the new arivals to get with the program, but Flower’s mighty roar seemed to put them in their place.

“Thank you, girl.” Ronan said, tossing his mount a meaty treat. “Until the ogres are dead or the door opens up, we are stuck her, and good as dead unless we work togeather. Everyone on foot: I need range weapons up front and center! If you have a crossbow, bow, hand bow, or a good throwing arm and some pilum or fransica or the like, use them at your discression. When you are out of things to shoot or throw, move to the rear ranks and to safty and get your crossbow ready, or swap for something up close and personal. Sword and board in the center; duel weilders on our flanks, and everyone with something bigger or has reach behind that.

“Cavalry will be on the side and will charge when we do. We’ll take the center where the iron guts and grunts are; man eaters, lead belchers, and anything else is up to them. Those of you that weid sorcery, put yourselves where you can put on the hurt!
“If we are lucky, some of us will live to see tomarrow, or shove a javelin in my back.” This got some much needed laughter from the other elves.

“And you, Dreadlord?” Nat Midat asked; crossbow resting on one shoulder, tower shield on the other arm. “Where will you be?”
“Where else would you expect me?” Ronan asked as he forced his way amongst the crossbow armed elves.

:badh: :badh: :badh: :badh: :badh: :badh:

Red Tide was enthralled. He didn’t want to be. No self-respecting Druchii, especially one as highly ranked as he wanted to admit that. Only in the darkest recesses of his mind, where even a probing mage would struggle to penetrate, he could.

“Magic, are they within range?! Ronan barked though the mirror, unawares of his audience.

“Honey, you have no idea.” Said a peculiar sorceress, covered in trinkets and tools like a toymaker. She slapped Ronan hard on the rump. Despite several inches of armor, padding, and a cloak made from the bullet resilient sea dragon cloak, he flinched from the impact.

With a flick of her wrist, parts of every length and some Red Tide had problems wrapping his head around flew out of her oversized backpack and assembled into an odd looking bolt thrower. With another flick, an assortment of bolts came into being and fell into a pair of clips that fit into the contraption in a V formation.

“Damn ogres.” She spat out as she managed to summon a few more bolts. “Greedy bastards have wizards eating up all my magic!”

When the last bolt entered, the sorceress gave her device a good kick. With humming and ratcheting, it shot bolt after bolt into the enemy midst. Some were dissipated by the enemy spell casters, but most found home. It was a small dent in the enemy tide, but for this second half of this test, first blood belonged to the elves.

The ogres wasted no time in picking up the pace. Their wizards cast their spells and counter spells the moment their tree trunks of legs brought them closer but thy were too few to count. A handful of nobles fell from their bones napping in every unnatural angle, but they were soon treated by a few sorceresses willing to make a deal.

The rest of the enchanted women, and the noble born Barus showed the ogres what real spell craft was. Half sent waves of flame to incinerate, malice fueled bolts of pure magic or tendrils of shadow to tear the bodies apart, or even just let them burst like a pimple for their own amassment. The rest used their craft to build up the defenses of their warriors. Flesh grew stone and bark like scales for added protection; wounds healed in instances what the body would take months to repair. Blade’s glisten as they shared their wielder’s murderous intent.

In the end, there was another dent into the enemy line, with half of the common ogre dead and gone.

“Scourge runners!” Upon Ronan’s signal, the beastmaster loosed their prized weapons. All elves loved the bolt thrower, but none more than the beastmasters. Bolts specially designed to maim monsters, to let sedatives into the oozing wounds to capture their prey. They could also shoot darts the length from the finger to the elbow in a jiffy. The robust machines chucked their payload and left another small dent in the enemy.

“Crossbow, loose at will!” Ronan barked. The other nobles happily complied. Those on foot loosed the first few volleys, followed by those on horseback and on chariot. Unlike with the earlier showings, now there was truly a gap worthy of praise amongst the enemy. Red Tide asked for a count of the remaining ogres; the Mirror replied with the number three for the common rabble of their ranks. Only three still stood, and one was did so only by force of will alone.

As the crossbowmen melted back into their fellows, Ronan’s third part of the plan came to fruition. He led the front ranks, along with every other blue blood that enjoyed the sword and shield combination. Momentum met momentum, and the with heavy shields raised, they slowed the enemy down. They couldn’t halt their momentum, nothing short of a city wall or a mountainside could do that with any success. Red Tide smiled inwardly at the thought of when he first fought along side these hulking beasts, how when they collided with one another they just bounced back. It was always a thought that that could bring a smile even in the worst of times.

But what was Ronan planning, he thought. Then they struck; the rear guard, those armed with great swords and great axes; spears and halberds; glaives and long handled warhammers. All weapons of brutality, all weapons with the reach necessary to butcher these towering brutes. Before remaining iron guts could move into the elven ranks, the those Druchii that favored a blade in each hand saved the iron gutted ogres with savagery rarely seen outside the temple of Khaine.

It was a perfect strategy, let the lightly armored ones do support, the heavy armored ones soak up damage, and the slow but powerful power attackers have their fun. If Ronan survived this Red Tide might make up his losses for betting against him. That said, he was everyone’s favorite to die horribly.

Lead belchers, a wondrously simple bunch armed with cannons, were quick to avenge their clan mates. Ronan Tossed a dagger at one of them, and the second wave of attackers charged. Dreadknights overran them the moment their lances pierced their bare flesh. What the knights did not kill, with slavering maws the cold ones would.

Those higher up on the totem pole rushed the maneaters; the elite mercenary bands that every tribe of ogres produced. If it was a race in the world, and a general needing extra muscle, maneaters probably fought for and against it. The chariots hit the center of the mass of mayhem, stopping their elite troops before they could get a pistol shot off. What scythed wheels could not slaughter, a cavalry charge on the flanks would.

Victory it seemed was to be the dark elves, but ogres were vindictive creatures. They would not go quietly into the night. With every swing of their oversized clubs and swords the Iron guts sent a handful of nobles flying into the air. Ogres charge those on their fellow’s right flank, their signature ogr charge smashing elves apart. The ogre pistols shot through elves with the resistance of paper machete. Once they were up close and personal, their clubs and swords were equally effective. Ragged berserkers of lean muscles sated their hunger on the lesser knights, ripping the iron encrusted food with the ease a parrot has with a nut.

“We still hold the advantage. Send them to the Great Maw in pieces!” Ronan commanded. The elves pushed them back.
By the time the sun set, the only a handful of the berserkers remained, in chains and happily feasting on the fresh and plentiful supply of ogre meat. The dead lay where they were, untouched save for a few scavengers looking to make an extra bit of gold. Yet despite the revelry of victory, the black fire in every Druchii’s heart was alight, and their swords turned to each other.

“Let them in.” Red Tide commanded. Only three nobles were fresh corpses by the time the mighty black doors were open, with dancing girls and a marching bands greeting them.

“Well that was accelerating.” A young noble said to Ronan. “Think this is the worst of it?”

Ronan simply shook his head. “Every active duty Black Ark is commanded by a fleetmaster, and every fleetmaster that stays longer then then couple seconds is due to skill of arms, ability to judge potential risks to their health, and keen intellect. If one of those is found lacking, he is good as dead.” Ronan chucked a loose coble stone into the bay, skipping it three times across the water. “This is only the beginning.”

Red Tide let slip a smile. “Oh, you have no idea little Asure. Oh you have no idea.”
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Calisson »

Wow, that was epic!
Apreciated a lot the typo-free quality of the writing.
Thanks for all.
Winds never stop blowing, Oceans are borderless. Get a ship and a crew, so the World will be ours! Today the World, tomorrow Nagg! {--|oBrotherhood of the Coast!o|--}
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Saintofm
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

I think I will get this to every 25 view count now that am on a role again.

Hopefully this will be just as good as the last entry.


Chapter 3. Repreive

Ronan awoke with a startled shout. It took moments to realize he was safe, but his cold sweating body was not yet ready to receive that revelation. It was the middle of the night, and the room still smelled heavily of lovemaking. He did his best to not disturb the contented Arhedel as he left his bed. Ronan had to give credit where credit was due; the guest quarters had the most comfortable beds he had slept in a year. Walking to the vanity, his mind swirled with his nightmare; of past sins and past failures. Of Love won and torn apart by the claws of a chimera. “What am I doing with my life?” He asked himself.

“If your smart, you’ll start with the chamber pot, then come back to bed.” Arhedel groaned. “These thick blankets can only keep an elf so warm.”

It was the best idea Ronan heard all week. Three days he had been out to sea, and in that time he waited for the inevitable attack. Yet despite five sorceresses having died under mysterious circumstances, a dozen nobles losing their lives in duels and a dozen more to the blade of assassins, he didn’t have that problem. He doubted it was his charm. He may have led them to survival against the ogres, but that would have infuriated the proud Druchii. He doubted it was his skill of arms. Fools still tried their luck, and assassins have slain stronger foes.

For now, he would spare himself of the realities of his world. For now, he would wrap his arms around his love, and kiss the back of her neck. “You are the best part of my world.” He whispered into her ear.

“You sound like an old man.” She blurted out.

“An old man am I?” Ronan chided. “Let me show you what an old man can do!”

<Six straight hours of showing her what an old man can do.>

Arhedel swung her falchion at Ronan’s head. With a grunt he raised his shield and blocked the blow. He swung, but she was still swift under eighty pounds of armor. Roaring like a lion he charged, pinning her to the wall with his shield. Arhedel let out her own roar and pushed back, nearly sending Ronan on his back. As their swords locked, the two slammed their helms together. Metal grinding against metal, their snarling lips grew closer and closer together. As they two fought Lustel and Karnel just gawked in disbelief.

Relik walked in behind them, alerting them to his arrival with a yawn. “Never seen lover’s spar before?” He managed to say through another yawn.

“After all they did last night?” Karnel asked.

“And how would you know that because,” Relik couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought, though he has his suspicions.

“The walls…They have no insolation.” Lustel Replied with a shudder.

Relik, eyes wide in horror, could only hug the two sell swords; an event that frightened them more than when he had a blade out. “Oh you poor Sods.” He said in a comforting tone. “You poor sods.”

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

In one of the many gardens throughout the black ark, complete with a grassy field and the warm rays of an artificial sun, Lacertus jotted down his thoughts as two maidens, both captured Asur, sang comforting melodies. A stone throw away, Barus shot tiny rings of smoke in rapid fire succession at Chersyum who struck the center with amazing precision.
This ended the moment a gentle chime was rung. “Perfect timing!” Chersyum bellowed with pride. With sword happily in its sheath, it was time to placate his hunger. He grabbed one of the singers, and brought her over by a table with wine. Despite her struggles, she could not escape the paws of this apex predator.

Lacertus simply gave a weak glare to the remaining singer. Fear stuck a cord in her voice, but she continued her singing. As for Lacertus, he groped for his mighty glaive.

“Do us a favor and keep it quiet, Chersyum.” Lacertus commanded.

“You have to be kidding me.” Chersyum griped with a wine cork between his teeth. “A lovely like this needs to sing.”

“Yes, yes, but the duet you would perform with her would get in the way of my concentration.” Lacertus said in his typical cold manner. “And we all know what I am like without my constant control.”

Defeated, Chersyum tossed the girl to the grassy floor. “Fine, fine. Have it your way. It just seems like a waste of silver to hire two she wolves without, you know.”

“Which is why I have this.” Lacertus pulled a sealed letter from one of his cloak’s many pockets. “I have set up an appointment with Atharti’s chosen for later this evening, so you better save your strength; you do not wish to have be known as dull in the black ark now, do you?”

“Then again, why the two she wolves?” Chersyum asked.

“They were trained in the musical arts; its what kept the corsair’s hands off of them.” Lacertus said, only for his words to add more confusion. “Apparently they didn’t have anyone that could sing a sea chanty worth a damn. As that was their reputation, I bought their permanent services for Barus.”

Chersyum spat out his drink at that announcement. “You do realize he wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if she lay on top of him and did all the work? No Offence, partner.”

“None taken.” Barus replied with a wink and a smile.

Lacertus saw this and held back an amused laugh. “Right. Well, he may not in the conventional sense, but you know how musical his mind is. I figure they could help him keep in step. Speaking of which;” Lacertus jerked his blade till it was at the perfect level to impale someone through the gut.

“About time, Sire.” Barus sighed, his staff reforming till it took the shape and sharpness of a great ax.

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

The Dark Steed stables bustled as the traditional swift mounts of the Druchii grew accustomed to the waves. The Black Ark’s ride was fairly smooth, better then then strongest conventional sailing ships by a long shot. However, the air had an unnatural stench to it, and most beasts never grew accustomed to it. Training and mock hunts could get their mind off of it; their owners cleaning their coats and singing as was custom amongst most elves would also help.

Armarutra took to practice, aiming a blunted lance through rings and at round wooden targets as she took her steed through a small race track. In the next track, Ornahanas practice her aim, as every fifth step of her running steed sent a severed head into the air. Each shot made their mark between the eyes. While they practice their art, the Prince of the Dark Riders, Devix, bathed his mount and sang to her love songs from ages past.

As they worked out the kinks of this new lifestyle at sea, they had little knowledge of who was watching, nor the pain he was in. Red Tide winced as his surgeon dealt with another attempt on his life. He managed to deflect the blow so it wasn’t a mortal wound, but it still hurt.

“If you flinch like that one more time, I will force you to take the opiate.” The surgeon grumbled.

“I need my thoughts clear.” Red Tide told the surgeon in his standard threatening tone. “Mirror, show Gorindo.” The Mirrior, about the size of a salad bowl, obeyed. Gorindo and several of his new cronies were cheering and placing bets as two Sisters of Slaughter wearing nothing but their bucklers and Maskes resembling jackals as they slashed at each other with sickle like blades popular among the tomb kings.
“Yes, and if you keep flinching I will not stich this up properly. So have some control or I will get the enema prepared.”
Grumbling, he Red Tide obeyed. “Get me a stronger weirding mirror. I will need to speak to the Inner Court of Malekeith.”
A soldier bowed, then left to retrieve his master’s desire. By the time the surgeon had completed another top notch job, six elven slaves walked carefully into the Fleetmaster’s inner sanctum. Wine red drapes were pulled shut, blocking out what little sun this cloudy day had to offer. As one of the slaves was offered up to power the mirror, a spark revealed Malekeith arguing with his Mother, and ten other elves. Some were the inner council; Kurond, his captain of the infamous Black Guard. Another elf who looked more like a skeleton then any of the half-starved slaves on board, but his meek appearance betrayed an inner world of strength. If the rumors were to be true, he was the greatest spymaster in six generations. Others were more recognizable. Malus Darkblade and Victus Proudspire, the infamous father of Gorindo and the latest of Malekith’s advisors.

Then there was the Crone Helebron. Though she appeared to be a youthful as a damsel first coming of age, her voice betrayed her how many millennia she had actually lived. Like all the Crones of Khaine, she was long lived, herself having been an instrumental part of the Cult of Khaine becoming as widespread amongst those who would eventually become the Druchii spoke volumes of her abilities, but they had limits., and her age was a big part of it.

Like Morathi and Malekeith, she was as old as the Druchii race. Malekeith remained alive and vigorous in his black armor due to his malice and sorcerous might. Morathi’s eternal beauty and youthful vigor was thanks to her sorcery and the fact her power came from the pacts with gods and daemons she casually makes. Though her fickle alliances were as cavalier as a gambler, her visage seemed to be eternal, and Helebron hated her for it. She hated her for many other things, but this was a sticking point.
Most Druchii outside of the privilege view of the Church of Khaine’s inner sanctums had their theories and rumors of how the ancient Crones of Khaine retained their youthful appearance, grace, and strength. All anyone knew for sure it occurred sometime during or after Death Night, a holiday of true terror for the Druchii less one was of the devoted of Khaine, then it was a party. It was rumored that night, when the blood flowed out of the temples like a stream, and these aged hags would bath in eerie brass cauldrons that seemed to ooze with power. Most were large enough for the job, though the damsels would be the only ones insane enough to do this and survive.

Yet it never lasts, and the older the hag the shorter it would last. After a thousand years and elf would start feeling old. If they lived to two thousand, they felt decrepid, and many only moved on sheer force of will alone. The hags of this age could flawlessly hold their image year after year. By three thousand, one would start showing wrinkles within a week or two of Death Night. By four thousand years, they could hardly keep the façade going for longer than half a year. The Crone Helebron was over five thousand years of age, and she could hardly hold on more than a month before her looks began fading.

Some rumors hold that they is only with Helebron, but as she is one of a handful of Hag Queens to live this long, so is hard to say. Those same rumors blame Morathi for this. It was as good an explanation for why the two women hated each others.
Every Druchii of power suspected the two queens would go to blows, it was only a matter of when. As is Morathi was happy to “share power” of the cults, if only if it kept things interesting, and Helebrom in turn simply needed a perfect opportunity that had yet to show itself. In either case, it would not be today, Malekeith would not allow it, though he seemed fit to add one more point towards the withering hag.

