Contest April-May 2016 Short Story Contest Voting Thread

Reading and voting has begun for this, our sixth seasonal short story contest.

Whew! Took a while to get them posted. Here are the entries.

Please read every piece before submitting your votes. Every forumite may vote for up to five. To avoid accidentally submitting a binding vote before you are done, it is probably best to pick your top five before you start selecting boxes.

Spoiler: Story One: "Watching Things Burn”

Watching Things Burn


“PRAISE BE TO CHOTEK!”

The chant echoed around the arena. Every one of the First stared intently at intricately carved stela. The wooden structure stood nearly twenty feel tall, nearly every inch covered with mosaics to the Old One Chotec. Now it was set ablaze. The seats were mostly filled with Skinks and a few Kroxigor that rarely left their smaller spawning brother’s side—even when they did things that were somewhat boring. The few Sauri in attendance were mostly older Spawn Leaders and Scar Veterans who made a point of attending religious observances when they were off duty. There were only a handful of the younger rank and file.

The red-crested Skink chief turned to the priest sitting next to him.

“I think the younger Saurus warriors are only here because they just like watching things burn.”
“Hush, that is not respectful.”

The priest meant to come across as stern but the younger Skink could tell he was suppressing a smile.

As the fire grew in size and intensity, the beautiful carvings on the stelae became less distinguishable until one brief moment when the relief blazed bright red making the carvings fully visible to all before the glow faded and the fire intensified incinerating the offering once and for all. The priest nearest them addressed the crowd with a megaphone.

“Chotec gladly accepts our offering!”
“PRAISE BE TO CHOTEC!”

The sun was setting as the crowd departed. This was as intended. Most rituals in Chotec’s honor were timed to end with the sun’s rising or setting. Gartol, the red crested Skink Chief and Huaraz, the Skink priest of Itzl were among the last to leave.

They were not very high up in the stands, but it was still slow work guiding Huaraz down the stairs. This wore on Gartol. Not from impatience or unwillingness to aid his elder, but because he didn’t like the idea that Huaraz was getting so old.

Huaraz was not like the other priests who closeted themselves away in private chambers contemplating the vaguest utterances on the Slann. He was a priest of Itzl, a passionate and brilliant warrior. Not just empowering his allies with spells but leading them in battle clawing the enemy with magically empowered attacks. When he wasn’t leading massed units of Skinks and Kroxigor into battle, he was helping train the city’s newest spawned to fight. He didn’t have the raw talent of the warrior castes Skinks but he had a patience they lacked making him an ideal teacher.

The priest last major battle made it clear Huaraz place was no longer on the front lines. Even during training, his advancing age was beginning to show. Gartol didn’t like to think of newer spawnings not having the guidance that he had.

Rather than fixate on this, Gartol decided to strike up a conversation.

“I never understood this ritual, mentor. Why burn the tribute?”
"As you mentioned, some people like to watch things burn. Fire is beautiful and warming much like how the sun which Chotec embodies is beautiful and warming.”
“Over a dozen Skinks labored for weeks to carve a beautiful tribute to Chotec and we burned it. That has to be galling for the artisans to watch”
“They were proud to serve, Huaraz. The stella was a labor of love.”
“Then why not keep it? It was a beautiful tribute to Chotec that could have stood for decades. We should set Skaven on fire as an offering to great Chotec.”

The elderly priest chuckled.

“Spoken like a true exemplar of the Sotek caste. Sotek is a being of action and valor. The Old Ones are beings of wisdom and contemplation.”
“Mentor, I faithfully serve Sotek, but I do not forsake the Old Ones who came before and prepared his Coming. We can’t contemplate a carving very well if it turned into a pile of ashes. Why not dedicate slain Anathema to all the Old Ones and not just Sotek”
“Sotek demands we give him that which we despise. The blood of our enemies, the fruits of the battlefield. The Old Ones demand we give them the fruits of peace, that which we love. Being willing to give up what we love most is the essence of our mission to serve the Old Ones and the Slann.”

They finally made it to the ground. They were quiet for several minutes before Gartol spoke again.

“They say great Sotek is harsh because of the bloody sacrifices he demands. The demands of the Old Ones seem far harsher.”
“Sotek doesn’t have a monopoly on harshness or slaying enemies. You’ve seen what the power of my patron Itzl can do on the battlefield first hand. Huanchi is no slacker at spilling blood of the Old One foes either. Really, there isn’t a single Old One that isn’t harsh when the situation requires it, much like all the First.”

Huaraz stumbled on the road and nearly fell. Gartol steadied him while his mentor grumbled.

“I’ll be harsh if I meet the worker chief who allowed this loose pavestone on his watch!”

Gartol stopped walking. Huaraz took three steps before he noticed his companion was no longer matching his stride.

“Yes?”
“Mentor, it is getting late and we are still a good ways from the Temple of Itzl. I’m not carrying any weapons or gear at this time. I could…..carry you home….if you’d like.”