“Insolent boy; I am still your mother, and I will not be treated with such disrespect!” Morathi hissed.

“It is not disrespect I intended,” Malekeith said with his cold grinding voice. “But if my decision will be treated as such, I am left to wonder who is insulting who?” The cold star of his merciless eyes was enough to remind even one as mighty as Morathi who was in charge. “We have a guest.” He announced with the same frigid level in his voice as before. “Unveil the Weirding Mirror.
It was done as asked by two sorcerous acolytes. Before them Red Tide sat at his desk, flanked by his personal assassin, and a handful of his own guards, as well as the under captain of the Blackguard sent on this excursion.

“We have a problem.” Red Tide announced.

“Indeed.” Malekeith grinded out of his mouth. “You evoke the use of the weirding mirror into my halls without warning, without permission. This better be good.”

Red Tide saw the billowing smoke emanating off the dark lord’s sword hand, and measured his next words carful. “We still have too many initiates. None of us expect this many to survive the trip to the Breadbasket of Naggaryth, and fewer still to get past the ogres. Yet we have what, a thousand elves on this expedition.”

“Actually, my lord,” spoke up an ornery looking dwarf with what looked like new growth on his face. “We have exactly six hundred and thirty-five elves from the various houses for their hawkseer cruise for command purposes; We have exactly one hundred sorceresses and half as many breastlords.”

“Aw, yes: my record keeper. Where would I be without his dwarven tenacity to detail.” Red Tide sighed. “Is my point made or should I have him go into detail the dual purpose of this experiment?”

“I am well aware of the purpose.” Malekeith said, his voice reverberating as threatening as a dragon’s grumble. “But your point has been made. What have you done about it?”

“I have left them to their own devices, for now.” Red Tide said. “I had hoped they would have weeded themselves out but it appears they have formed clicks to watch each other’s back. How many have fallen, and why?” Red Tide demanded, his eyes affixed on the old stump of a dwarf.

“Three sorceresses accidentally blew themselves up. Fifteen nobles have perished in duels. Another seven suffered alcohol poisoning, while five were actually poisoned; possibly an agent of Khaine judging from the skill needed to reach their targets. Nine were mauled by beasts of some sort, be they flesh hounds or their own cold ones. Two more died while taking a drunken bet. Five beastmasters were mauled by hydras protecting their clutches of eggs.” Said the dwarf.

“About thirty lords in three days. At this rate we might have a serviceable number by the next raiding season!” Red Tide Belllowed. “How am I to do my job with this?”

“We could force them to fight to the death.” Said Helebron. “That usually works around the Temple.

“Yes, but most witch elves are not the leader types; we need that.” Malus said with as much menace a lord with five bottles of wine in his gut could be.

“I should have you flayed, despoiler!” Heleborm hissed.

“Want to try, Grandma?” Malus threatened.

“As much as I would enjoy this, this is not helping.” Victus hissed.

“I have an idea.” Said Red Tide’s assassin. “Why not poison?”

“Is he daft?” Asked Malus.

“Hear me out.” The assassin said, his voice trembling with frustration. “We can invite all of them to a feast, one unlike any many will have seen outside the Black Court. Just as we are to toast, have all the beastmasters leave so they can deal with an ‘accidental’ release of some of the more vicious of the beasts we have; those unruliest and truly dangerous of all the monsters we have. If they can get them under control, they pass. If they are eaten, they fail.”

“That answers a third of the equation, what of the other two?” the Spymaster asked, his smile ever widening to sickening degrees.”

“That is where the poison comes into play.” Red Tide’s assassin announced with some pride. “We can put a few drops placed in by the precise hand of a master in a glass of Champaign, deliver lovingly to each remaining guest by a mistress of the Mistress of Desire. No one would suspect a thing.” Malekeith remained silent, but his inner council muttered to themselves; despite none of it being clear, their tenor was of approval. “We also have abundance of Shade Nightmare.”

The muttering stopped. Even Morathi and Helebrom gawked in horrid fear at the thought.

“I suspect we have thirty vials of the treatment available for such numbers. We would let them decide who would be most deserving of those vials.”

“My sorceresses could use their own spellcraft and knowledge of alchemy and apothecary to treat themselves.”

“So that leaves the blue bloods to fight it out. Perfect.” Malsu thought out loud. “Anything else?”

“I can think of something.” Red Tide said, his face carved into cruel amusement. “In four days time the feast can be ready. In that time, may I suggest you bring all the noble families to Malakeith’s court, and have them bring a large coin purse?”

“What do you have in mind?” Malekeith demanded.

“To have your bets placed, my lord. TO have your bets placed.”
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

I got a hundred views, so I am at the 50 post point. So next chapter, and I am going to try something different with dividing the scene changes with some pictures of my army.

Chapter 4. Dinner and a Show

“Do I have to go out in this?” Ronan whined from behind his privacy screen.

“Yes. Now come out from behind there!” Arhedel commanded.

“You’ll laugh.” Ronan whined again.

“No I won’t, I picked it out.”

“Now I know you will!” Ronan whined even more.

“You will sleep on the floor until we reach land unless you come out.” Arhedel threatened. Despite her voice, she held back a riotous crowd’s worth of laughter. Behind her, Relik and the two sell swords prepared to hold up signs that said 7, 10, and 3 2/4 respectfully.

“Fine.” Ronan stepped forward, his trepidation was made all the clearer. His attire was a mix of styles, from red of ancient Asure robes to a white frilled top most associated with the more foppish corners of Estila and the Empire of Man. On his left his cutlass and now a longsword hung comfortably on his left side. Beneath this a light silver steel mail shiz, and some padding, and a pair of bracer were the only armor he would be allowed.

“Oh the poor dear.” Sepacuna said, with a few giggles escaping with each syllable. “Even I feel sorry for you.”

“Yes, yes.” Groaned Ronan. “Well I have nobility to meet, sorceresses to bribe, and a few of each I will have strangled with their own self-importance by the end of the evening.”

The door swung open as he approached it. There stood three cloaked women, each with a silver mask of pristine beauty. The first one held out a silver tray with a tree with a brass goblet filled with a wine that sparkled like starlight. “A drink for your strength, to share in the Fleetmaster’s strength.” The elfine in front cooed.

Ronan picked it up and raised it above his head. “To the glory of those sent to escort me to the gala, and to the glory of the Patron Lord of this party and ship.” With that Ronan emptied his cup.

The three led him through the dark dank streets within the upper levels of the Ark. From on top of his cold one, Ronan had a decent vantage point for both him and any would be assassin. At least as far as he could see, this was the most spacious level below deck. Practically a city in and of itself. The floor sprawled forth nearly a mile all around Ronan. The common houses were built in the traditional Druchii style of a small fortress. They were three stories tall, but could comfortably grow another story and still have room for a roof sundeck.

But this was not the first thing Ronan noticed. It was the smell. No matter how tightly he held his silk scarf around his face, he could not prevent the siege of sweat, filth, and animals from breaking through. Ronan figured it was a lack of ventilation. Elven cities, even one with large amounts of humans in them, were notoriously nitpicky about their cleanliness. The reason most elves lacked body and facial hair was they plucked or shaved it at regular intervals. Dark Elves were no different, and though their slaves were left to their own devices, they maintained a level of sophistication at all times.

This was inexcusable to Ronan. A ship like this had to have costed several king’s ransoms, and possibly a dwarf king ransom at that. They couldn’t afford the ability to condition the air to an elf’s liking? Even if it was just towards the red blooded free elves, this would keep the risk of mutiny down.

Aside from a desire to use that viscus solution other cold one knights use to deaden his senses, the trip was uneventful. The arrival was anything but. The ‘party’ was held at what appeared to be a decent sized arena, enclosed and covered in a dome. Upon closer inspection, it definitely fit the bill of one, though it may have been also used for plays and operas. Statues of half clothed warriors slaying beasts, and prancing depictions of the mischievous god Loc every which way were clear indications of this.

They were soon at the front door, where pike armed guards bared his path. “Dismount. Your Nurglire will be taken to a pen with the others.” One said with cold mechanical precision.
Ronan obeyed, but he was wary. “Will she have her own pen, or will she be shoved in with others like cattle?”

The guard gave a forced laugh. “Afraid your pet will not survive the night?”

Before the guard knew it, Ronan was in his face, with a curved dagger of Arabyan design at the guard’s exposed throat. “I may have to compensate some fool who brought a pampered iguana instead of a lesser dragon. I just want him to know which fool he should be carving his anger into first, that is all.”

“Point taken.” The guard strained to say. “It was not my orders, but one of the Fleetmaster’s commodores. I am not sure which one.”

“Well that should narrow things down a bit.” Ronan Said. Though his blade was now safely tucked away in its sheath, he refused to leave his battle stance. “Oh, and the amount of flesh ripped from her flesh will be the same amount I feed her of yours. Do keep that in mind.”

As Ronan was led in, and his mount led elsewhere by the scent of a roasted pheasant at the end of a lance, the guards allowed themselves the privilege of a momentary lapse of caution.

“Great; another arse issuing threats. I bet if a dwarf drank a beer every time one of them said that, all three of their livers would burst.”

His comrade humphed and nodded in agreement. “At least this one had an excuse. But his outfit, probably the worst I’ve seen all night. No class, no taste.”

“Well that’s the high class for this decade’s fashion. All bloody idiots.”

“For the record this was not my idea either!” Ronan yelled.

“How’d you hear us, esse?” one of the guards asked.

“I spent my stripling years living and working in a tavern. You learn to spot trouble or clean up after it fast.” Ronan replied.

“Why are you still out here then?” Asked the other guard.

“The door is shut till your fellow guards deal with an accident.”

“What kind of accident.”

“Oh the kind that leaves one with a half dozen scimitars mysteriously in his back, after he announced the recent conquests of the younger sisters of some impetuous nobles; all of which saw nothing, and wondering where their sword is. It’s becoming a real problem these days; someone should look into it.”

“And on that day, the nations of the elves will reunite.”

“I will send the invitations to the wedding of the millennia: Malekeith the Phoenix King and Ariell the Everqueen! Now that would be a tale worthy of legend!”

“In a demon’s eye!” one of the guards yelled back.

Before the three could bicker, the “Accident” was dealt with and Ronan was led in. The building seemed to be one giant room, with pits ten sword lengths by fifteen sword lengths in area and ten feet in depth where beast and sentient being, however loosely one defined that, fought. A trio of blood red warrior daemons fought Sisters of Slaughter in one pit; a goblin armed with two rusty knives fought a halfing armed with two dented skillets in another. The one Ronan was most interested in one pit filled nearly to the rim with water, where an alligator and a serpentine Razor Fin fought. Unfortunately, this was not to be Ronan’s seating arrangement. Each noble was sat around a table that overlooked each of the night’s entertainment, with a maximum of twenty elves, or a mix of elves and pools blue blooded gore.

Violence was not the only form entertainment of the evening. Elves were given to many passions, and the Druchii relished in them all without restrain. Upon a raised platform A bard sang rowdy songs at one table till all around it joined in, often making their own verses along with his fine work on the lute. Another had a priestess of Loc perform an enticing dance, while a priestess of

Athartii left little to the imagination with her performance or dress.
Another had a sorceress conjure up a living canvas, where the images moved and acted upon her command. The sorceress would change it to suit the requests of the lords and ladies at the table, from childish to sophomoric; refined to lewd; from epics of heroics, to having the reigning Phoenix King of the Asure used as a piñata by goblins. Only when one asked for something inappropriate of the sorceress did she stop. With her staff she would pluck the soul of the fool and fuel the rest of the performance with it.

There were dozens of these, and all around them elves came or were dragged off to the morgue. Ronan was led to one a clean seat. A fresh pair of fighters entered the pit from trap below the dirt floor. On one corner, some twisted hybrid of rat and rabid wolf. Ronan had seen similar beasts used by Skaven but they were usually not large enough to take a child’s saddle like this thing was. On the other corner was a beast Ronan was all too familiar with. Rotund like a red kickball with teeth and a pair of squat springy legs, the squig snarled. The preferred source of meat and impromptu cavalry mount for the mushroom addled night goblins. Ronan had spied few creatures more vicious in strength or temperament then a squig not in its underground lair.
With his coin place squarely on the cave squig, now Ronan had to deal with nineteen other nobles. Four seem to show signs of peace, or at least lacked any outward signs of hostility. Of them, one was recognizably Dracea with her giddy smile that was infectious. Five elves over to her fight and about seven from Ronan was the mousy corsair girl with the rapier. Two nobles seem to show their submission to Ronan with slight nods. The rest was a near even mix of glares of death aimed at Ronan, and interest into the fight below. Of the latter, Ronan recognized Chersyum, and the noble next to him with the strange staff. Others included Gorindo who seemed to place a number of coin on the monstrous rat. As for the former, they simply wished they were within slashing range of Ronan, or would learn why that was a poor thing to desire.

A swift strike of a salad fork, and Ronan had pinned an assailant’s dagger to the table, and the hand that went with it. “Anyone else care to try?” Ronan asked. He didn’t have long to wait before another noble rolled a vile next to him.

“For poisons.” The nervous lord said hesitantly. “I think they may have tainted that drink they gave us.”

“Oh, three night maidens of desire escorted you here, with a drink on a silver platter too?” Ronan asked. The other nobles, some of which were even female, nodded in turn. “Might as well. Maybe it will knock us out, and when we awake will have to swim through shark infested waters back to the ark.” Ronan suggested with a wry grin.

“How much would you wager on that?” Said a well sauced noble.

“Not as much as I did the squig.” Ronan said, his smile tightening to a satisfied width as the squig belched out a paw from the warped rat. There were a few moments of grumbling as the squig digested his meal. With a belch, one of the nobles pulled a lever near his plate and released a scorpion as large and fast as the previous foe.

“Another ten on the squig, and oh, I do believe the first course is here!” Ronan announced.

There were no fat Druchii, though as evident of this night, it was not from a lack of trying. Several large turkeys radiated with spices that slid off the tongue and down the throat with smooth efficiency. This was followed by tuna, boar, and beef, all equally and lovingly crafted for devouring. Winter wine, the hardest to produce in Nagaroth, was flowing in and out of Druchii goblets like waterfalls.

There was a brief lull in the plates being produced, to no complaint of the nobles. Had they continued, to Ronan’s still continued disgust, a puke bucket would be in order to make room. As is, only some ballooning stomachs was in order. Over the next few days it would be evenly distributed, or used. Elvin metabolism was wondrous in that capacity; storing just enough to keep one alive and healthy, but able to release it on a moment’s notice.

The squig was no different. Remains and the aftermath of devouring five enemies had left it some new scars, and it some smelly reminders. The nobles now took bets on how high the beast could still jump, throwing in bones, scraps of meat, or even a goblin slave or two. As for Ronan, he threw in not a mere piece of flesh.

Leaping in, he held out half a devoured turkey in one hand, while the other was held out firm and unmoving. “Stay, stay, HAY!” Snapped Ronan. A number of nobles nearly chocked on their drink up the squig, a creature whose unruly nature rivaled the untamable manticor, held its place. “Down.” Upon Ronan’s command, the Squig lay as low as its floor hugging body could go. “Role over.” To the amusement of his fellows, the squig obeyed Ronan’s command. “Good boy!” Ronan yelled. “Treat!” With that, he tossed the carcass into the awaking maw.

“Now, would anyone else care to outdo me in bravery?” Ronan Challenged. One of the nobles sending him death glares leapt down in a display of bravado only copious amounts of wine could produce. As Ronan returned to his seat to the brief agonizing screams of an elf filled the room.

“That’s one way to get rid of a rival.” Groaned a noble that had too much to eat.

“It was done ever so tastefully.” Said another as he licked off a chunk of the drunken fool the squig tossed at his face.

“I didn’t expect anyone to try and top that.” Said Ronan, sipping from a fresh glass of champagne. “I only wished to prove a point.”

“Well, I think he got the point done, quite dandy!” Said a corsair spilling his drink with carless ease. What hand was not groping for a bottle, reached for the mousy corsair girl.

“Leave my pretty be!” Said another, his hands placed just right to heighten her discomfort. “Her Mother paid me a good deal to make sure she makes her proud. Right, darlin?”

“Move your hands.” Ronan hissed slowly. Both corsairs flinched at Ronan’s sudden appearance behind them. “I have an assassin in my employ; what do you think I use him for when not needing an enemy slain?”

“I don’t care what you use him fore. That’s your business. I suggest you stay out of mine!” Threatened one of the corsairs.

“And I think the two of yous auta stay out of my business!” The other managed to slur out.

“We are at an impasse then.” Ronan said. “Last one standing gets the girl?”
The two corsairs needed no invitation for this. They leaped from their chairs, still able to fight as before they drank their fill. Ronan grasped the first that came his way, and with a punch to the owner’s arm the arm broke with a sickening snap. The other attacker slashed with a dagger, but Ronan slammed the first into the second threat without breaking a sweat. A chop of the hand to the throat assured Ronan he would not be a threat. The other corsair groped for a cudgel, but Ronan simply bashed his head into the table with excessive force.

“You like you drink don’t you?” Ronan asked the corsair playfully. “Have a drink on me.”
Disoriented, and wracked with stabbing pain, the corsair could not stop Ronan from flipping him around. He could not stop him from shoving a mostly unused bottle of wine down his throat either. The corsair struggled long and hard, but in the end he drowned in his favored drink. With that, Ronan chucked him into the pit, with delightsome results.
“The girl is with me.” Ronan declared, his eye red as the blood spilt. “Anyone else have issue with this?”
If the girl had any as Ronan’s firm hands crawled onto her shoulders, she said nothing; only the fear in her eyes and the trembling of her body.


“It seems you have enough women company as is.” Gorindo hissed lewdly. Unlike Ronan, he made no attempt to hide his presence as he stepped behind Ronan. “You should share the bounty!”

Before Gorindo could strike with his thin strait dagger, Ronan spun around, and tossed a glass of winter wine into the prince’s face. With his hands freed, Ronan tossed Gorindo nearly over the edge. Had it not been for the firm grip on his throat, he would have indeed been the next meal on the greedy squig’s menu.

“Release me, swine!” Gorindo managed to force out his lips.

Ronan tentatively slacked his grip, letting tiny decent get a desired gasp. “You should really choose your words more carefully.” Ronan suggested.

“I am the son of Victus Proudspire; the most recent member of Witch King’s inner court, and has served faithfully for thirty years!” Gorindo’s bloody smile widened with each gasp and murmur at this revelation.

“I believe there was a point in that statement.” Ronan simply said.

“I am the son of one of the most powerful elves in all this blasphemous world! Do you really wish to do this?”

“Yes.” Ronan said to the horror of all around. None were more terrified then Gorindo.

Only the strong hands of a trio of assassins kept Ronan from finishing the deed while another pair held up and back Gorindo. As the two elves glared at each other, slow, ponderous, thunderous clapping of a single individual filled the room.

“I Am pleased with your gumption, lords and ladies.” Said a plain but strongly built corsair officer. Ronan took one glance at him and thought he had to be high up in the ranks, though only recently. His armor was plane but his cloak was the finest dragon hide he had ever seen. It was not from a young sea drake like his was, but a mighty war beast that was a true terror of the seas. Only his crown seem and the pride his stance seem to indicate any rank.
“I am Fleetmaster Tritak Red Tide.” He said, hushing everyone in the room. It didn’t matter who you were; stories of Red Tide’s feats had spread so far and wide it was hard to tell what was the truth and what was exaggeration. However, if this was the very Red Tide that rode a Kharybdyss to battle, then Ronan knew he was in trouble.

“In the last century, we have seen an influx of births amongst our people. While this means our armies are bolstering with a near endless supply of sword arms, this means there are too many nobles of significant rank. There were too many of you and not enough raiding vessels to keep up with the demands of your hawkseer cruise; the turning point from which a dark elf is no longer treated as a witless child, but an adult capable of carving out their niche in the world and the flesh of their enemy.

“Then Malus Darkblade, that infamous scion of Hag Greif came up with this idea. He had procured this black ark, and my services, as well as an entire tribe of ogres that always knew where we went there was sure to be battle. All the lords of beast, battle, and sorcery thought they would be enough to whittle you down, that there couldn’t be this many worthy participants. Yet here you are. Nearly seven hundred elves remain, and though a good fifty died between coming aboard and this night, and another fifty this evening, there are still too many.

“Beastmasters, you shall be escorted now to the goblin quarter of the lower decks; there we have released our strongest and fiercest of beasts. Slay any and thrice their weight in dwarven slaves will be extracted from you. Bring them back to their pens still fighting fit, and you will be rewarded equally in that worth. This should be no problem for you ilk.” As he finished, Grim Faced corsairs escorted all forty beastmasters to their next test.

“The rest of you are far from safe. The Sorcerous queens in Ghround deem one more test to be worthy of your time. You fought well, but your greatest weapon has always been your keen minds. Time to test it. You too will be escorted out.” As commanded, dozens of veteran sorceresses escorted their eighty charges to the next phase of their training.

“Do not think I have forgotten you, children of the houses great and small!” Red Tide Bellowed threateningly. “Did any of you drink out of this?” He asked, holding up the same jeweled goblet Ronan drank out of when he was summoned. From the looks of the other lords and masters, they did as well.

“I thought as much. Each one was filled with a bottle of wine dated back to the year and month Malekeith was born. Know there are no sweater of wines that are on this ship. But I am sure you did not notice this!” With a simple tap of his off hand, a vile dropped three droplets into the cup. With a single gulp, he finished the contents without spilling a drop. “I wish I could savor it, but like you I am now poisoned. And do not bother with your home remedies; I doubt any of you have what is needed to counter shade nightmare.” As he spoke those words, half the room fell to hushed silence; the other half began murmuring.

“You can’t do this to us, you filthy peasant!” Yelled one lord.

“Why not?” Red Tide asked. With a swing of his off hand, a whizzing whirl flew past much of the room till it sliced through the elf that insulted him. He just in front of Ronan and just tiptoeing at the end of a repeater crossbow’s effective range it still hit center mass, right where the robust elvin heart was; a heart that seem to have exploded judging from the meaty chunks oozing out the elf’s back. What’s more, this was done with his weak hand judging where he kept his sword sheathed. Despite this and the distance, what appeared to be a miniature miller’s saw blade tore through thick silk cloth, mail and leather armor, major muscles and organs, a rib cage, part of the spine, and through more cloth and armor.

“What was that?” Gasped one of the lords near Ronan.

“A rending star, I think.” Ronan managed to wheeze out, his own show of fear surprising him more than the instrument of death. “Assassins of Khaine sometimes use them against armored foes and monsters, and well, you see why.”

Before the crowd could murmer further, Black guard, grim and ready for battle encircled Red Tide, and blocked all the exits. “I am acting upon Malekeith’s wishes, and this means so long as I am acting out his will I am his voice and his fist!” He threatened all with. “You may have command of my ground, sea, and even air support units for this excursion, but you are mine to do as I please, and if I feel you are a detriment to either myself, the mission, my ship or those living aboard this ship beyond my reasonable allowance, you will be dealt with like your friend there.

“But the matter of the poison. There is but one cure, and it is as dangerous as the toxin now running in your veins. It is treated like so!”

With a sudden burst, an assassin slammed what appeared to be a thin dagger into the back of the fleet master’s neck; a milky white liquid ran down the stiletto with contemplative momentum. For five long minutes, all one could hear, was the occasional whimper of a dreadlord, and what pit fights remained. Red Tide, stiff but very alive, stood tall, and cleared his throat.

“As you saw, it must be administered by a master assassin, and as their time is precious, and worth more than any one of you, they will administer this cure amongst thirty of you. Choose who those thirty are by sun up or I will make the decision for you.”

The feast ended, servants and none violent entertainment long since evacuated, and the room was strangly quiet. Yet it was not safe, not with the beasts still in the pits, the assassins on the balcony, the black guard at the gates, and the highborn between.

“Oh, dragons below; we know how this is going to end!” Gorindo snarled, both blades freed and leaving streams of blood in the air. Other nobles jumped into the fray, some fighting for the prince and others seeking his blood.
Ronan, the mousy girl, the noble that passed him a vile, Chersyum, Barus, and Dracea freed their weapons, and had their backs to each other. “Talk about a mood killer.” Chersyum said with an impish grin. “So what’s the plan?” He asked between swipes at a few nobles.

“Gather allies, fight every else till there is no one left.” Ronan said as his cutlass pierced the mail of an attacker. With a roar, he let the enchantments do the rest and tear its way free. “Oh, and don’t die. That’s a biggy!”
“What of Lacertus?” Barus asked as he whipped out his staff and smacked an enemy into the awaiting jaws of the squig.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Ronan said, taking another swing at a foe to parry a strike. A few more blocks, and his foe was close enough just to punch him with the sword’s guard.

“But, but he was surrounded by people who don’t like him! That creepy lady too?” Barus protested between bouncing his staff between a pair of heads till they cracked.

“He’ll be fine.” Ronan reassured him, or at least attempt to. It was quite difficult to remain calm while taking someone’s head off after all.

“But, but.”

“I have you now Ronan!” Bellowed a blood drenched Gorindo. With a swing of his swords, he nearly caught Ronan of guard, but three years training in Har Ganeth doesn’t leave much of a chance for that. Despite his lack of skill at stealth other dagger was more than made up for with duel sabers.

Ronan kept up the pace, but only just so. Without a shield, he felt slightly off balance. More over this was a foe that refined his skill to near perfection. If this was what he was like with his insides were marinating in five kinds of wine, all stronger than the last, he didn’t want to fight him at his peak. It was hard to tell what was a feint from a real blow. His mail under shirt would protect him from slashing attacks, but he the way they smelled of magic Ronan wasn’t sure if they would hit like an ogre charge like his blade does. One misstep nearly coasted him an ear, and a second sent his sword flying through a dreadlady about to lay a killing blow on another noble.

“Time to die, you Asure Whore son!” Gorindo threatened with a madman’s cackle.

Ronan let a contented snort, and stepped out of the way of an oncoming blow. Gorindo brought his other blade up, but Ronan put it in an arm lock. “Leave my mother out of this.” He calmly said before landing a series of headbutts on Gorindo’s polished skin. With a kick, the pampered noble was nearly thrown into the pit with the squig.

Ronan Managed to get out a number of curses before he calmed down. “Barus, get Lacertus, and any allies he found. Knowing him he’s found a few. Chersyum, clear him a path.” The duelist simply laughed at that request. “Care to tell me what in the abyss is so funny?”

Chersyum didn’t answer, not directly in any case. “Barus, remember when I said using magic really frightens other Druchii?”

“Yes.” Brarus said nervously.

“Show ‘em why.” Chersyum commanded, his face taking upon the dark visage of a daemon’s smile.

“But you said I shouldn’t…It be bad for me!”

“Things can’t get really get any worse. Besides, I think that one in the corner called your sister a very nasty thing!” Within a split second the calm and gentle Barus became a monstrous force of destruction capable of driving the very heart of chaos from this world.

Before Ronan could even conceive of the number of bodies slain, another foe came swinging a large great sword at him. He was the famed chariter, Thanantos. With his deathly mask protecting his face, he lunged for more and more grievous of attacks. Ronan slid out of the way only for the table he sat at to be cut in half. Ronan tried tossing the surprisingly light table at him, but Thanatos simply kicked it over the edge.

As he charged in the squig came bounding towards him with maw open. Thanatos smiled under his grim mask, and slashed the beast in half, his still dangerous jaws tearing into two different nobles as they passed beside him. Ronan took the advantage of the distraction, and slammed a bottle of wine into the side of his head. With a quick grasp of the hair and belt, Ronan tossed him into the pit below. With a yank of the lever, he alerted the operators below to release a new pair of war beasts to fight.

Goindo snuck up behind him, but Ronan was prepared to face him, smashing his face with a platter; the lemon sauce that remained on it burning through a dozen small cuts.

“I do not have time for this.” Groaned Ronan.

“I do.” Said Chersyum. With rapier and dirk, he readied himself to face the other duelist. Ronan and he shared a look of concern, but only for the breakfast of moments. Chersyum nodded his head towards some potential allies, and Ronan knew what he had to do.

“Don’t die on me; I don’t think Barus would ever forgive me for that.” Ronan Commanded before directing his other followers to attack the enemy farther away.

Chersyum simply laughed inwardly. Even as ten of Gorndo’s thugs surrounded him, he was not nervous for an instance. Three attacked at once. With a flick of the wrists a pair of darts buried themselves into an elvin eye socket till they found a cozy spot in the brain to rest. By the time the middle elf knew his comrades were dead, a sword found its way through his heart. Two more attacked from either side of him, but some quick steps and they charged into each other’s halberds.

A few more quick steps and four more elves fell to an eternal sleep. The last of Gorindo’s goons backed away slowly, fear emanating his body with trembling might. Disgusted with such an obvious sign of weakness, the greatest crime to a Druchii, Gorindo smote his head off clearly and quickly.

“Time to see if the fastest blades can match the wit and skill of the best swordsman in the Land of Chill.” Gorindo said with a leering smile. “It shall be a honor.”

“Better be.” Chersyum spat out. “I didn’t train my whole life to be second best.”

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The death toll was already immense by the time Red Tide had reached his throne. A few teleportation spells were needed in a ship this size, but it was a necessary discomfort. The wirding mirrors were already up, with the sights of slaughter abound, and Malekeith’s court filled with hundreds of nobles from dozens of families, and all taking bets of which of their spawn would live through the night. As Red Tide expected, the mercurial nature of the Druchii assured most would not be placing money on their own offspring.

It would take weeks to repair the damage these brawlers would inflict, but this was the only way to be sure. No one of sorcerous means was here, nor were any of the Beastlords and Beastmasters of Clar Karond or Karond Kar were there either. Most likely they were in their own wings of the tower, awaiting their pupils outlast each other, or to see if their years of breeding the perfect lineage of elves paid off.

“Are we please with the results?” Red Tide asked, his strength putting all its effort to not looking sickly.
“Your efforts are paying off.” The Witch King’s said with that voice that ground your very soul with each syllable. “I am curious as to why you chose to take the poison yourself.”

Red Tide Bowed his head, in respect, but he wanted to smile to spite the inbred whelps at the Witch King’s feet. “I had to show them what fear is, My King.” He said to the confusion of all. “They had to know the extremes I would take, and a man insane enough to do this is one they will not be able to anticipate. I can’t have thirty highborns try to take my life if I am to ensure this experiment is to work. If Not that they will want to even think of it for some time. Mirror-Mirror, show them the number of those that yet live.”

Over three hundred elves, and now they were now divided with obvious leaders. Ronan was closest to the wall. The Mirror zoomed in to show him and the motley crew that followed him. Less than fifty elves would follow his flag. Red Tide could hear several families murmuring in surprise at some of the names. Dracea was amongst those who were under Ronan’s banner, along with ten other striplings of familes whose rank towered over much of the other noble houses. Others were not so much.

Lowbown like Nat Midate who’s family station was elevated needed a stepping stone to achieve their ambitions, and Ronan looked very easy to step on. Others were oddities like the Cathayafile Ipan. Others still were weaklings through and through and were easily bullied in like the Rapier and buckler armed Sinestra, or simply saw a protector in him like Recna who only stopped fighting to reload her twin handbows.

Lacertus and his followers were more understandable. Barus landed near him with an exhausted but still capable Chersyum. Dea stood nearby, a vicious glint of blood lust as equal to her fast beauty. If she was as vivid in bed as she was in battle, then even Red Tide wondered if he should try his luck with her for a night. Others of various ranks and privilege flocked to him; a hundred souls in all. The huntresses Amatura and Ornahanas; the Prince of the Dark Riders Devix; and dozens of others well versed in the art of death.

Only Gorindo, huffing and puffing like he ran a marathon all by himself, had more. One hundred and forty seven elves. Some were expected, Like Thanatos who’s patron was the panting prince. Others took were oddities in and of themselves like Mundis. Instead of slaying as many elves as he could, he treated Gorindo’s wounds, and any other high ranking lords nearby. A strange elf, but it was good to keep someone that could stich up those chronic back stab wounds. Others were just the overly ambitious like the Dreadknight Charuk, whose family Red Tide knew well.

This just left three individuals to yet choose a side, and they had shed the most blood. Standing between the three armies. Eris, Apate, and Bea. Each more radiant then the last, each marked with their own special brand of Khaine. Malekeith was not the only one experimenting tonight, though he may have had less winter wine clouding his judgments at the time. If the rumors to be true, Helebron and Proudspire made a drunken bet after he refused to believe a death hag to lead an army well. If he won, he could expect five whole legions of the Temple of Khaine’s finest to decimate his enemies in the coming war against Ulthuane; if but one of these girls survives and fulfills her duties as a commander, then he would be forced to do the same with her.

No one wanted to make a move, but all were itching to fight. Then stepped forth the leaders of the three main factions, and the Brides of Khaine. Within a sword strike of each other, they awaited.

“Are we going to talk, fight, order another drink, or what?” grumbled Ronan.

“Just shut up, whoreson.” Hissed Gorindo.