Irritation flashed across the elder Skink’s face, then appreciation. He waved the younger Skink off.

“I’m old, but I’m not that old.”

Huaraz noted his protégé’s look of concern did not cease. He removed his satchel and offered it to Gartol.

“You can carry my pouch if you want, but no one ever carries me.”
“Never?”
“Okay, one time, but the rules change when you are gushing blood from a battlefield wound. Thanks for that by the way.”
“Just paying you back when you helped me my first battle, mentor.”
“You were a good tadpole, I could see your potential. I knew you’d pay me back later, and you did, so we are even now. You aren’t carrying me anywhere tonight!”

Both Skinks laughed as they continued walking down to the temple district. The city was quiet, most of the residents had already settled in for the night. Gartol had another burning question in his mind.

“Should not one of the Slann attended the annual Chotec festival. Or the Tzunki festival before it. Not one Slann came for our last ritual honoring Tepoc. A major Tepoc ritual without a Slann present is like a large Kroxigor gathering without any food present.”
“Hah! You are spoiled with the Slann always floating about. Back in my day, The Slann spent a lot more time contemplating and a lot less time guiding us.”
“I thought they rotated between contemplations and leadership much as the lesser First rotate between rest and our various tasks. Why the change? What are they contemplating now, mentor?”
“Not so much contemplating as arguing. The Great Plan and how it accounts for the warm blooded races. In this case they are concerned about the Second Race.”
“The Elves? What are they doing now?”
“This doesn’t leave the two of us, but the so-called Fallen Elves in the land north of Lustria are launching a massive invasion of the Elves’ original homeland. Some Slann want to wipe out or convert all the Fallen so the Second Race isn’t tainted by Chaos further. Some Slann want to force all Elves, Fallen and otherwise to return their original homeland.”
“The island that is a ring?”
“Yes. The first group of Slann fears that letting invasion proceed unhindered will weaken the Second Race as a whole and spread the taint of darkness to those who are still relatively pure. The second group Slann sees the invasion as the fulfillment of the Old Ones plan as the northern Elves are returning to their original homeland of their own free will, at least most of them are.”
"That sound complicated.”
“It gets worse. Some Slann have given up on managing the Second Race at all. They just want to stop the Elves from raiding Lustria. Some of them think we should stand back and let the Elves reduce each other’s numbers. Others think we should side with the ring dwellers since they are the far less threatening of the two groups.”

They discussed the details of the various viewpoints all the way back to Huaraz’s cell in the Temple of Itzl.

“Mentor, what if we act and break the Slann’s stalemate?”
“You know better, Gartol, the Slann decide and we act…with their orders.”
“If they can’t decide amongst themselves how do we act?”
“We wait till they decide.”
“And if they don’t decide?”
“Then we wait longer!”

The pair were silent for most of the rest of their walk to the temple. Garok hung up the elder priest’s satchel and helped him into his bed.

“Mentor I’ve been thinking. The Slann thinking and we younger children of the Old Ones acting. That is somewhat like how the Old Ones think and Sotek acts.”
“That is probably why he is large a Skink god. But still Sotek’s bold actions were foreseen and planned by the Old Ones. Much how our bold actions are still guided by the Slann. It is good to know your boldness is tempered with wisdom.”

Huaraz’s eyes began to droop.

“Thank you for the kind words, mentor. It is clear that though I am a child of Sotek in many respects I must always seek the blessings of the Old Ones.”

He paused and watched his mentor begin to doze. He stooped and picked up a spare pillow off of the floor.

“The Old Ones demand we give up that which we love.”
“What’d you say?” Hauraz asked his speech slurred.
“I said sleep well, mentor.”



Huaraz the priest of Itzl lay peacefully on a pile of dry wood in the middle of a delicate raft carved in the likeness of a Salamander. Gartol lit the pyre and pushed the raft gently into the middle of the spawning pool. He turned to the crowd of mourners. Almost every Skink of rank in the city along with a small number of Saurus leaders. They all watched in respectful silence as the raft became consumed by flames and finally sank.

“We commend a wise and mighty priest to the Old Ones’ hands. Huaraz has served as a mentor and guide for almost everyone here. His loss diminishes us all. We take solace in the fact that he lived a long life and died peacefully in his sleep. To honor his memory, we must follow his last wishes which he confided me to on his last night.”

He paused a moment until he was sure he had every individuals complete attention.

“He told me, ‘While the Second race resumes their civil war, we must march north, to the land the Second Race calls, Naggaroth. This will please the Slann who believe all Elves belong on their ringed island by denying these wayward warmbloods their adopted home. This will please those Slann who call the Naggaroth Elves “Fallen” as this will reduce the Fallen Elves’ numbers and resources. This will please those Slann concerned with the safety of our lands as the Naggaroth Elves will no longer have a nearby base from which to launch their raids upon us.’”

Most of the priests nodded agreement along with several skink chiefs. A small number of priests and chiefs a like looked doubtful. A lot of chiefs looked confused. The Saurus leaders’ expressions never wavered.