“I am not happy with either of you, so watching you both bleed is just fine by me.” Snarled Lacertus.

“So who will make the first move?” Asked Eris with the voice and glare of one devoted to madness.

Before the six could speak, down leapt from the balconies a red coldone. The great reptile, snapped its vicious maw repeatedly while its forearms slashed the air.

“Where did that beast come from?!” Roared Red Tide. This was not in the plans, and he made damn sure the slaves and guards knew where to put the mounts; he had butchered enough of them to make the point clear enough. “Mirror-Mirror how did this happen?” What he was more than he expected.

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Flower hated being confined. She’s rather be in an open field. Even if it meant sleeping lazily under a tree, she hated being shoved in a cage. The fact it was full of other nurglire, all from as vastly different packs, didn’t help. Two had started procreating, and a third was feasting on the head of one that tried to force a mating. Most were sleeping off a healthy supply of the flesh of prey; from the greasy orcs to yummy horses.

Only one two was busy with something else. A thin blue one that kept tossing her a minotour leg bone till she tossed it out the pen. Despite this it now annoyed her more by playing with the metal clamp that kept the door closed.

The second just finished the tearing through the hind quarters of a mostly devoured cold one. Flower knew her kind kept growing the longer they lived, and this monster had lived a long time. Most coldones could easily bite the head off most the two legged things that rode them with little trouble; this thing looked like it could do the same to her, and it was glaring at her.

The larger nurglire charged, knocking two more out of the way. Flower stepped aside as she practiced again and again, and aimed for its neck. While he slashing claws could do the trick, she didn’t have the jaw wide enough to snap around it very well. For now, she just had to hold on and wrestle it to the ground. It was stronger, but she was the better fighter.

Then a familiar clicking sound stopped them in their tracks. Looking over, the found the little blue one, playing with the lock till, snap, it was on the ground and the door way was open. A sleepy slave yelped at this and rung the one dinner bell a cold one loved: fleeing prey. While most gave chase, flower, the brute, and the annoying one followed the scent they traveled here from. The smell of dark steed alerted the little blue one. With a swipe of his tail, he broke every lock and the steeds gave chase at anything before them.

Flower detected the scent of a familiar pegasi and did likewise. Together the four followed the scent trail till perfume of blood and their masters were fund. With a glass shattering hunting cry, they charged in, ramming passed the guards. It wasn’t long before Flower found Ronan. Instinct drove her to new bounds of foolhardiness as she sensed the danger he was in. With a snap and a his all would know who was her charge. Ronan patted her on the flank, and gave her the command she desperately wanted to hear: hunt!

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Acidia carefully measured her ingredients and waited for the mixture to reach the proper consistency. Once she was set on a goal all other things no longer seem to exist; a trait that could leave her vulnerable to an assassin’s blade, but also kept her from being distracted as three sorceresses inevitably blew themselves up, while another five accidentally summoned a gate to some infernal realms of reality where malevolent tendrils pulled them into their world, fiery torrents roasted them alive, or a yellow rodent the size of a house cat plopped on their lap and sent bolts of thunder through their beings.

None of this concerned her as she finished her potion. With a gulp, and her gag reflex severely pushed to its breaking point, she downed the milky solution. It would be a day before she knew it would work. But for now, her test was over. She only hoped she could find some allies that were still breathing after this.

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“Ha, your blade can’t get though my armor!” A young lord boasted to Ronan.

Ronan in turn shrugged, flipped his longsword around till the blade was grasped firmly in his gauntleted and leather covered hands. “I bet this can.” With that boast of his own, Ronan slammed the murder blow into the helm, the blunt points of the guard piercing the helm till brains stained its steel. With a kick it was free, and another swing, ready for conventional use.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was home. After all, what was a mighty fight for survival had been reduced to a bar brawl, and there was no better bouncer back when he was in Ulthuane then he. With a hand firmly on the handle and anther gripping the blade, he pierced the mail shirt of another would be attacker. Then he was stopped in his tracks. Everyone was. Sorceresses calmed the darksteeds, Pegasie, and coldons till they refused to move; this proved more hilarious in hindsight with the famed charioteer who lashed two cold ones together around an upturn table to make a makeshift sled.

As for the elves, the twenty-nine that remained had an assassin in their front holding them still, and another in their back stabbing a thin blade into their neck. And then there was darkness.

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Ronan was not the first to awaken, but he was the first still able to fight. Corsairs armed with handbows and cutlasses made sure that would not happen with any of the others. As doctors and nurses eased the others to their feet, forty heavily bandaged beastmasters entered, and fifty sorceresses that looked like they were working off a bad hangover followed suit.

Red Tide was the last to enter, and the first to look like nothing was wrong. With a glass in hand, he poured out its sweet smelling contents onto the floor. “For the dead. Of the fifteen hundred elves that arrived, this is all that remained. Of the war host here to prove their skills in battle and leadership, you there are twenty-nine of you. Of you to grow your magical might, fifty. Of you seeking the greatest beasts to capture, there are forty. You had both the luck and skill they lacked.

“Yet there was something unexpected; three of you stood like beacons on a hill that others flocked to. This was due to skill of arms, ease of words, cunning of mind, and sheer brutality. Gorindo, Lacertus, Ronan: Step forward.” The three elves did so the best they could. “It has come to a vote by the great families that you shall be put in charge of any of the survivors that wish to join you. Should they choose to remain independent then then they have that right. But for now, you shall have the greatest responsibility to real them in and to aid them in finding the best places to best showcase their skills.”

There was a momentary silence, but Lacertus broke it with a simple question. “Fleetmaster; this is a great honor but it is, forgive my bluntness, quite strange.”

“Of course it is, but this shall keep the infighting down. Choose this day who you shall follow!”
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Saintofm
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

Hit my 50 mark. So another chapter, and some pics of my headhunter shades.

Chapter 5. Alliances

Ronan watched the training of his new underlings. They were now in the Harpy Tower, so named for the infestation of the winged furies that roosted upon it. It was the one none of the other two grand lords wanted so it was perfect for him. Near the ground floor a practice square, with a man made field and small orchard where one could relax, but it made training a much more pleasant experience.

Ronan paced back and forth between one end of the field to another, correcting stances and technique as needed. Ronan had spent nearly four years training in Har Ganeth, a place whose people’s devotion to war was considered maddening, even by the standards of the Druchii, and five years living among the shades where survival was a battle every day; both experiences left him with insights few had.

Thankfully there were only a few times he needed to correct technique or one’s stance. Nat Maidat, now with a fresh scar near his blond scalp, swung a wooden sword twice the weight of his own at a wooden post. It was a common training method to build muscle memory nearly as old as the elvin golden age. “Tighten your swings.” Ronan commanded him. “Make it too wide and you’ll leave yourself open to attack. Leave the wide ones for finishing blows of beaten enemies and when charging” Nat nodded his head and did as was suggested.

Ipan trained in his own way, swinging at metal ringed blades that Sulfura tossed at him. Despite her accuracy and speed, he was faster with the staff. “Ipan,” Ronan bellowed. “You are a master of your weapon of choice, but it is not a tool of death. Why go to battle with a staff?”

“I may not spill as much blood as the other lords, but a few enemies but I will bring back more slaves then the other lords. Besides, who would think me a threat with a walking stick?”

Ronan nodded with approval then continued his inspection. Next on the list was Sinestra. Nowhere near as sinister as his name would imply, she did seem to switch personalities once in battle. Relik was her practice partner, and he was just as deft with the rapier and buckler as she. With a lunge from the assassin, she stepped back then tripped on a rock. Ronan caught her, to her fearful gasp, and helped her back up.
“Remember your surroundings.” He told her. “The last thing you want is to be backed up against a wall. Also, your opponent should be thinking the same thing; if not then use your surroundings as a weapon.”

The next fighter was Recna. Ronan still could not believe she was old enough to be on this cruise. At her age, his voice had not even cracked. But she was a better shot then he was at any age. With bolt after bolt, she shot down the wooden targets Arhedel brought up in rapid succession. With sword drawn, Ronan slowly walked up behind her. As Ronan prepared to swing, the girl spun around and loosed a dart into Ronan’s armored shoulder.

“Very good.” He said as he pulled it out of his cloak. “Now when enemy skirmishers and rangers sneak up on your unit you can face them with ease.

“A girl doesn’t last long on corsair ship if she can’t do that.” Recna said to Ronan’s horrid surprise. “I do not expect you to understand. You were born into a different world then us. No offence.”

“None taken.” Ronan said before walking off to Dracea. She busied herself with chasing the only things nearly as fast as a pegasus; harpies. Many were slain from her skill with the lance and saddle. Thought the handful of elves below would have made easy pickings on their own, harpies were not particularly brave by most standards, nor were they stupid.

“I think you’re going to be bored with this after too long.” Ronan said with an amused smile.

Dracea landed just a few steps from him, a place meant for lover and rivals but never allies or retainers. “I have already thought of that, and plan on having a training ring for my baby here.” She said as she stroked her mount’s thick neck.

These were the sons and daughters of the highborn that wished to fight under Ronan’s banner of the bloody hand print. All others followed either Gorindo or Lacertus. None of the beastlords wished to work with Ronan; probably hard feelings from his time in Karond Kar he suspected. Regardless most chose Gorindo as their patron, while Lacertus got the leftovers. The sorceresses were less picky. Most were an even split between Gorindo and Lacertus, leaving Ronan with the remaining ten.

Looking at the souls that chose him as their leader he wondered if this was ever going to end well. His continual gift of gathering the oddball to his side seem to still be in effect even with the sorcerous kind of people.

There was Actus who studied a discarded ogre cannon. When she was ready, she summoned a shimmering blue crystal dome to protect her. With a loud cracking boom, the cannon was no more and the shield had shattered. She was alive and well, but was covered head to toe in soot.

At a safe distance Yoofina traded notes with a pair of raven haired twins named Norka and Morka. They were comly in appearance, not hideous but neither were they particularly beautiful. It was that awkward in-between they hadn’t quite outgrown. They were in the seers arts and manipulating weather. While some would see the latter as unnessisary for the battlefield, the ability to summon lightning, and cover the enemy in thick rain, fog, or fist size hail had its perks. Still it was odd how they acted as one, in thought and body.

Nearby the ghostly waif Acidia brushed her long red hair out her eyes as she worked on a potion. When finished she tossed it at a group of discarded sets of armor. With a small explosion they were dust, as were the pig carcasses underneath it. She slammed her head on the table and moaned horrendously at the sight. Ronan could have sword he heard her say back to square one.

Close by another sorceress, with her arms ritually scared burned to take the semblance of a striped jungle cat, worked her sorcery on a group of white rabbits. To Ronan surprise, the Sorceress he came to call Tiggarr merely amused herself by having them do tricks like hope through loops, and race around a track. Ronan moved on through, afraid she would turn to more conventional Druchii magic and have their sharp pointy teeth take off a slave’s head.

Near the clash of dueling Sisters of Slaughter, three sorceresses practice the healing arts with Pupila on the wounded. Each studied ways to dominate nature, but manipulating one’s health was easy practice. Tor, Nor, and Zor were all sisters, and all reveled in their art in increasingly more manic a fashion from the last.

Farther off was another sorceress Ronan could swear was nude. Though she had a sleek black dress, the way it moved in the light seem to be almost trying to flee from it. But the shadows obeyed her, and scythed through sub par orc gladiators like wheat. She simply went by the name of Nightshade, and Ronan left it at that.

Hanging nearby in a web of spectral strands, rested another sorceress. Her gown hugged her like a black widow wrapping its victim for a later meal. Her body seemed perfectly crafted to elicit intense carnal desire, from her red lips seemed t glow around her pale skin, to her black hair that reached the small of her back. With a flick of the wrist, the sorceress known as Aracna finished assembling a statue made of thin twigs with the aid of spectral being that followed her around. When finished, she opened her eyes, and glared at Ronan for a moment, the skeletal tattoos covering her body unable to hide her displeasure of his being.

A gong range before he could ask what her problem was, and the training ended. The nine Sisters of Slaughter that still stood walked away, while their dead comrade was left to the tender care of Flower’s empty stomach. Everyone else gathered around Ronan as he made his way towards a small raised dais.
“Fontini,” Ronan called out to his scribe. “Be a dear and read the love letter from Red Tide.”\

“As you wish.” The scribe calmly said before clearing her throat.

To All that this concerns: Gorindo, Lacertus, Ronan, and the Witch Sistters; Drachaue of this ship, at least as far as where to go and leading of armies is concerned. I request an audience of you and who you choose as your second in command. Anyone else you bring is your prerogative. I will have the Black Guard assigned to this experiment to gather you on the marrow, before the dawn. Come Ready for war for I shall give you a chance to do so. We Have so much to discuss.

Your Fleetmaster, Tritak Red Tide.

The elves were silent for a few moments, then Ipan said the words what was on everyone’s mind. “What in the Abyss was that?”

“Besides poor penmanship on our supreme leader’s part?” Ronan asked. He looked deeply into his scribe’s fearful eyes, his index finger gently wrapped around her chin. “He’s telling us who is in charge.”

“Shouldn’t that be us?” Asked Sinestra. “I know this isn’t normal but…”

“But we don’t have someone acting on the Witchking’s behalf as our babysitter normally either.” Ronan inserted. “By sending the Black Guard is telling us whose right hand he is. In the meantime, the matter of the second in command needs to be addressed. Dracea, would you do the honor?”

“I will.” She said humbly.

“Wait, why is she in command?” Ipan blurted out.

“You doubt her skill at arms?” Ronan asked.

“I Think we doubt more than that.” Nat Madat announced.

Before Dracea’s mood soured further, Ronan placed a comforting hand on her armored shoulder. “Make it quick.” He commanded.

It only took Dracea five minutes. In that time Nat Maidate learned that women did indeed belonged in the category of things to fear, and Ipan would be unable to sit for a week, much less make noises with his farts for a month.

“Anyone else wish to contest my decision?” Ronan snarled. No one dared answer. “Good. Mend your armor; sharpen your weapons; rest up. What we survived has been a taste of things to come. Tomorrow we shall see what we are really up against.

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Lacertus tightly held an oversized goblet in his stretched out left hand, and his right arm tightly around Dea’s firm waste. She happily and drunkenly held her own oversized goblet of dwarven ale and her other around Lacertus’ strong shoulders as she sat on his lap.

“To our continual success!” They roared as one.

Those who owed their allegiance to Lacertus and those revelers joining the fun chanted their names, that the leaders of their operation would live long into legend. Lacertus wanted to remain stoic. It was not in his nature to be so unrestrained. Yet, with the guardian of the gate to the underworld having passed over them, and the woman that was to be his bride with him and her attentions on him and he alone, he had what he desired the most.

“Let the world know and fear our names, for each and every one of us will drench this world in its blood!” He cried once more, the drunken rabble yelled even louder.

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Gorindo looked over the balcony of the Griffon’s Tower, so named for it was the second highest and second best defended tower. From here, where the cold gales raged, he could look down at the elves and slaves as they scurried about like ants that just had their hive pissed on. His family had power, his father showed him what power could do, and now he was on his first step of having true power. It was within his grasp and no one, not even the Witch King on his black iron throne would take that away from him.

Suddenly the sounds of footsteps approached. The wooden floors that lined much of the luxury suites of the tower were designed to squeak louder the subtler one tried to walk. This elf wasn’t trying hard, but he did grow dangerously close. Gorindo swung his sword only for a heavy chopping blade to stop it.

It was Mundis, and some lady companion that was busy licking from fresh blood from the side of his neck like some vampire bat with her arms wrapped around him from behind. She was quite striking, but then again any woman wearing only some blood splatter from tonight’s sport would have such an effect. Mundis himself had an ever loosening loin cloth to cover his extremities. Gorindo wondered where he hid that oversize butcher knife. Then again he wondered if Mundis wondered the same about where he hid a scimitar. After all, the only thing he had on were three day old scars.

“What are you doing out here?” Gorindo demanded of the other elf.

“Checking on my liege.” Mundis said, pushing the saber away. “You may have elvin resilience, but you are still going to catch a cold out here.” Mundis protested tersely. “Get a robe on. I think an elf as high up in society like you has to have one worth a damn.”

“How thoughtful. Are you sure you did not come to slay me?” Gorinda asked. Before he knew it, Mundis had pinned a harpy to the wall with his cleaver just twenty paces away. “I guess not.”

“Do not misjudge my devotion for blind reverence, My Lord.” Mundis hissed. “My only wish is to be the greatest doctor on the field of battle; to see blood on every nation, every kingdom in this world, and I cannot do this dead. But as someone who can have you fighting fit no matter how grievous the attempt on your life, what lord would not want to hire me, and what highborn worth their blood wouldn't like me near them?”

“I see.” Gorindo said with a cocky smile. “You are an ambitions runt, but unlike me you found a loophole in the system.”

Mundis shook his head. “No, just the path to it, but given your skill, enemies, and the enemies of your Father, I am bound to see plenty of opportunities to prove my worth to the other lords. After this, you will see my true worth. Should that be the case, I will be grateful to be in your family’s employ.”

“Very well.” Said Gorindo a he waved Mundis away. “Just leave the girl. I need something to keep me warm this evening.”

Mundis took one look at the girl, her face now tensed with restrained fear, then back at his dreadlord. “It would not be advised. I had not checked her yet for any tricks an assassin might try and pull. You never know what they could have hidden between her legs.”

Gorindo shuddered for a moment then waved them both off. “More then you know. I wish to think for a few more moments. Send me a maiden to my room latter; I will need the warmth.”

“As you wish.” Mundis said with a slight bow.

They were just out of earshot, when Mundis let out a slight sigh. “Damn fool is useless to me dead.” Mundis hissed.

“Maybe so, but do not expect more then he can give.” The slave girl said. “It would be too much. But enough of that. What can you do help me as I am in perfect health?”

Mundis simply smiled as he lead her into his room. “I just wish to see if certain theories of elvin anatomy are true." With a gentle stroke of his hand, she let out a joyous coo that confirmed his suspicions.

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Ronan was surprised how uniformed everyone was. Like him, they brought twenty elves, including their second that stood at their sword hand, and a close retainer that stood at their shield hand. Ronan had Dracea and Arhedel respectfully for that. All the other warriors and sorceresses of this expeditions were also there, as were Relik, Sepacuna and his two hire swords.

Lacertus was equally armed, with Chersyum and a rather sanguine woman in armor next to him. Behind him there were equal number of knights and beastmasters, and the same number of sorceresses as Ronan brought. Gorindo stood between Mundis and the charioteer Thanatos. More beastmasters appeared then the noble and sorceresses, but his force was no less deadly.

Nearby a trio of sisters stood, surrounded by great sword wielding Executioners. One could easily describe them as such: Feral, calculating, and smiling. Aside from that, all gave them a wide birth.

If any of the elves invited to come shared any thoughts, it was this: The Fleetmaster’s court deck was not what they expected. It was Spartan, only sparsely decorated with red drapes, and murals carved in the walls of glorious battles of the past, but otherwise sparse in décor or art. This made it all the more spacious, and all a comfortably our the range of a sword stroke, but it seemed at odds given most Druchii's tastes.

Even Red Tide was by and large excess free, which shocked Ronan’s mind to barely functioning. What was functioing was where Red Tide put his coin purse. His armor appeared to be lacquered leather, but even from twenty paces away, it smelled of the kind of magic that would dull a good blade. His sea dragon cloak was not taken from one of the young and impetuous yearlings or the decade old ones that just left the nest but an adult; a true terror of the sea. And his blades were of the finest silver steel Ronan had ever seen. All things that made him a better fit for battle then all the hopefuls of this endeavor combined.

Yet even he had a small sampler of extravagance. His throne was cushioned to feel just right. The crown upon his brow was gold with emeralds larger then a walnut; cut so finely only a master dwarf’s hands could have handled them.

Then there was the girl. Her glaring eyes met Ronan's and she gave him a painful pause. She was beautiful, despite months or even years of slavery. She had a warrior spirit in her, the kind that he had only seen in few other women; all girls he loved. One such spirit was Arhedel, and she seemed to sense this as well. Judging from the leonine courage that still glowed in her eyes, she had to have been of Nagarthe; the kingdom all Dark Elves, including Malekeith, hailed from before the race was sundered by civil war. She must have been one of the clans that stayed loyal during the great schism. That made her all the more valuable as a slave; all the more delectable to humiliate. Ronan had remembered when he first stepped onto Naggarothan soil all those years ago at the age of hundred and thirty; young, hardly a few years in his official warrior training. She couldn’t have looked much older than he was at that time.

For now, all the hopefuls simply had to hide their fear as Red Tide glared at them. For the first time for many, they knew what a rabbit must feel like in the talons of an eagle.

“A pleasant morning to all of you. Did you sleep well, or did you spend your night wenching and drinking?” He didn’t need them to answer. No matter how well they tried, not even a dwarf could hide their severity of a hangover. Ronan was fairly decent, as was Relik and the two sell swords. Sinestra was still standing strait, but the other menfolk looked worse for wares. More of the same could be seen throughout the other two warlord’s ranks.

“Well, well; we’ll make corsairs out of you yet!” Red Tide laughed at his own joke but few other elves did. “But you must survive first. There were ten thousand families and other individuals that helped pay for this ships construction, design, and capacities. For the amount of a the worth of a thousand slaves they put the name of a child they wished to partake in this ship’s maiden raid; but there were so many we had to narrow it down to the fifteen hundred that appeared on the docks. Still too many, so we whittled it down with the ogres. There were still too many. I figured after three days of travel you would finish off the rest. Still too many.

“Then the party. That should have reduced nearly all of you to pulp but I see too many still,” he said to the horror of that night’s survivors. “But this will do. Commanders, step forward with your second.” All six elves obeyed and bowed their heads far enough down so they would be vulnerable to an ax strike. “You six I will expect to stay for the long run; the sorceresses and beastmaster have their own goals, and should they stay on past their quests’ demands will depend entirely on your pocket book. But what of the highborn? What should be a good barometer of leadership?”

It took them a while, but Red Tide’s silence told them he was actually asking a question.

“Glory!” Gorindo said.

“Victory!” Said Dea.

Ronan was silent till called up. “Glory is subjective. Victory is not. Should we win a number of victories during our cruse, it should be enough; Victories with acceptable losses and gains, or grasping it from an impossible situation. The number of battles fought needs to be high enough to assure you and all others it was not a fluke; but reasonable enough so we are not old and grey before its acceptable.

“I like the number ten.” Said Red Tide. “Ten battles you must take part in. Half must be as the general. The other half, if not the general then some officer of some sort.

“Most of battles we lead must be against a settlement or a fort.” Demanded Gorindo with pride. “The open battlefield is where the honor is earned, but the siege is where the money is made.”

“That will be the case.” Red Tide decreed. “You six shall facilitate this. Any questions?”

“Yes.” Said Ronan. “I can assume death is a fairly clear disqualifier for this endeavor, but what of the failures we survive or the victories that are meaningless?”

“Ah, the fears of every true soldier.” Red Tide said with aw. “As the Facilitator of this, I am acting as Malekith’s voice and will. As such you will be under my protection throughout the duration of this trip from the other families; so their jealousy does not interfere. However, if you fail three times, my protection ends. You will be on your own.” This brought some smiles upon some of the nobles. “And I will know if any of you had a part in that failure. And before you ask, I know that Gorindo spends his nights watching gladiatrixes fighting on his dinner table as he eats in the red light district; that Lacertus writes those Khaine forsaken romance books that have sold like hotcakes in recent years; and that Ronan still dreams of his first love. Do not test me.” All six elves gave each other odd looks, then bowed in submission.

“Good, now,” The whole black ark shook violently, nearly throwing Red Tide out of his throne. “Dragons of the Depths, what is the matter!?”

“Storm of Magic!” Yelled a Supreme sorceress as she slit her hand over a pedestal. “The eye is over Khaine’s alter!”

“Alert all decks; all speed around the storm! I want everyone with a crossbow and or a cutlass ready or battle by the time I leave here!”
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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Saintofm
Malekith's Best Friend
Posts: 1755
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

Been a while, but I as busy painting, work, painting, work, Game of thornes, and another 6 chapters of this, and a stomach flue that drained my energy and left me with a heck of a writer's block.


Chapter 6. Crimson Waters

It took three extra days of sea travel to get around the storm; three days even the ark cold not make smooth. Ronan was born with sea legs; a trait it seemed only Sinestra and Recna shared. On the fourth day the rest of his motley crew's bodies had adjusted, and just in time.


On the grand weirding mirror, five ships gave chase to three others. The leader of the first three was a Manowar from the Empire of Man, with fifty cannon on each side, and four times as many crew just to keep it going. The two behind it were swift moving frigates; maybe good for twenty cannon total, and seventy crew. The ships giving chase were an odd assortment. One was a Tillaian dagger ship: a small swift ship meant for harrassing and scouting then enemy; an Asure Falcon ship with a dozen bolt throwers, and a Brig with a maybe thirty guns and ram just under the sea.

“Well what do you think of your first test? Asked Red Tide with the kind of joy one gets from stepping on ants.

“This shouldn’t be a problem.” Said Gorindo. “They are only humans.”

“Just like the marauders with the northern borders?” Lacertus said, to the glare of Gorindo.

“I am seeing several empire ships chased by a slew of others.” Said Ronan. “All of them are mix of different nations; pirates if I had to guess."

“What makes you so sure of that?” Asked Red Tide.

“I am a child of Cotheque; I dare you to find a nation of better seamen.” He said with pride to the irritation of the corsairs. “Right, and if that wasn’t the case you’d you have a better chance at talking the eastern shore of Ulthuane. In anycase, I have seen my share of empire ships. They tend to be bulky, and built for the brawl. The smaller ones are build for speed, but also have the typical décor of the Empire Warhammer all over the place. Their flags are blue and yellow, so probably Nordlanders; experts at fighting chaos mauraders as they live on the unimaginatively named Sea of Chaos. I doubt they will have much in wizards, but will make up for it with their cannons.

“That will include the others. Sisters; Norka, Morka; can you summon a good fog?”

“With the storm of magic we just had,” Norka began.

“We could cover three of our great cities of Naggaroth with ease.” Morka finished.

Ronan still had not gotten used to that, but their shared bravado put a smile on his face.

“Now for the others…probably stolen from other nations and modified for the pillage, or decided to quit the quite life of an honest trader for the adventure and romance of a pirate. I’d expect them not to be not formally trained in war, but they expect no quarter given and none asked for; after all they have the same risk of the noose if captured if we were.

“While I cannot say what kind of slaves they will have they may have captured loot from other nations in their bows…Which will make the prize all the more tempting. I expect the flag ships to be the big one. Just be careful: Pirates love their guns, and they do not care where they get their crew. They may have ogres or a minotaur or anything that will be good in a fight. Just the kind of foe to get the fresh blood some fun.”

“Good. So who wants which ship? None are quite equal, but there are six of them and six of you that need to prove your worth.”

“Can we take our fellows with us?” Gorindo asked smiling like shark.

“Only one retainer that is also not a part of this experiment. The rest will be provided with the ships.” Red Tide told them in no uncertain terms.

“I’ll take the Norland flag ship.” Ronan announced.

“I will take on one of the small fry next to it.” Said Dracea.

“Then I will take the other.” Dea hissed with pride.

“I have always wanted to be on an Asure crafted vessel. I shall take that one.” Lacertus announced.

“Give me the big bruiser.” Demanded Gorindo.

“Then I shall see if there is some Tillaian wine to toast our victory in the other.” Said Mundis.

“You have five hours.” Red Tide said sternly. “Ready your ship, and bring who you will.”

With that out of the way, Ronan walked back to his expanding entourage. “This is not going to go exactly as planned, but things are still in our favor.” Ronan said.

“How exactly is this working to plan?” despite how much she strained to hold back, Arhedel’s furry still spilled out as she spoke.

“Simple. Relik, you are with me. Lustel, Karnel; You go with the Norka and Morka to ensure they are safe. The rest of you prepare for battle back at the tower.”

“You expecting trouble?” Relik asked half expecting the answer.

“The way Gorindo keeps glaring at Arhedel; I don’t like it. Besides, he has had it out for me since day one. This would be too easy a chance not to take.”

“We’ll be ready.” Sepacuna said with an assuring tone. “We’ve been getting bored anyways.”

Ronan winked and nodded. “Good. Remember, no mercy. Now get a move on.”

Ronan, Relik, and whoever else the other warlords on this particular fishing trip brought to a chiseled out ring big enough to fit an ogre through while the rest of the striplings went their own ways. With a Spec of warpstone, it came to life, and the dockyards came into view.

“Enter the portal.” A sorceress beckoned. Ronan was the first to walk through and the first to vomit upon doing so.

“I am taking the lift next time.” Ronan coughed again.

“Ugh, I haven’t felt this sick since I found out those kurgan slave girls worshiped Nurgle.” Wheezed Gorindo.

“Bloody lightweights.” Lacertus said, his body no worse for wears. “And before you ask: dwarven ale, Pink Dragon. Lots of.” He whispered those last two words.

“Isn’t that a degreaser?” Ronan asked.

“I thought they used that against goblins as bombs?” Gorindo asked.

“Yes, but those discoveries were made after a few drinks.” Lacertus proudly informed the two warlords. “Now get up. We don’t have all day.”

After holding what was left of his stomach, Ronan examined the ships and found the crew he wanted. A third of it was corsairs, a third were of reaper and dark shard stalk, and a third were of shade stalk. Ronan stood at the ramp, examined the wood, and found it pleasing. The whole ship seemed to be well made from where he stood.

“You must be one of the pampered princes Red Tide warned us about.” The captain blurted out while reading a scroll, and casually judging the weight of a fat coin purse in his hands. “And this must be you man servant to wipe your bottom.”

“Insult me all you want,” Ronan growled for all to hear. “But please be warned: my comrade here is an assassin of Khaine’s very own temple, and one that still has strong ties to it. Annoy him at your own peril.”

“Proove it.” The captain scoffed.

Relik did so by appearing in front of him, with a dagger in one hand and the captain’s tongue in the other. “You blinked.” He said before throwing the startled captain on his back.

The crew reacted appropriately, with swords drawn and crossbows and handbows leveled at the assassin. Only the timely arrival of Ronan, and a few well-placed shoved seemed to keep them from making a move.
“As right of this hawkseer, I am master of this ship until we return, and as such I will not tolerate any of you acting like a pack of spoiled children. Thus far only your captain has been fool enough to do so. How long until we can move out to pursue our prey?”

“Which one, Dreadlord.” The captain hissed with Venom.

“The big Empire of Sigmar ship. That one looks the most promising.” Ronan brought out a bottle of wine, with the runes indicating it was the first year of the Sundering. “I am Ronan Hydra Kin; I am merciful and brutal in equal measure. My enemies will die at my hands, and my allies will celebrate our glory. The elf that kills or captures the captain of that ship, will get the Bottle of the first year of our people’s rise to glory!” The idea of winning free booze was always something a sailor could get behind. “So, how long until we can see who gets to wet their throat with this?”

“Four Hour’s, Commander!” Yelled a Reaver. “We are awaiting a detachment of backswords.” On que, they arrived, with the haughtiness only a child of nobility could have. They may have been the youngest children of the lower highborn, or the illegitimate children of the upper crust, but they acted as if they were the supreme ruler of a lesser city none the less.

Ronan was not surprised. “I wish to see my officers for this operation. We have much to discuss. That means out of those peacocks as well.”

Grumbling but holding back any outward signs of open rebellion, he led them to his cabin. It was quite lavish, as one who makes a third of the cut of any voyage would should have, but also surprisingly practical. Chairs from an Empire church of Sigmar; an officer’s desk from an outer kingdom of Ulthuanne; lanterns made from the hollowed out skulls of ogres; it was the perfect blend of intimidation as well.

The captain took his seat behind the desk, and brought his hands together in a slim show of power. “I am Vok, and I have been sailing these seas since I could walk.” Vok motioned to a weasel looking elf on his right.

“This Silolz, my navigator.” He then motioned to strongly built elf to his left near a slender elf playing with a pair of daggers. “My quartermaster Bick, and Master of Arms Kitak. The mob by the door just got here today so I don’t have time to remember their names.” He said, motioning to three reavers and a pair of lordlings by the cabin door.

“What of the shade?” Ronan asked. “Surely she has a name worthy of mention?”

“I do not like women on my ship.” Vok hissed. “They make getting things done impossible to achieve.”

“Then I will ask.” Ronan hissed back. “Great Hunter of the Woods; what name shall I call these?”

“Do not even bother.” Hissed Vok. “She’s just a woman.”

“And You are just a word away from scrubbing the deck.” Ronan replied. “Now, your name, great hunter?”

“Vixix.” She said coldly, though not with disrespect.

“Good. For those that were not top side when I announced my name, I am Ronan Hydra Kin. The assassin is Relik of Hag Greif. I plan on tackling the empire flag ship. What do we have to offer?”

“We were told a fog will be generated, and I get us next to them.” Said Siloz with pride. “You can use the ramp below deck to get at them, while reapers soften them up.”

“Good. I can take the bleakswords flanked by corsairs. I want dark shards and reapers to kill those wielding the cannons. Relik, shades; go where you think you will serve best.”

“Works for me. Vixix said. “Will that be in the kitchen?” This got a good chuckle out of the veteran officers.