“We will advance the Great Plan! No more will the pale Elves from the north raid our temples! No more will they sacrifice our spawning brothers! No more will they enslave Cold Ones and other beasts of the jungle. We are the First Children of the Old Ones and will not be denied! We will not stop until every warmblood in Nagaroth is dead and every tainted structure, every blasphemous monument to their false gods is leveled.”

The assembled cheered. Even those harboring some doubts were swept up in the rising energy.

“For Sotek! For the Old Ones!”

Spoiler: Story Two: "The King of Lustria

The King of Lustria


His jaws snapped shut on the Carnosaur, snapping it almost clean in two. Slowly he moved to devour his feast. His belly filled with the fresh meat, he moved on to find his next meal. He was ancient and he was perpetually hungry. He rubbed his hide against a small cliff face. The armor on his body was so irksome. He bellowed as he shook and it clattered and clanged.

He was king here, it was an outrage to keep him locked up so. He had seen those who rose before Kalgalanos was a mere thought of an egg. He had fought them and his indiscernibly ancient form showed it. The scent of a Stegadon caught his attention, for a moment, all the armor was forgotten.

Slowly, he prowled. His nostrils flared wide at the scent as he came closer and closer. The Stegadon seemed to have realized it was being stalked and wheeled to face its hidden opponent. As it charged, it realized its folly too late, the jungle lord’s jaws were open and waiting. There was no challenge here, he flipped over the carcass and tugged at the softer belly. Settling into the warm mud, he rested, his heavy eyes shutting.

Teocipactli

TEOCIPACTLI

His eyes snapped open, hearing his name. Teocipactli’s armor glowed brilliantly. He wanted to resist, go back to sleeping, but, a proper challenge would be waiting for him if he obeyed. With a roar, Teocipactli charged through the jungle to the call of the Slann.

The lizardmen were arrayed against the Chaos army, the flood of Khorne’s minions was nigh on overpowering. Coxcoxtli watched the giant Bloodthirster rise, its wings snapping as it flew. Terradons and their riders scattered before it or were tossed to the side by the great gusts of its wings. He saw an old scar veteran wheel his Carnosaur towards the monster, shouting a challenge.

Halt! HALT! This daemon is for another! The Slann called. The old Saurus bellowed in rage but did as he commanded, taking out their frustration on a pack of Flesh Hounds.

The ground began to well and truly shake as Teocipactli crashed into the light, head held high, screaming his arrival. Troops leapt aside to let the titanic beast onto the field, Stegadons and Bastilodons, usually an unshakeable wall, moved to let the King of Lustria have at his prey. His body was still covered in red tinged mud mixed with gore dripped from his jaws as he crashed unencumbered into the Chaos forces. As he charged, he rose on his hind legs and leapt best could, his teeth grabbing the tail of the Bloodthirster. Whipping his head to the side, he brought the demon down to earth.

The demon shook itself off, its axes still gripped in its hands. He licked his lips and roared, swinging his weapons at the beast. Teocipactli showed his flank to his opponent as he brought his tail to bear, whipping it at the Bloodthirster’s chest, scoring a deep mark in the Daemon’s armor. The monster did not stop, the Saurian’s tail only giving it a brief pause as it shifted to avoid worse damage. The Bloodthrister closed in and Teocipactli rose on his hind legs to avoid the first axe blow; the second landing in the meat of his back leg.

He screamed and shifted his great weight to the side, the axe was not stuck, he had almost hoped for that, to allow him to rip it from his enemy’s grip. He brought his forepaws to bear. The Daemon swung its chained whip around one of his front legs, catching it amongst his claws. The Daemon tugged, hoping to make his opponent collapse, but the tons of scale and muscle barely budged.

Teocipactli drove his limbs deep into the mud churned earth, his tail lashing back and forth, cracking into any unfortunate chaos creature that came too close, as he maintained his grip. The Bloodthirster hauled on its chain, his axe raised, waiting for the moment to strike. Slowly, the monsters came closer together. The Dread Saurian opened his jaws wide as the Bloodthirster struck, the axe cutting deep into the side of his lower jaw. Teocipactli twisted his head, his jaws biting deep into the offending shoulder. He ignored the spikes that stabbed at the roof of his mouth as he tugged and pulled, tearing the arm free.

His opponent did not look at the wound in shock, no, he was created far stronger than that. Teo tossed the arm away and turned his head back towards the Daemon. Releasing the whip, the Bloodthirster grabbed its next weapon, a massive sword. But it did not get a chance to draw its weapon. Teocipactli’s jaws closed around its head and shut.

He rose above the Daemon’s corpse and bellowed his triumph, turning his wrath to the remaining hordes, his soul renewed after so fine a challenge. As the sun set on the Lustrian jungles, the King came before Coxcoxtli. The Slann slowly acknowledged him before releasing him back into the jungles. The great beast moved slowly back to his swamp and settled back into the mud. With a satisfied rumble, he fell asleep, dreaming of fresh hunts and blood.