“If by kitchen, you mean after you went out and made sausages and kabobs out of the humans; they are still healthy I believe so you may have to wrestle them a bit first; and then sea if they have any seasoning in their larder. No, I was thinking where you can work your magic with your crossbow, and those twenty knives.”
Before anyone could ask, Ronan showcased his own collection. Five came out of his cloak. Four more from around his belt. A pair slid out of his gauntlets, and four more out of his boots. Four more were strapped to his leg, while the last was hidden in his sword. “The hardest part is putting them all back.” He said as he did just that.

“I see someone has trained with the Shadow Panther Tribe.” Vixix said.

“Is that supposed to be important?” Vok groaned.

“They are the ones employed nearly exclusively by the Witch King.” Said the master of arms. “They have a reputation for being the best saboteurs in all the Land of Chill.

Ronan undid the armor around his neck for a moment, revealing a branding of Panther’s roaring head. Below it was a tattoo of a pair of saber cat’s signature pair of teeth. “And they deal with weaklings in the same manner you deal with a fish on the line: throw it back to the sharks or get it ready for the plate.”

Only Vok was unimpressed by this. “Good for you. Hopefully you won’t get killed in this fool mission.”

“Fool mission or not, this is what Fleetmaster Red Tide wants; do you wish to argue with his request?”

[Wasting most of the prep time arguing about this “fool mission” latter]

Ronan was tempted, oh so very tempted to offer the Captain as an offering to the Lord of the Storm. This feeling only grew as he talked with and overheard conversations from the other crew. They all seemed to have the same opinion. Others were already contemplating killing him in his sleep.

Yet despite this, everyone was focused for the task at hand. As unruly as Druchii could be not on the field of battle, once the drums of war sounded everyone took their place; everyone watched their backs. There would be no time to deal with your rivals when you needed them to distract the enemy; better them to die by halberd to a face then you.

“Siege Shields up!” Ronan commanded. Upon request, the bleak swords did as they were commanded, lifting heavy rectangular tower shields that were almost as tall as their wielder. “Swords on the ready!” Swords and any other weapon the corsairs had in mind left naked and hungry for battle. “Everyone know their task?”

“Sea Serpent Banners take the left; Frigate Birds take the right, you draw the attention of anyone in the middle.” Said one of the officers from the cabin. “You think we’re deaf?”

“No,” Replied Ronan. “Just trying to work out some nerves.”
“I know what those markings mean, Hydra Kin.” The officer said. “I know you have had to taste of battle.”

“Its not that.” Ronan replied. “I just do not trust Vok.”

“Think he’ll turn the reapers on us once we clear the deck?” the officer asked between a series or more profane cursings then the last.

“Yes.” Ronan said before the thick ship wall became a bridge.

Before he knew it, one of the bleak swords pushed him to the ground. For his effort, he and a file of soldiers were reduced to ash by the most brilliant beam of light. Flesh, cloth and leather burned away, leaving scorched bones and armor as orange as when it left the armorer’s forge. Ronan had no time to ponder what had happened.

The pounding of musket ball, and the roar of cannons ripped elves apart. Not a single bolt had been loosed from the top deck, yet druchii splinters, blood, and limbs flew as the black power smoke filled the air. Only when the last lead ball flew, did the elves rise.

“Change of plan!” Ronan roared. “Drop the siege shields and kill them!”

To Ronan’s delight more had survived the initial barrage. Corsairs slaughtered sailors and gunners on the left, and more pelted crossbowmen with their handbows before charging in for the kill on his right. This just left swashbucklers in the middle for Ronan and the other lords. Ronan cut human down left and right, their skill well below his, but just the right match for the sons of Druchii Nobility.

Then he was face first on the deck again, this time with a splitting headache. On instinct he rolled away, just missing a one-way trip to the kingdoms of the dead. Jumping back up Ronan, brought his shield up, only to be nearly thrown down again. The cause: A Large bald man in as much heavy armor as Ronandid, and a two handed Warhammer perfectly crafted for smashing skulls.

Good thing Sepacuna was right about his being thick; that and the dragon skull in his hood. “Just what I need; a bloody war priest.” Ronan said, spitting out crimson tinged spit. With a sword banging against his slightly dented kite shield. “Come on. We don’t have all day.”

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

“Well that went well!” groaned Kitak. The side of the ship looked like it was attacked by eagle sized woodpeckers, and covered in a thin film of splinters and gore. Had the deck crew listened to Ronan’s plan the enemy’s cannon crews would be dead, a quarter of the other crew would be dead or wished they were. They would have been easy picking for the corsairs, and they would be sailing back to the main dock in time for tea.

The railing that kept sailor and bolt thrower from falling overboard was mostly gone, with all but four reapers with it. Their crews were also by and large dead. Cannon and mortar fire saw to that. Even mighty Bick was a gooey mess.

“Get the remaining reapers over here! We won’t survive a second volley!” Kitak ordered as loud as he could.

“Belay that order!” shouted Vok. “Wait until they weaken each other first.

“To the abyss with that!” Kitak shouted back. “We cannot survive another volley.

“And we were paid handsomely to deal with the troublesome dreadlord.” Vok said with a crude smile. “I think a damaged ship and a loss of some crew is worth the compensation we will get.

“Not if we’re the part that dies. Move the reapers over.”

“Belay that order!” Vok shouted back. “Where is Bick and the other officers?”

“Dead or sent to die, Captain. Just like you wanted it.” Kitak retorted, his tone filled with the venom of an army of snakes.

“I will not take that tone from you. Surrender your blade.”
Before Vok could reach for his cutlass, a crack of a long barrel pistol sent a ball between his eyes, and he was no more. The elves had no time to react as a warrior riding upon a Pegasus emptied pistol after pistol into their ranks. Only when he ran out did he stop, and five more elves had fallen at his expert precision. Leaping from his mount, he slammed his two handed Warhammer into the chest of a corsair. With another swing, three more were thrown into the waves. His Pegasus rushed any enemies still near their reapers, kicking them into the sea now swarming with pigmy kracken.

Kickack took a look overboard, and winced as the rowboat sized squid turned the sea red. With that out of the way, Kickack returned his attention to the threat at hand, yelling for netters. Even if the human wouldn’t be taken alive, his steed’s fighting spirit would be worth the money the sorceresses back in Ghround would pay for it. The problem was getting to that point. The human had figured out the intricacies of the reaper, and loosed a bolt on another reaper. Turning it around, he loosed the semi-automatic shots into the crew. Only when it ran out did the carnage stop. A lone elf loosed a bolt at the human, taking out his leg below the knee. To the human’s credit, he still had fight. With another pistol seemingly coming from nowhere, he took a shot but missed.

Kitack had enough. With a dagger sliding across the throat, the human fell into the pools of blood he made. Netters had arrived, throwing their nets on the still volatile pegasus. They just won a fortune; and he Kitack just won himself a very expensive bottle of wine.

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

Relik paid the damage caused by the enemy captain little attention. They deserved what they got for this betrayal. He would have preferred to kill Vok himself, but he had a different target in mind. Despite some success, the mortar teams seemed to be having trouble with their equipment. Poor quality of powder and salt air did not mix well. This made it all the more perfect for him and his new friend. Like phantoms, the shades flew from mast to mast, silently and without notice, slaying sharpshooters and lookouts as they went.

It wasn’t long before they were ready for the kill.

“Just as planed; we kill the war mahine crews, then go after the others.”

“What about the wagon with the lenses?” Asked Vixix.

Relik didn’t even wait a second to respond. “It’s a war machine, even if it shoots death rays instead of bolts or rocks. The only difference we’ll want to study it. Kill or incapacitate the crew, then work your magic on the rest.”

Their first trick was sniping the crew operating the death machines farthest from them. The humans did not hear the cries of their comrades, the cannon’s fiery cries still stomping in their ears. With them out of the way, Relik, Vixix landed on the strange wagon, and slaughtered the crew.

“Death Ray secured.” Vixix said.

“So is this!” With a great bit of exertion, Relik moved a strange contraption with nine barrels the size and length of an ogre’s arm. “I wonder what this does.” He said with devilish glee. With a yank of a lever, the helblaster eliminated the rest of the enemies, save for one.

He and Ronan circled each other like sharks by a kill. Ronan took one look at his badly dented shield and tossed it aside. His cutlass was also nowhere to be seen, yet Ronan was not unarmed. With a beckoning motion of his hands, Ronan was still ready for battle. The warpreist charged, but the elf was prepared for this. He ducked to the side, then to the other, then with a new blade, in his hand, stabbed the warrior priest in the face.

Ronan let him gently fall, and closed the dead warrior’s eyes. With a last show of respect, he tossed a fallen banner of the Empire over him. “Below deck; check for survivors.” Ronan demanded. “But be careful. It’s going to be cramped; and it may smell oddly of fish.”

Humor was not lost on the elves, and they obeyed with some cheer in their hearts.

It wasn’t long before some of the survivors from the elven top deck had arrived, led by the weasel of a master of arms. “The captain is dead.” He said before tossing a rolled up parchment to Ronan. “Long live the new captain.”

“Technically that is you once we get back to the ark.” Ronan said, as he pulled out a g splinter from his armor. “What’s this?”

“A bribe. The amount is on the former captain now. It should be enough to buy him a decent funeral feast.”

Ronan read the parchment and tossed it to Relik. “It doesn’t say who it is from. Just that there is enough gold to sink a fishing boat for my life, or any of the second in commands; and a King’s ransom should they have proof of Lacertus’ demise once they return to port.”

“Think they planned this out like that?” Asked Vixix.

“Who knows, but I just hope I can find some answers.”

Bang! A horrendous explosion broke their concentration. Looking over to the port side, they found a Druchii ship engulfed by manic green flames. Dracea flew in from that direction, her pegasi riddled with bolts, many getting past the steed’s segmented armor. Both plopped down onto the captured empire ship, exhosted and in disgrace. “They started shooting at me once I took out the ogres on the little ship.” She said taking out a bolt that narrowly missed her vital organs. “My own crew, and then she blew up.”

“Blew up…” Ronan’s words weakly stopped as his mind raced for the frantickly narrowing reasons. “Get everyone off the Druchii vessel! Evacuate, this is not a drill!” The Corsairs looked bewildered at Ronan for a moment, but more explosions echoed through the air and they jumped ship. Within minutes, the elves had taken complete control of the human vessel, with Ronan directing them on its control. With a command to open more sails, the ship nearly skipped on the waves.

With cheers the Druchii had evaded death once again. “Gods below, that was something. Kitak said. “Well without a ship, I am in search of a new job.”

“That makes most of us.” Sighed Vixix.

“Well its pretty lonely in the Harpy Tower.” Said Ronan. “You can stay there till you get back on your feet, or you can join me. I promise to not sacrifice fine sailors and warriors less the price truly be worth it; and if so, chances are I will be with you.”

Vixix and Kikack looked at each other for a moment, then back at Ronan. “How is the dental?” Kitack asked tentatively.

“Boats approaching!” They are asure and human make, but they are waving Druchii colors.” Said one of the corsairs.

Ronan pulled out his spyglass and adjusted. The Asure ship was towing the badly damage human one, with more elves and humans on both then they could handle. “Signal them to approach, but slowly. Have a sharpen Cutlass in one hand, and help in the other.”

Relik let out an amused snort at the archaic phase, but one that held the truth of the situation: Be prepared to fight, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be civilized.

Without so much as a profanity, the other ship was pulled in close enough for sailors to cross.

“Thank the Dragons you were here.” Lacertus signed. “My captain tried to smash my head in with a cudgel, and I had to fight off the crew. Had Dea not arrived with her loot and some fresh mercinaries, we would have been dead. Then our ships began to fall apart and we had to commandeer the other.”

“Human dogs of war and a fresh supply of elf and human slaves, and a Asure ship still in reasonable condition. Nice.” Ronan Nodded his head in approval, trying to hold back an amuses smile.

“Yes, well, someone has it out for us, and we figured it would be you or Gorindo.” said Dea. Her frenzy spent on the battle and the flight, she didn’t have the state of mind to try and be anything but blunt.

“Wasn’t me.” Said Ronan as he found another splinter out of his side. “And it sure as the Abyss is all consuming wasn’t Sinestra. “Its going to take a week’s worth of enchanting to get her and Lancer back in fighting fit!” He motioned towards the weeping girl and the black pegasus she tended. “And I have proof this wasn’t a goof on your part either. Look.”

Relik handed Lacertus the parchment, who in turn read it allowed. “This is risky. This is enough wealth used on the ships to hire three ships for a hawkseer.” Lacertus commented. “My older brother Murdus had three times as that for his.”

“That leaves out Mundis. What about Gorindo?” Asked Relik.

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

Shivering in fear, a woman of twenty springs held back her wheeping as a new defiler rummaged through her master’s private cabinet of hashish and liquore. He was thinner, more athletically built then the boisterous lout that bought her from the slaver fort, but she knew his intentions. The way he caressed the bedposts of gold shaped into the luscious shape of mermaids told her enough.

She couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but she knew men, and he was no different from the rest. Suddenly, the doors were thrown open, and crewman was thrown to the floor. They were cloaked in the hide of some great reptile, like a lizardman, and had on blackened metal helms. They spoke their harsh language, only for the one that ransacked the captain’s cabin to laugh cruelly. Then he spoke perfectly in a language she understood.

“I had a Tillaian slave once. He used to be a cabin boy, just like you. What is your name, son?”
“Hector!” The sailor said, fear oozing off of every inch of him. The familiar smell of urine oozed all around as the boy lost all control.

“No, no, no! You are too old to be paper trained.” The defiler said to the laughter of one. When the other didn’t laugh, his comrade translated what the defiler said, eliciting a smirk. “I just want to know where you make port. If you can do that, you are free to live as freely as you were meant to.”

“Deadman’s Bluff.” The sailor said. “I can show you on the map.”

“That is a good boy.” The defiler said. Once the sailor pointed where the called home, he nodded to raiders who slashed at his feet.

“You said I could go free!” The sailor cried, fear, betrayal, and pain echoing though his voice.

“I said you could live as freely as you meant to be. Right now you are meant to be bait.” The defiler barked an order at his minions, who dragged the sailor off to his doom. Then there were horns blown, signaling the approach of land. The woman let out a startled exhale, and hoped the defiler could not hear.
“What do we have here?” Said the defiler in the sailor’s tongue.
As he savored the touch of her bare flesh, a loud explotion that tainted the air with the stench of brimstone killed any pleasurable mood he could muster. “Oh, by Athartie’s left butt cheek, what now!?”

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

Red Tide greeted each of the survivors with the same kind of contempt a tyrant lives and breathes by. “I see things did not go to plan.” He said.

“In a manner of speaking, yes Fleetmaster.” Ronan said, as a surgeon quickly cleansed his wounds.

“Care to explain why your ships failed to come back while Gorindo and Mundis came back with nary a fallen underling and only some minor damage?”

Relik stepped forward till he was just short five sword lengths away. Falling on one knee, head bow, He gingerly stretch forth his hands with parchment in tow. A guard took it without second thought and held it out just close enough to be read by the fleetmaster.

“I see. And this is proof of?” Red Tide demanded whimsically.

“Kikak found it on Captain Vok’s body after the enemy captain killed him and half the reaper crews.” Ronan said. “Apparently he was good on Pegasus back and had a falcon’s eye for aim.”

“And as strong a s bull, judging from this hammer.” Red Tide said as he swung said warhammer into a captive sick with scurvy. “It certainly leaves a pretty mess of whatever it hits.”

“Wait, what about the scroll?” hissed Gorindo. “By all accounts it implicates me or Mundis.”

“We already ruled you two out.” Said Ronan. “Neither of you are nearly stupid enough to be this obvious, and why spend a dragon’s egg’s worth of gold if you are going to sink it with witch fire?”

“Sorcery then?” Said Gorindo.

“Someone is plotting against us.” Said Ronan. “And they want you to take the blame. I suggest we find the scum and feed him to a Kharibdyss…alive.”

“Now you are speaking my language!” Gorindo said with a smile that still oozed with lecherous intent. Ronan was sure this was genuine, but it still made him uncomfortable.

“Very well. That takes a few steps out of this.” Said Red Tide. “I would have tortured Gorindo had you not come to his defense; did you know that.”

“Yes.” Said Ronan, to the hate filled dismay of the others.

“Why?” They all asked, some more dismayed then others.

“Why?” Ronan asked incredulously. “Why? Because someone, maybe one of our own, has it out for us; tried
to kill at least four of us, and made the other two look like they did it. As much as I want Red Tide to show us the tricks of the trade on Gorindo, I would only garner the angry attention of those under his command, and still have a would be assassin wanting to finish the job. Besides; there is still the matter of the Witch King’s protection. I would be seen as a likely target afterwards as my ship didn’t explode until later.”