Spoiler: Story Three: "Eyes on the Sun”

Eyes on the Sun


Of late, the city and the surrounding areas have been under pressure from rising threats. The ruling Skink Priests are running out of options, so they have sent an emissary to the neighboring region. The inhabitants there are elves that make a living in the arid sands. The priests have never actually asked for help before, but there is a precedent for walking into their lands safely to meet with them. The elves, being as secretive and defensive as they are, demand that the Lizardmen only ever send one emissary with a white armband.

The priests are sending their new errand runner, Jao, who has proven to be resourceful. The resourcefulness comes mostly in intelligence gathering, but Jao also has the patience to deal with the most ornery of folk, and the elves of the sands are quite ornery, even in peace time. If the myths were to be believed, the elves are dangerous.

Jao was carrying a pole across the shoulders with a clay jug of water on one end, and on the other was the source of Jao's intelligence gathering secret; a circular clay jar with a hinged door. The escort party had left Jao a while ago as they didn't want to get anywhere near the sands. The sun was high by the time Jao spotted the sand dunes. Before entering, Jao checked and adjusted the armband, the most critical piece to survival, more so than water.

The dunes were low at first, but their crests seemed to get taller without realizing it. Every step through the sand sapped out much more energy than normal, and the surface area that the hot sand touched felt many times hotter than back home with gravel on the ground. The sun and the air were just as hot as normal, but the sands were a new experience for Jao. As tiring as it was, Jao pressed on, eager to meet the elves. Jao kept the mind busy by thinking of the stories about these elves; how they are everywhere and nowhere at the same time, that they can put an arrow through two bodies and stick into a third, and that they use illusions to kill travelers in the sands. Jao frantically slapped the arm where the white armband was, it was still there, and Jao froze for a moment to listen for something, but the only sound was the hiss of sand still rolling down the dune. Jao felt the anxiety of the sands setting in.

Jao plodded along aimlessly with his head toward the ground, useless as it was to look for any land marks out here. Even the sky was a blue void. Hours had passed with few breaks for water. There wasn't a preset time to meet, so Jao had to be prepared to last for as long as possible. The deserts of home seemed more forgiving and full of resources to resupply with compared to this sea of sand; could the people here really be of any help? Jao needed to find out one way or another, and pushed on with a second wind knowing that his people were depending on him.

While walking along the crest of a dune, heavy eyes found themselves shut for a moment too long, and Jao lost balance, shoulder-pole slipping off. Luckily, the water jug made a soft landing in the sand and Jao had the presence of mind to keep it upright. The circular crucible slowly rolled to the rut between the dunes. Jao sat down to take a drink of the water and scanned the sky for the sun, which was directly up,after all this time. Jao slid to the bottom of the rut to secure the two items back onto the pole, and while adjusting it across his neck, Jao noticed there were no shadows. Jao thought but the sun is directly up... then again, why would the sun be "directly" up? The heat was still very real as well, and it seemed that every experience was an illusion.

At this point, Jao thought it was time to release the secret to both his resourcefulness and patience. Jao sat down to snap the latch back and open the door. A gecko waddled its way out and made off in a random direction. Jao was able to see through the gecko, by a gift of the gods, marked by a second pupil in his right eye. Jao projected the gecko out to to scout the area while he sat back in the rut. The realization sank in quickly that there was no more to see than if Jao continued onward. Jao saddled the pole across his shoulders once more and kept walking in the direction he thought he was going before.

The environment was clearly having an effect on Jao, and there seemed to be only two answers; either Jao was getting delusional from exhaustion and the non stop heat, or the illusions were getting inside his head. Jao had lost track of time, and couldn't remember the last time he had some of the water. Jao sat down to check the water which was a lot lower than expected, is every illusion an attack out here? to which he reacted with a laugh. Jao decided to drink it all and laid back against the dune. Jao checked the armband again, which was still there, and let out another mad laughter; it sounded more like tone deaf chirping and stuttering barks. The gecko wandered off again, with nothing better to do. Jao thought he could wait for either death, or the chance to catch the sun move across the sky; the outcome mattered not at this point.

Minutes, or hours passed with shut eyes, and some of the maddening thoughts were subsiding. Being cut off from the illusions for a moment felt like a victory. Suddenly, hands were wrapped around the lizard emissary by the ankles and wrists, and a bag swiftly put over his head. Jao was tense, but didn't struggle; the gecko scurried back over the crest of the dune to watch what was happening. There were a dozen elves, most of which had their weapons drawn. Two of the elves carried Jao's body away and the gecko dashed through the sand to keep up with the group. When the gecko finally got close to one of the elves, it scuttled up the the elf's leg to rest behind the hip.

From this dubious perch, Jao could witness the group entering the camp, with large treemen settling into the ground near swirling pools of water. There were small groups of elves in every rut of the dunes, busy at work with all manner of craft.

Jao felt the sensation of free falling just before the thud of sand knocked the wind out of him. After a few coughs, the bag was ripped off his head. The shoulder pole, water jug, and crucible were thrown beside him and all the elves left the area, save for the vigilant elves all along the crest of this rut. Jao stood up and brushed himself off and looked around at all the elves; although their stance was offensive, he felt safe and calm for the first time since stepping foot into the sands. The good feeling was short lived though, as Jao remembered his purpose here. The whole plan centered around getting here, but they didn't tell him what to say. Jao didn't even know how he was going to communicate with them, much less convince them they needed to help. So much thinking time was wasted trying to survive the sands and its illusions.

The main objective here is to call for help in the fight against the Apisi Beastmen, a faction that the Sand Elves are already formally at war with. Getting the Sand Elves to leave their sea of sand is terribly hard to do, and Jao didn't have any leverage; he would just have to make something up.

The thought was interrupted by a glittering elf that walked directly towards the skink emissary. Stunned by its presence, Jao watched as it waved its glittering hand and spoke, "Greetings, our elders are gathering to grant you audience to explain why you are here, come with me." With this, the elf motioned away and turned to lead Jao out of this rut. Now Jao got to see the pools and treemen with his own eyes, and he was trying to locate some of the same treemen with the gecko so it could find its way back to himself. The gecko finally crossed path's, not by finding a treeman near Jao, but by the glow and glittering of the elf leading him. When they got to their destination, it was nothing more than another rut, with a dozen elves sitting on their backpacks along the crest. Jao thought, could these people really be our last chance? The glittering elf took its seat among the rest of the elders and motioned for the skink emissary to stand at the bottom of the rut and address them.

The gecko peeked over the crest to see Jao make his final steps toward the bottom. He spun around to find the gecko and took in a deep breath as if to start speaking; before this could happen, a bark came from one of the elders, "Why have you ventured into our lands?" Jao held still until the elf was done.

With a dry throat, the skink emissary projected his voice as best he could, "My people are in trouble. Every year, the rainy seasons produce more and more for our lands, and the Apisi raids grow more intense due to this. We have always relied on the sun to protect us, but a great grey cloud is threatening the balance in our homelands. I hope you can appreciate the desperate times my people are going through, and any amount of aid is welcomed."

Another ornery elf spoke up, "What more could we do? we are already at war with the Apisi."

Being the naïve emissary he was, Jao asked, "Maybe a detachment of bows, they would make all the difference in this struggle."

"And risk our own lives, for your prosperity? What reciprocation do you offer in exchange?"

Jao had to think about this for a moment, "Right now, all of our resources are tied up in total war. We could offer little more than food and shelter for your troops. If we survive through this storm, there could be a future of trade, otherwise both of our people may fall." There was a silence following this statement, and he could feel the heavy glares from the elves.

While the shock of the statement settled in, the glittering elf stood up to lead Jao away from the elders before they could reply; which would have been ugly for him. The glittering elf whispered to Jao, "Excuse us while we... deliberate." With this, the elf left the skink in the custody of a pair of guards to escort back to the prison-like rut in the dunes. Here, Jao sat, frustrated that these elves are afraid to speak realistically.

The gecko, however, was still near the council of elders, and was listening in on their deliberations. They spoke of their conflict with the Druchii, and how the two wars might be connected. Jao had never heard of the "druchii" but he thought there might be some way he could help. The council didn't seem fond of the idea of trade; more inclined to send bows in the hands of elves before they ever gave up a weapon to a foreigner. The deliberations, although quite hostile toward the messenger, seemed to lean in a positive direction. They wanted to concert their efforts with the lizards to push back the enemies simultaneously.

Before the deliberations could come to a conclusion, the glittering elf spotted the gecko on the sidelines and looked around at all the other oblivious faces of the elders. The elf held up its hand with its head cocked directly at the gecko, "I think we have a visitor." A couple of the other elves saw the gecko as well, and got up to make chase. In a panic, Jao pulled the gecko back to himself, and it moved at an unnatural speed. The elves were able to keep up quite well.

Jao opened the door of the crucible and the gecko scurried in. The pursuing elves showed up in time to watch Jao snap the latch shut on the crucible, and he looked up frantically. It was painfully obvious how guilty he was at this point; he couldn't conceive of what they were going to do to him now. They grabbed him by both arms and glared wildly at him, pointing at his eye. "I knew I could see something in your eye, care to explain what this is?"

They were pointing at the second pupil in his right eye, something he didn't know how to explain to them, "It is a mark of my gods." Jao caught a glimpse of the glittering elf approaching once more.

The glittering elf wore a grin before addressing the skink emissary, "We were going to wait for your journey home to drop our illusions." With this, the sun directly above disappeared, and the true sun was burning lower in the sky, where it belongs. "You can thank your gods." The glittering elf left the area and the elves holding Jao now pinned him to the ground. Another pair of elves came to hold his head and eyes open toward the sun.