“So, it is not altruism that guides your decision.” Red Tide said, loudly so all could hear.

“After all that has happened this week, do you think I would?” Ronan snapped. He caught himself momentarily, but the damage was done.

“Good.” Red Tide simply said. “Gorndo: You have relied on your father’s rank far too much; there is fear and respect in it and through you by extension but without earning some of your own, you are as likely to take your Father’s position, if not rise higher then he as much as an Asure tavern girl.” Both Ronan and Gorindo held their tongues, both for fear, but also for reasons as far apart as sound sleep and wide awake.
“Dracea, you have similar issues.” Red Tide snapped at the pegasus knight. “While you have the skill of arms to take you to greatness, you have been sheltered by your aunt’s reputation too long; it appears not enough fear it to be a perfect shield. Shape up or your trip will be made short.

“Lacertus; you wheel and deal, and your charisma sees to win you allies, but it is not enough. Ruthlessness must be used as well.

“Dea, you have the charisma of a manticor in heat. You are fierce on the battle field, and your reputation under the sheets may win you support, and keep your enemies biding their time but they will find an opportunity to strike sooner or later. Get smart or die.” Dea, roared at such insults, and rushed in for the kill, only for Red Tide to smash his outstretched arm into her throat, knocking her onto the ground. With a cutlass digging gently into her face, Red Tide simply clicked his tongue and shook his head. “My point exactly.

“Mundis; you did well enough on your first raid, but you still lack ambition. What is wrong with you?

“And you, Ronan. Skill of arms has been your ally; picking battles where you would shine has been you advantage; And the fact most underestimate you has been a blessing. No longer it seems will you have this.

“Moreover, all of you lost the ships we sent you on. My ships to be precise. I will begin confiscating your share of the booty to compensate, starting with the captured boats, which thankfully for you more than pay for the losses. Those old things were relics really. Yet despite the this, you still made a tidy sum. Not as much as what you could wish for, but I believe this counts as your first victory. Enjoy it while you can.”
As the others left to salvage their losses, Ronan looked at what he won. A whole regiment of corsairs, a dozen and a half shades, enough gold to celebrate with a grand feast with, and a new officer. That was in flesh; the humans had already been carted off and what worth was not put strait into Red Tide’s coffer fit into a small pouch.

A dozen Cannons, an odd firearm that looked like the large cousin of a blunderbuss he saw once, and that strange wagon with the death ray. Sinestra had gold, which she quickly spent on healers and surgeons for her steed, nearly taking the head off a few for even mentioning the poor creature might not live.
Just as Ronan thought his luck was improving, Gorindo was just a couple of steps from his face. “We need to talk, now.”

Ronan was careless. For Gorindo to sneak up on him like this, he was clearly not thinking strait. “Would you like to have it now, or shall we have it over a drink. There is a tavern right there, and the women even look pretty for once.” He said, conveying a bit of devil may care bravado a heavy dose of pain killing drugs could provide.

“Oh, the Gods only know how I could use both.” Gorindo moaned sickly. “But there is a matter of a debt I have to pay. To you of all things.”

“I’m listening.” Ronan said, his fingers dancing on his cutlass like show girls.

“I found a girl on the ship I raided. Though I am sure that crew had their fun with her, and after seeing her yourself you will believe anyone that did not would be insane or a eunuch. Sadly, my time with her was interrupted before it began when my ship blew up. Take her. That will end my debt to you.”

“That will do nicely.” Ronan said. “Bring her to me.”
With a snap of the fingers, Gorindo was out of striking range, and a girl was. Ronan figured she was either her late teens or early twenties, well within the realms of womanhood by human standards. With her struggling in his arms, Ronan stood, and let out a snarl of contempt. “We need to return to the Harpy tower, now!”

Ronan shoved the girl towards Vivix who held her tight. Despite her struggles, the girl had nothing to her name to escape. She didn’t even have cloths as was custome for offloaded slaves. Ronan returned with part of a discarded sail, and weapped around her like a blanket. It was ruff on the skin, but she took what dignity it would give her.

“It will take some time.” Said a caravan leader as he finished loading the last scrap for the Harpy Tower.

“Gordingo has sent an army to assult our home.” Ronan said with urgency.

“How can you be so sure.” Relik asked.

“I haven’t survived thirty years hear by ignoring all you lesson. How much will it be to teleport all of us?”

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

“Let us through, we are on Malekeith’s business.” Said a lordling donned in the purple and black robes of a highborn of Naggrond.

“Yeah, and I am Malus Darkblade’s wiper.” Said a guard with a harpy insignia on his shield. “Let me see the write with the orders.”

“Malekeith needs no such petty things!” The lordling bellowed to the riotous cheers of his five hundred fellows.

“With a twitch of the hand, reapers and repeating crossbows aimed their fears weapons at the assaulting party. “Clearly you never worked with him, nor were you aware of the very common knowledge of what happened when you use our Lord’s name this vainly.”

“Right,” Signed the lordling. “This wasn’t going to work anyways.”

Stepping out of the way, a very broad and agitated monstrosity bellowed a fiery blast of chaotic power. Any standing in front of the gate were not even dust to be gathered but wisps of foul smoke. Survivors on the outer gate let loose their payloads, butchering three ranks of elves. The Monstrosity spat out putrid torrents of corrosive liquid upon the left buttresses, then the right. As elves screamed, metal and stone cracked and crumbled, and flesh, wood, and cloth bubbled away, the invaders entered.

They were met by more defenders, led by Arhedel. With a few more shots, the beast was down, but the elves had raised their heavy siege shields. With a signal, with a flick of her wrist, it was time for more magical means. Cannon fire ripped and opening through the shield wall, plenty wide for iron balls connected to each other by thick chains. As they sped up, streaks of lightning tore through the invader’s ranks, while a spear of amber light what stood apart with a lion’s roar.

Just as they stood, the enchanted chain shot was flung at the enemy. In a whirling dervish of death, elves were torn apart. One elf with a keen eye and a two handed great sword cut one in half, only for the shrapnel to butcher him, the balls to flew in every other direction.

Bolts flew again, sending more into the welcoming embrace of the Pale Queen. When the twenty elves ran out of bolts, it was time for nature to strike. Plants began growing at such alarming rates, one would have thought they were a hydra regrowing a severed head. With thick thorny vines, they strangled and impaled the attackers. The intruders hacked at them with their strait swords and their curved sabers, only to be left open for blue and purple flowers began to bloom, and pelted the elves lightly armored necks and sides with poisonous barbs. Each flower had a payload of three, and all twenty flowers made their mark.

The dark shards were ready again, and began shooting again. It was the last volley but between this and the magic, the enemy numbers were cleaved in half. Plenty of time for vials to explode as they crashed at their feet. Thick purple smoke covered the invaders, burning the soft moist flesh inside the mouths, around the eyes, and in the nose. With a giggling laugh, another vile was tossed and the purple smoke ignited.


“Think this was enough?” Acidia asked the Twins and the Plant Sisters besides her.

“Lets find out.” Arhedel commanded. All the other combatants readied their close combat arms, and prepared for the coming assault. To their surprise, the harpies had already dealt with that, with Tiggar leaning near the feasting beastwomen. There were no survivors to question. As Arhedel cursed her luck in this, she wondered who dared bring a chaos spawn up here, and who could afford such a strange beast? It would certainly eliminate most elves, but that left at least a dozen wealthy families and dozens of more officers. “Well that’s just greate. We can’t interrogate anyone. Hay, Ghosty, can you speak with your dead friends about this?”

“Its Acana.” The deathly sorceress corrected calmly. “But no; they have had their souls dedicated to the Pale Queen. They are already thee or fighting their way through Slannesh’ servants to reach her.”

“Perfect. Just perfect. Hissed Arhedel. “What about the chaos spawn?”

“I wouldn’t try it.” Tiggar said shaking her head. “Its one thing if its ancestors had changed eons ago and this is how they are now like a manticor or a cockatrice, but something or someone this touched by chaos is dangerous for anyone not a true master of her arts.”

“And you are not?” Arhedel scoffed.

“If we were we would be sending our apprentice’s out into the world and not us.” Acana scoffed back.

“Besides, the mind is usually the first thing to go when spawndom is occurring. I doubt we get anything more interesting than a strange fascination with bananas.”

“Ban-an-ass?” asked Arhedel, her brow furled in the full rays of confusion.

“It’s a tube like fruit in a thin yellow skin that is easy to peel, and rather delicious when ripe. We often study spawn under the watchful eyes of the Supreme sorceresses to see what we can gather; its usually this or something called a chimichanga. Its all more bizarre then the last.

“Well you’ve been busy.” Said a rather exhausted Ronan. Before he had a chance to vomit, the portal behind him literally dropped forty corsairs, an assassin, a lady and her pegasus, several reapers, dozen and a half shades, and on top of it all, a slave girl desperately clinging to a scrap piece of sail as her only covering. “Medic!”
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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Calisson
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Calisson »

There is some interesting reading. Lots of action and unexpected changes. Maybe a little long and confusing for me, though (it is late in the evening).
That could be inspiring for drawing a comic strip.
Winds never stop blowing, Oceans are borderless. Get a ship and a crew, so the World will be ours! Today the World, tomorrow Nagg! {--|oBrotherhood of the Coast!o|--}
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

accidently copied the last chapter here, ignore
Last edited by Saintofm on Fri Mar 01, 2019 5:53 am, edited 1 time in total.
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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Saintofm
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Re: Hawkseer

Post by Saintofm »

Another 50 views another post.

If there is any need of improvements, you know how to rip a writer apart to get him back on track. Serously, I could use it.


Chapter . Surprise, surprise.

Ronan was fighting fit within the hour. With one of the Life Magic focused sisters checking off another thing off her list, Ronan inspected what would be his new army. The corsairs were treated by one of the other Life Sisters, while their third treated Dracea and her mount. With Ronan’s own medical team working in between, there would be no casualties this night.

“Ronan, you need to see this!” yelled Sepacunea, her tone surprisingly filled with concern. Being nothing more than property herself in the eyes of other elves, Ronan let her inspect any new acquisition. She wasn’t gentler; she was a Druchii after all, but she did take more care as she was in the same boat. “Look at her tongue.” She said as she held open the girl’s mouth.

Ronan first felt sock, then anger at the empty space within. “How recent was, was this?”

“Not very.” Sepacuna said. “Maybe two months judging the scaring. Also look at this.” With her blue fingers tracing a line up the reluctant young woman’s arm, Sepacuna left a trace of light that glowed warmly. “I think she was a wizard.”

“What, like sorcery?” Ronan asked, the revelations taken his mind to whole new lines of though.

Sepacuna shook her head. “Nothing so wild abandoned. This is true wizardry, and she had to have been very powerful.”

“Amazing; she looks no older then I when I finished my training and yet she is a master.” Said Ronan.

“If she is truly that young. If she is the vein type she may have used it to age more slowly once she hit a desired age.

“Is there a way to undo the damage?”

“We’ll need the three idiots using the basement to grow their weeds and quite bit of aid from the magical winds, but yes its possible.

“Do you think she can understand us?” Ronan asked as he moved the woman’s head from side to side for closer inspection.

“Not anything elvin, but something human.” Ronan said hello in Bretish. No response. He did it again in various tongues of the humans of Estila, Tillaia, and the Empire, and even a Slyvannian dialect. Still no response. Then he said something in Arabean, and her eyes fluttered for a moment. It was a blink and you miss it, but Ronan had a hunter’s set of eyes, and they say the little details like none other.

“Bring me Zinat.” Ronan commanded. A soldier escorted his Nooban healer towards him, then left with a bow.

“You summoned me, my lord?” Zinat said with a bow.

“Yes. I need your opinion on our patient here. She also seems to understand Arabean." Ronan motioned his hand towards the human in question.

Zinat went to work, checking her height, width, and weight. She then examined the mouth eyes, ears, and even the lower extremities. “Removing the tongue is common practice for traitors, but also Magi to keep them from using their spells against a new regime.” Zinat said with cold indifference. “I’d say she’s an Arabean girl, maybe twenty, more likely eighteen years. She also has the curse of being a beautiful slave, and was well used for such a role. I am also guessing she must have been a scholar, maybe a wizard of some sort from the strain in her eyes and the callouses around her fingers where a pen was used. How did you get this one?”

“Gorindo found her on the ship he captured, then gave her to me when I ended up saving his hide from a false accusation to pay off a life debt.”

“I see. And you saved his greasy hide because?” Zinat asked, her hands waving impatiently for an answer.

“Someone tried to assassinate all six of us lords, failed horribly, but nearly ruined our opening chances of success. I would be walking into a trap if I did that.” Ronan said in his defense.

“Right, and getting another woman in your harem wasn’t that.” Zinat replied with a coy smile. “In any case, I can help with the pain, but if you want her to sing again, you better get some magic for that tongue.

“Can you give her a message for me.” Ronan asked. Zinat nodded. “Good. Tell her in her Arabean that I am Ronan, that I own her now. I could use her as her former master had, but I think her magical gifts will be more useful. Be loyal to me and she will never be used in a way that would be degrading. Betray me and that will be the fate she will have chosen.

“She can start with giving me the location and army defenses of both where your old captain made port, and where you were sold into slavery from. I cannot promise your freedom, not yet, not for a long time, but I can promise you vengeance. Think on that as you are healed.”

Zinat told her as much but the girl only spit in Ronan’s face. Wiping it away, Ronan did not smash her face in with a fist, as was custom, but smothered her lips with his own. His canines bit down on her lips till the sweet taste of blood caressed his tongue. “I am forgiving, but I have my limits.”


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

“Hoth, giver of Wisdom we beseech thee.” Began Nore as she drew the ruins of power upon the Ronan’s latest acquisition. She was bound with tight leather cords on a marble slab, surrounded by lit braziers and candles, and glowing gems that sparked at each syllable uttered. “Hekate, give us power equal to the gifts we give.”

All ten sorceresses on their trials slit their right palm, letting the trickle of blood enter the braziers for a full minute. With a slow rise in their magical might, both gods seemed pleased with their offerings. “Place a tongue of a maiden into her mouth.” Nore commanded. Her sisters obeyed, with Tore prying open her mouth, and Kore placing it in the slave girl’s mouth so she wouldn’t choke on it. “Sepacuna, would you do the honors of adjusting the girl’s voice?” Nore asked.

There were murmuring from among the other nine acolytes. Some were pleased with this, others surprised, but some questioned the validity of this.

“Is it wise to let a failed sorceress do this?” Acidia whispered to Tiggar harshly. The beastly sorceress nodded with arms crossed.

“Maybe so, but she has more experience than any of us combined.” Said Arcana. “Besides, you must have heard the rumors.”

“You mean the one where here final test was somehow sabotaged?” Actus asked sternly, as if the very thought was absurd.

“It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thing has been tried, and it was not the last. There is also the fact you had her Mistress; a sorceress untouchable save for the Grand Crones of Ghround, and the Hag Queen herself.” Acarna said.

“So they went after the calf because the cow was too hard to get to.” Grumbled Tiggar. “Cowardly, and hardly effective.”

“Less you keep in mind Sepacuna was to be her star pupil, one with such skill not seen in a generation, possibly not since Morathi began teaching her son his first words of power.” Arcana mentioned. “Now be quiet. She needs full concentration for this next bit.

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

One moment ago Sepacuna was blue skinned and in a dank dungeon, but now she was in a private garden, with a waterfall overlooking a pond filled wit turtles and water fowl swimming peacefully. She gazed at her hands; covered in lace and had a nice pale tone to them. Not blue, but porcelain in color. There was even a lack of her infernal scar that slithered from the tip of her index finger, growing fatter and fatter till it coiled around her loins. A mark of remembrance of the day that left her like ruined her future.

Taking a good long look into the water’s reflection of her, she saw otherwise. She made it into the other woman’s mind, she told herself. Now she had to decide where to go to find her. A swoosh of a scimitar was a step in the right direction. With a blade made of ice, she blocked the stroke meant for her neck. “Impressive. Not many can do that in the realm of the mind.” Sepacuna said smiling. The woman simply said something in gibberish.

“Well that isn’t going to work.” With a firm grasp on the human’s head, a red glow emanated from where she touched, and screams of anguish from her throat. “Can you understand me now?” Sepacuna asked with a smirk.

“You blueberry whore!” The woman shrieked as Sepacuna let her go.

“Close enough.” Sepacuna said with a shrug. “Do you remember the words Ronan spoke to you through the interpreter?”

“All lies; pretty lies but lies none the less.” The woman said. Then fear griped her heart, and contorted her face at the sudden understanding of this unwanted guest. “How is it you speak Arabean?”