In desperation, Jao shouted, "I can still help!" The elves muttered incoherent words and laughed; it was clear that Jao could no longer speak to them. Fear gripped firmly and Jao tried to wiggle out of the elves hands. There was nothing he could do; the sun was visible no matter which direction he looked.

Quickly, Jao had sunspots around the edges of his vision, and it was becoming harder to hold his gaze to the side. Jao was disoriented with pain after a few minutes of this torture. The sun passed the center of his vision a few times and burned straight through to the back of his head, causing Jao to twitch and tense up. The sun seemed to grow larger and was inescapable. Jao let out shrill, whimpering chirps as the sun caused the last bit of permanent damage. The elves released their hold of the skink emissary, and he could hear their foot steps in the sand leaving.

One pair of foot steps was on its way back. Jao was sitting in defeat, holding his head. The foot steps stopped near him, and he could hear them snap back the latch on the crucible and swing the tiny door open. The gecko inside saw that it was the glittering elf who opened the door, and Jao recoiled even lower to the ground than he already was. The elf laughed and showed the white armband to the gecko and proceeded to wrap it around Jao's eyes, and behind his head and crest.

The glittering elf slowly stood up and walked away. When the foot steps were gone, the gecko came out of the crucible to find that all the vigilant elves holding guard earlier were gone. Upon further investigation, the entire surrounding camp was gone, without any trace. Surely, Jao would be allowed to return home safely now, however, empty handed and with less than what he started the journey with.

Spoiler: Story Four: "Pirates of the Dragon Isles”

Pirates of the Dragon Isles


Captain Ennico silently cursed his decision to sail through the Dragon Isles. Through his ornate spyglass he could see the large, foaming wake of his pursuer just below the surface of the blue ocean, slowly closing the distance. The beast could not be more than a few hundred meters away now, and was only picking up speed as the wind turned against his own vessel. On deck, his frantic crew had just finished tossing the rest of the cargo overboard to lighten the ship and gain more speed. Huge crates of precious ores, valuable trade cargos, and other priceless artifacts from the fabled kingdoms of Ind and Cathay, all thrown overboard in what now seemed a futile effort to escape from their pursuer.

“They are still gaining on us sir!” blubbered his first mate, sweating visibly under his cap.

The captain nodded gruffly, glancing back over his shoulder. He didn’t need to use his spyglass anymore to glimpse the outline of the angry ripples in the water.

“Taking this shortcut to avoid those infernal Elvish patrols has a high price after all, captain.”

“You have something to say, first mate?”

“No sir,” the first mate lowered his eyes, and quickly looked for a reason to leave the captain’s presence. The captain’s bodyguard didn’t move, knowing better to stay quiet than incur the captain’s wrath. “I will see what else we can discard, we can replenish when we escape.”

If we escape, you dullard, the captain brooded as his first mate quickly retreated back down the deck.

Ennico turned back to his sea-charts, looking for some way to navigate his weather-beaten caravel through these infernal isles. His ship and crew had been at sea for almost a year now, travelling from Tilea to the Southlands, to find their fortune in the East. They constantly evaded the High Elf sea-patrols by hiding the ship in smuggler’s bays and lagoons along the coast, but this final shortcut was a mistake. Shortly after entering the “Dragon Isles,” as they were labeled on his charts, his idiot of a helmsmen had become lost in the complex coastline of shifting jungle islands. The former helmsman had been confined to the brig, and had since been replaced, but that mattered little since they had been spotted. Ennico knew that his ship and crew were now being pursued by a danger more terrifying than anything the Elves could throw at them.

A sailor’s scream of alarm roused the captain from his charts. Looking overboard in the direction the crewmate was pointing, the captain saw that the beast had closed the gap much faster than he could have anticipated. A gigantic, dark shape was clearly visible under the turbulent water directly behind them, and was rapidly approaching the stern of the caravel. Ennico could just barely make out the large, scaled fins that propelled their pursuer, when they suddenly disappeared as the beast dove deeper under the surface of the water. It was preparing to strike.

The captain felt numb as he drew his pistols and rusty cutlass, backing away from the ship’s railing and calling his bodyguard to surround him. Ennico could hear his first mate wildly calling the rest of the crew to arms. He looked to see the majority of the crew formed up amide the center of the ship; as far from the edges as possible, back-to-back and facing outward in preparation to mount a desperate attempt to defend themselves. Ennico knew their weapons and foolish bravery would not be enough, and was more than willing to leave them to their fate. He only hoped they would buy him enough time to either make a stand or figure a way to barter his way out of this mess. Looking at his bodyguard’s shiny iron breastplates, at this moment he wished he had one for himself.

With a roar, a colossal snakelike head burst out of the ocean spray and towered high above the mast, then struck down into the heart of the crew clustered in the center of the ship. Snatching two with its razor sharp teeth and explosion of gore, the creature plunged back below the surface before the terrified crew could react. Worse still, as the creature’s head plummeted back into the water, its crew of lizard-men leapt off its neck and shoulders and onto the deck of the ship.

Small, iguana-headed Skinks leapt off the monster onto the ships’ ropes. The brightly-tattooed Skinks were armed with javelins and clutching knives in their jaws, and moved against the crew with lightning speed. Some used bolas to incapacitate the human defenders, while others launched darts loaded with sleeper-poison to knock them out cold on the floor of the deck.

The Saurus were more vicious. Larger than any human crewmember, these inhuman monstrosities wielded spiked clubs, scale-skin bucklers, and sharpened metal swords. Their hides were decorated with gold earrings and glyphs beat into their skin, others wore bright feathers and ribbons of flowing crimson silk. They hacked and clawed their way through the human crew, not differentiating between those crewmen who continued to fight and those who had already thrown their weapons down in surrender.

A single hulking Kroxigor also leaped onboard as their living pirate-vessel dove beneath the surface. The dark-scaled Kroxigor lunged into the center of the fray, quickly knocking aside nearly half of the defenders by himself. Then, after snapping off the arms of the nearest crewman, the beast quickly lost interest in the rest of the battle as it crouched down to devour its chosen target.

Captain Ennico looked on in horror as the crew was systematically butchered and incapacitated before his eyes by the marauding piratical lizards. As he surveyed the one-sided carnage, a giant and scarred Saurus brute ran up the stairs towards his firing position above the melee. It easily smashed aside his bodyguards, and raising its club charged the now solitary captain. Ennico desperately unloaded another volley from his brace of pistols into the Saurus’s chest, but the brute only closed the gap. Bodyguard dead, the only thing that saved the captain’s life was the shrill cry that caused the Saurus to freeze mid-swipe and turn in the direction of the noise.

The Captain then beheld a small black-colored skink, perched on the gunnel of the ship. The skink was generously coated with gold and feathers, and painted in white patterns that gave the illusion of a skeleton given life. The skeletal-Skink cried out again, and all the lizard-men aboard the deck ceased fighting (except for the feasting Kroxigor) and turned their attention to the side of the ship next to the skink, where a truly massive Saurus now came into view.

This Saurus was larger than any other Saurus on the ship, and it scales were much darker and worn. Many jewels and golden glyphs were encrusted into its scaly hide, and it wore several gold rings pierced into its bony head-crest. Jade and other colored beads hung in strands from its jawbone, giving the impression of a shiny gold beard. A single sun-glyph pendant was hammered into the Saurus’s right eye socket where it appeared about half its skull had been ripped out a cannonball. The Saurus was dressed in fine crimson cloth, with armor plates on its front and shoulders, with many human and lizard skulls attached to its belt. And in addition to its war-mace of jade, gold, and black steel held in its clenched fist, the Saurus had affixed a long deadly hook to the end of its tail. The hook swayed back and forth as the Saurus observed Ennico’s ship as its conquered prize. Captain Ennico could tell this old-scale was their leader.

The Saurus let loose a low growl, and the skeletal-Skink cried out in a loud, hissing voice: “Hoist the Colors!” The skink spoke in broken Tilean, no doubt for the benefit of the defeated sailors, in a voice better adapted to the chirps and hissing tones of lizard-speak. Ennico, still processing how this lizard-creature could possibly address the crew in his own native tongue, watched in terror as another small skink darted to the stern of his caravel. Ripping down his ship’s colors, the skink raised a black flag blazoned with a white lizard-skull high into the air.

The Saurus captain surveyed the caravel’s deck with his single good eye, admiring the riches the scampering Skinks had by now piled around his feet. With his hook tail he picked at the remnants of food, precious spices, and cargo that Ennico’s first mate had not yet thrown overboard in the attempt to outrun their pursuers. The Saurus captain let out another low growl of approval, and then barked out some commands to his crew, who immediately sprang into action. Ennico spoke up, attempting to plead his case, mentally preparing to offer something- money, gold, his crew as slaves, anything to save his own life, but was roughly smacked across the head by the scarred Saurus holding his arm. Ennico slunk to the floor, dazed.

The tattooed Skink interpreter then turned to the surviving human prisoners who had been brought before the Saurus captain and made to kneel at his feet, and addressed them again in broken Tilean:

“You have trespassed in the sovereign islands of the Lost Children of the Old Ones. Your lives are now forfeit to the corsair-king of these waters, and both your ship and goods belong to us. The goods you threw overboard are also our property; our divers have already recovered them while you attempted to evade our approach. Resist and you shall be punished.”

The lizard crew had begun to throw the remaining goods and supplies overboard, some diving into the ocean holding bags of food and spices, others holding captives in their clutches. The scarred Saurus brute grabbed Captain Ennico by the arm and roughly dragged him to the side of the ship in preparation to jump overboard with him.

“What is to become of us!” he screamed amid a sob of desperation, still disoriented from his blow to the head.