“The same way you can speak like an Asur or a Dhruchii now. I simply exchanged the least protected parts of the mind: Our Knowledge of language. How to use it, how to speak it, how to write it. Don’t worry, not all your secrets are known to me, but why do you have so many words for horses?”

“Probably the same reason you have so many words for butchery; what we have the most words for we place the greatest vaue.” The woman spat out.

“And I suppose you have a name.” Sepacuna asked. With a flick of the wrist she summoned a table and a chalice of cool water.

“You don’t need to know it.” The woman spat out again.

Sepecuna replied by tossing the pitcher’s contents onto the woman’s face “No, but my liege will, and unlike him I am not the patient kind.”

The human woman clicked her tongue and shook her head as if she was dealing with a child. “Poor traits to have in the arts of a spell weaver.”

“I prefer Calligraphy myself.” Sepacuna said with brush in hand. With a flick, ink splotches turned into black knights that surrounded the human.

“Lovely, just lovely, but I believe a little flower arranging can go a long way!” With a sprinkle of seeds, carnivorous daffodils the size of lions burst from the ground and wrestled the knights away.

“Ah, they are adorable. I wonder how much locusts will enjoy it. With her mouth open, a steam of buzzing insects left Sepacuna’s throat, consuming all the dangerous plant life in her wake. “Now, a name please, or will you let him name you like he would a dog?”

The other woman took the bait instantly, and slashed at Sepacuna with a conjured scimitar. Sepacuna parried deftly with her own saber. “Fifi? Fido? Spot? Oh yes, spot is a good name for you.” While the human wizard’s attacks became more frenzied, Sepacuna’s became more calm, more fluid, as if this was no more a threat then a buzzing house fly. Thus far she had been proven right.

With push and a slash, a streak of cold could be seen on the human, but Sepacuna had no battle damage. As she continued her assault on the human with her sword, so too did she with her mouth. “He can train you to sit; to rollover; to not poop on the Arabean carpet; to not hump a stranger’s leg.” Sepacuna stopped for a moment, her face the most serious it has ever been. “Actually the way you are acting that might be a good trick to teach you.”

“Never!” The woman shrieked. She rushed headlong at Sepacuna, but the sorceress slapped her to the ground with the back of her hand.

“Let me tell you how it is for a slave in the Land of Chill." Sepacuna said, her tone as threatening as the boot on the other woman's throat. "You managed to skip the weeks of being crammed into a small holding pen with other captives like cattle off to slaughter. Human, elf, dwarf, goblin, orc, ogre, even an lizardman if we can manage it. You will be rarely fed, and the slop they do give you is better left unasked what its contents are.

“Should you survive, you then would be hauled naked across the streets of the city of Karond Kar, where the chill will bite at you, and the denizens will hurl jeers and garbage at you. If you survive that you will be inspected, thoroughly, and a value given. The weaklings at this point have died off, but those that live but are broken are then given to the temples to be sacrificed; most likely the Temple of Khaine as he cares not for the condition of the sacrifices offered to him.

“Then you will be bought; sold for menial labor, house labor, or considering you’re looks, a Den of Wolves; a brothel in the common languages. Maybe you would be offered up as a sacrifice anyways, so some lord can say they were generous in their gifts. However, if you work in a mine, you would work yourself to death; maybe have your bones enchanted so they keep working till you are ground to dust. If you work as a house servant, you will live a more comfortable life, but are that much closer to the volatile nobility, and their tastes and desires violently shift with every passing moment.

“Thankfully for you, that is not an issue; you bypassed it all. You still have Ronan to deal with.”

“I will die before I pleasure him!” The woman hissed. She tried to raise her hand to cast a spell, but Sepacuna slapped it away.

“Considering how easy how easy it is to stimulate him, I doubt it. You see, if a house slave is not used in the bedroom at some point it would be seen as strange, or as you were a gift, impolite.” There was a blank star and confused tilt to the women’s head as Sepacuna said this. “However, look at the harem Ronan has collected.” Sepacuna summoned portraits of each of the girls and women Ronan technically owned. The first was Arhedel, depicted in her armor with a boot resting on a bloody orc’s head, with a crossbow pointing skyward in one arm, and her falcian dripping black blood in the other. “This is Arhedel. She is Ronan’s fiancé. She was a woman hailing from the wood elves but was captured a little before Ronan had been. For his services he received her. As he had more uses for allies then bedmates, so he let her become his bodyguard, and she has learned the Druchii arts of war well; she is also the finest shot you or I will ever see. Now love has bloomed and he plans on wedding her and she him, and only after she said yes did they share a lovers embrace.”

The next portrait to appear was of Sulfura, leaping over a heard of beast men and driving her throwing stars deep within their unnatural flesh. “Sulfura is a sweet girl; every one of us loves her; every one of us protects her. She has been trained in the assassin’s arts since Ronan received her, and she has used that skill wonderfully as his spy and saboteur.”

The next Portrait of Sepacuna, her staff leveled so the vile energies of her staff could consume her elvin enemies. “Here I am, Sepacuna. I was once one of the grandest sorceresses ever to walk the hallow halls of the School of magic in Ghround. I have since fallen on hard times and now stuck with that fool, but he is kind fool. As long as my magic serves him well, he sees no need to pin me to a bed.”

The next set of portraits were the other six women in Ronan’s harem, as they were often called. “Ronan won these fine ladies when he defeated his former superior at an excavation, and took his position. I think he killed the elf as much to save his life as much as he did for the abuse he put these girls through. Since then the Nooban Zinat and the Asri Pupila provide him with healing arts; the Asure Yoofina is allowed to use her arts as a seer of Lillith so long as she spends some of that time helping him win wars; The Asure Fontini acts as his scribe, and Helga the human girl, and the youngest of us, can read a map better than any sailor in the fleet. Only Swift Sliver, the Druchii gladiatrix beds Ronan, and that is because she demands it. The rest can go on and without that worry, lest we decide to change that.”

“I don’t understand.” The woman said, her voice dry and sounding confused.

“Neither do I, but as long as your talents can be used to his advantage, you will have pleased him. He is your master, but he is a kind one.” Sepacuna took a seat at a conjured wicker chair. “Did he promise you anything?”

“Yes.” The woman said.

“What was it?”

“If I show him where the captain that defiled me made port, and where I was sold from, he would see I had vengeance.”

“Then take him up on that offer.” Said Sepacuna. “Take him up on it and live as a pampered pet.”

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

Sepacuna gave a disappointed sigh as her mind reentered her body. With a hand raised, she channeled her strength into adjusting the woman’s voice till it was just right. “Carful speaking. You probably haven’t used that in a while.” She told the Arabean woman. “Is she ready to be presented to Ronan?” She asked the other sorceresses

“I think a bath is called for first.” Said Tiggar. She took a quick whiff of her own cloths and nearly gaged on it. “I think a bath and a change of clothes for all of us is in order.

“Praise Hekarti for that.” Said Sepacuna.

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

The morning meal had concluded, and the Plant Sisters were eager to show off their recent experiment. It was another carnivorous plant, but one that could obey commands and could even see. It was quite entertaining to watch it devour the Skaven warrior they brought to test it on. The ratman didn’t even have a chance. With eager applause, Ronan and all under his command demanded more, and more they received. After three more Skaven the plant had its fill, and seemed to form a protective ball.

“Hmm, Precious here seems to be full.” Said Kore.

“Our Experiments at home showed he would need not eat again in a month, but we are hoping this one can at least eat again in a weak, even if it’s only a nibble.” Said Nore.

“Very Well.” Said Ronan. “Your superiors back in your coven should be proud of your work as I am.” The three bowed, and carted their plant off. The sounding of the Gong alerted them to their latest arrival. “Bring her in.”

The Arabean woman was escorted in flanked by a pair of serving girls in what must have been the house colors of the last patron of this tower. She wore a scarlet dress that fit her body comfortably for movement, with a long trailing tail. Her arms were bare, save for black lattice, and her head was crowned in a silver circlet with a sapphire in its center.

“I hope things have been accommodating.” Ronan said. The woman did not respond. “What kind of magic did you study? Fire? Metel? Life? Beasts? Death? Light? Shadows? Heavens?” This last comment sent a twitch into the woman. “Aw, the art of manipulation of weather. I also hear it is the fine art of seer craft, as there are three beautiful elves here that will testify.” Ronan raised his glass to Yoofina and the twins who all blushed. “Do you dabble in one or the other, or do you take advantage of both aspects?”

The woman remained silent.

Ronan sighed once, then lifted his frame from his rather comfortable throne. “I am being polite.” He said, as he stepped down to her level. “I am offering you a chance of service that will allow you to keep much of your remaining dignity.” He was five sword length from her before he stopped; more space then was necessary for a slave. “I could have kept your tongue removed, or put it back in so I can make you scream to all of your gods for protection.” He stepped closer, four sword lengths away, and a proper distance a slave should keep less called for.

“I could even have had your mystic bindings remain in and on you, so you could not cast your spells. I wouldn’t want to be zapped while I have a closer inspection in a candle lit bed chamber.” Ronan took a few more steps then stopped at three sword lengths away. This was perfect for soldiers and most guards. “I want your gifts to aid me, and I want an ally I can trust. I do not need a bedmate; I have several to choose from if I needed that, and only one I need not worry I am taking advantage of her.” Ronan took another few steps closer, to where one’s body guard would stand at two sword lengths away. “I however am always in need of a new ally and my retinue has an opening. As you were quite literally flung at me, this will be a wonderful if you join.”

Ronan took a few steps closer, now the distance where if he stretched out his arm with sword in hand it would nick her chin. A close retainer like Relik would stand. “It is not without cost. Your dignity has already taken a grievous wound, but there is a chance to bandage it. Aid me with your magic, and you will live a life of safety and comfort. But if revenge is your desire, then we can help each other. Show me where you were the captain that defiled you made port; where you were bought and kept like an animal to be sold at the fair; and the ones that captured you, branded you, and mutilated you.

Ronan was now in the inner most intimate space. He placed a firm but gentle hand on her cheek that slid down, gravity pushing it along the jaw, and dripping against her throat. Only when his palm was held firmly against the space between her neck and her bosom, where her heat beat against it by rapid terror driven allegro, did he stop. “Do you know Druchii Etiquette?” Ronan asked her. By a sheer force of will she held back a sob, but the audible attempt was answer enough. “At this space, people would have their heads taken off. Unless permitted, this space is only meant for rivals, lovers, and playthings.

“I have no fear of you as a rival. I need you not as a lover, as I have a wife to be my light in the dark.” Ronan’s hand jerked violently towards her throat. With the air constricting away, she had no choice but go to her knees. “Betray me, and this is what will be your fate. Do not pretend you cannot understand my speech.” Ronan let go, and waited. It was a short wait.

“My powers are not strong enough to see the future yet.” The Arabean woman gasped. “I can still see one’s past by touch. It is one of the many reasons I was cast out like I was.”

Ronan pulled back the hood of his cloak, and kneeled before her. “Then tell me what you see.”

Timidly, the slave woman placed her hands on the side of Ronan’s face and held on. Images flashed past her, their order and meanings all contorted. She saw a boy tending an herb garden while a large dog, or maybe even a wolf lay near nearby with a cow bone in its mouth. The next image she could see clearly was a high elf stripling preening himself as he put on his new armor. And older elf woman stood nearby and presented him a shield with a new saber upon it. As the two embraced another image came, this time of another stripling, scared, and donning a cloak made of reptile hide jumping from roof to roof as he was chased by daemons.

Another image came to view, that of a brutal fight between the stripling and a warrior with a wolf shaped helmet and wielding a large Warhammer. Another image flew by, where a pair of draconic heads nuzzled him gently in some unwholesome pit. Another image latter of him peeling potatoes with house slaves in a large kitchen and trading increasingly cruder jokes as their work progressed. Another imaged passed her by, this time filled with anger as Ronan reached for a sword as another high ranking elf in a reptile hide cloak used a slave girl as a footstool. Before long he was fighting his way towards the other elf, challenging him to a duel to the death.

Finally, an image of came of him walking up behind two unsavory corsairs. “Leave the girl alone.” He commanded in a booming voice. “She doesn’t appreciate your company.”

Without any effort he took them out in a manner that would terrify all but the truly brave or stupid. Judging from her experience with the one that slammed her into Ronan’s arms, the one known as Gorindo was both. Yet Ronan showed no fear, even as he used his most potent of threats.

The last image that she saw was the youth stripped of all his cloths, arms, and armor as he was forced to kneel before individual who radiated a darkness that only a heart of a cave could dream of achieving. “What is your name?” His menacing voice demanded.

"I have none to offer. It died the moment what should have been my king, my prince abandoned me to the care of the black arks. I am just a sword without a master; one that will be denied my vengeance.” The stripling said. He was afraid. No elf, even the most deranged, would stand so close to this monster and not be.

This forced a laugh out of the warrior, his face, save for a pair of ominously glowing green eyes, was covered in darkness. A room as large as many a sultan’s palaces filled with nobility joined in, though nervousness and not humor forced their voices to sing. “You still seek revenge against my grand race of elves? Even now?” The black armored warrior laughed again, more ominouse then before.

“No.” The stripling corrected, and the room was silent. “I cannot seek vengeance against a shark or a wolf or cold one for what nature had made them into; likewise, I cannot do so with you. I can, however, wish to drink the blood of the darkblade that left my city to be butchered; my friends to be put to the sword or chain. For my family to be killed. He is the one I swear vengeance against. But as you can see, I am a little preoccupied with entertaining your guests.”

And now Ronan looking over the sea, and feeling at peace at last.

The woman let go, and fell down to the ground.

Sighing heavily, Ronan turned and stood before his entourage. “Anyone else wish to read my mind today?”

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

The Arabean woman awoke in silk night gown in a fine bed. When she heard snoring, she feared the worst, but its source was not lying next to her. It came from Ronan, sitting against the wall opposite of the bed, and with a book filled with colorful woodblock prints laying on his lap. The woman quickly searched for a weapon, a dagger, a cudgel, or even a priceless vase. She eventually found one, a shaving razor. Armed with it, she crept close to Ronan. Despite the obnoxious amounts of creaking each step made, Ronan made no obvious attempt to awaken.

With a sudden movement of her arm, she swung at his exposed neck. Then just before blade was caressed by sweat, a strong arm threw her to the floor. It was an elf in a brown cloak, with brass colored eyes, with a black line dropping under each eye till it met the jaw. He had to have been an assassin to be this stealthy, for she could not see him, hear him, even smell him before now.

“And after you kill him, where would you have gone?” The assassin asked in perfect Arabean.

“You can speak my language?” She asked, surprise overwhelming her sense of fear.

“I had a mission back in my younger days to prove to your order of hired killers they could be infiltrated. I did so, took my time in my stay there, then left though the front door. Now what was your plan of escape?”

“I’d find a boat. There had to be one I can take.” The woman said.

“Yes, you were going to run down to the ground floor of a thirty story building the size of many a city, full of the most deranged individuals outside the chaos wastes or a Skaven burrow, to a boat? I am sure you know that the largest boat that can be manned by one person is not meant to be on open ocean for long; nor any clue where you would need to go, or if you do reach land will it be a place where you can understand the language?” The assassin asked. There was no answer. “Ronan has been awake since you started rummaging through his things. I was here so he had no need to do anything but see what you would do. Isn’t that right?”

Ronan shrugged. “A little overestimate of my ability to force myself to wake, but spot on otherwise. Ronan extended an unarmored hand towards the woman. “Are you strong enough to see future?”

The woman nodded. “I need to touch you again, but I can will it.”

“Can you see specifics?” Ronan asked. “Like what would happen if you make one choice or another?”

“It is difficult, but yes.” The woman said with another nod.

“Then do it.” It was Ronan’s turn to place a hand on her face. With a firm grasp, she saw his future.

If she betrayed him again, her powers would be sealed, and she would be a concubine. She would be forced to bear him children. Only after years of humiliation would she be pacified enough to have her powers again, and more half elvin children would be produced and used to infiltrate the land of Araby; thus a kingdom of Ronan’s own making would be created.

If she remained loyal, those who mutilated her, sold her and branded her as a common slave, and the port of her last master would be enslaved themselves or their heads placed upon a pike, their warriors forced into the mining pits, while their wealth decorating a hundred dark elf captain’s quarters. She would still lay with Ronan, but it was of a time of her choosing, and no one else’s. She would have her powers, and eventually rule a province in his name.

“Bring me a map.” The woman said. “I will give you your targets, and my spell craft is yours to command.” She said.”

“Before I awaken my map expert, what is your name.” Ronan demanded gently.

“Pick a name. Like you, my old life is gone, and my name with it.” She said.

“Then I shall give you one. Dulkisest. It means Sweet Thing in druhur. I have a feeling it will suit you in no time.”
Who needs sanity? I have a Hydra
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