Ennico looked back to see the Saurus captain snarl, almost grinning in response, which rattled the bejeweled tendrils on his chin. Another skink attendant, this one dressed in dozens of bright red-green feathers and bird-skull helmet, had brought the Saurus captain a large, black, tri-horned helmet, decorated with a single blood-red feather.

The skeletal-Skink responded with a wide and sharp-toothed grin, which contorted his skull-painted face into a truly horrifying visage:

“Time for our victory feast!”

Spoiler: Story Five: "Snow Saga”

Snow Saga


A gust of wind swept up the snow that lay heavy on the fields. A man was making his way over the white plains. His path illuminated by the Aurora witch spread over the night sky. In a steady pace he made his way towards the dark contours of a settlement in the distance. When he finally arrived had the moon risen in the sky. Something had happened here, doors were flung wide open and the thatched roofs bore marks of fire. As he entered the village he noticed how no one came to meet him, not even the barking of dogs welcomed him. It was as quiet as a grave.

Then did the wind change and the wanderer felt the smell of blood. Searching the source he peeked in through one of the open doors. There was blood on the floor and dead bodies were hinted at in the gloomy darkness. He also noticed that the door had been heavily battered, probably from an axe.

He left the door and headed towards the center of the town in search for further clues. The great hall were burned to the ground. This probably had been where the defenders took a last stand there only to have it burnt around them. With no further clues he were abate to leave when he heard a faintly coughing. In against the wall of a house, he found an old woman mortally wounded, but still alive like she refused to die. He kneeled at her side and offered her his water skin

“No young man it is too late for me. The Chöbattarians have already taken my life.”

She coughed and then continued in a lower voice

“You must leave me here to die and warn the city of Ostengrad. Save my grandchildren from the plundering hordes.”

“No, I cannot return to that city ever again.”

“You, you must or they will sack the city and kill or enslave everyone.”

“You are the only hope.”

She coughed up blood and with her last breath she said

“The star lizards never came….”

Then her eyes turned blank and she died. The man closed her eyes and stood up. Turning around he heard another sound it were the sound of footsteps. It wa the footsteps of a lingering looter that had been drawn here by the sound of the woman’s last words. The man draw his sword prepared to face the looter. The looter dropped his bag and measured up the dark man with his gaze grunting something in his guttural language he started to circle around the man. A gust of wind howled over the roofs of the longhouses as the two men circled, their every breath leaving a cloud of fog in the air.

Then with a cry of war the looter launched himself at the dark man. The dark man evaded and countered whit slash of his sword but the looter deflected is with his shield. Following up with a thrust of his blade blood sprung out from the dark man’s left arm before they separated. Continuing their circling they left a ring of blood in the snow dripping from the looters blade and the man’s wound. Then the looter attacked again, but this time the man didn’t evade. He dodged in under the looters slash and got past the shield. Red did his sword protrude out of the looter’s back. The dark man drew out his sword and left the looter on the street. Slowly the snow turned red soaked of the looter’s blood.

The dark man wiped off his blade in the snow he sheathed it and looked up. Three more looters had appeared on the street. When they saw their dead kin they shouted out curses and quickly charged at the dark man. The man looked at them flinching his head and growled. Yellow eyes shined under the hood. His bared teeth growled and his jaw deformed his back snapping as he bent over. Dark smoke flowed around him. Black garbs turned into fur and flesh twisted and deformed. As he put down a clawed hand in the snow the dark smoke cleared. Before the looters, stood a black wolf the size of a man white fog sipped to sharp fangs for every breath.

For a moment the looters hesitated and the wolf was over them spilling blood and ripping out their throats with his strong jaws. In just moments the looters were dead, their severed limbs thrown across the street and their blood soaking in to the snow. The wolf then drank the blood of the fallen before it left the village. Turning west it headed towards Ostengrad over the snowy fields.

Spoiler: Story Six: "The Fireblade’s Challenge”

The Fireblade’s Challenge


Ankhachic’qo gazed around what was once a deep blue lake surrounded by verdant rainforest. He made a rumbling noise in the back of his crimson-scaled throat and his eyes narrowed. Once again, Quetzan-Ti’s hesitation had let the stinking plague-rats befoul more of the Old Ones’ chosen land. Acres of foliage and trees were rotting and the holy lake was polluted. Ankhachic’qo wheeled his black dragonling mount about. and it pounded back towards the main army. His approach caused many of the Skinks to begin chirping excitedly and jostling about in order to get a better view of the ‘rebel Scar-Veteran’.

Ankhachic’qo wondered why his ‘superior’ considered him a rebel. The Feather-priest had given them orders to attack, not to lurk around the outskirts of Mixcoatl! He shook his head and made his angered rumbling sound again. He dismounted just before he reached the front rank. The grey grass crunched lifelessly under his broad claws, and the soil beneath his toes felt thick and gluey. It smelt of feces and rotting flesh. He bowed his head as Quetzan-Ti approached him, the steps of his Carnosaur mount shaking the earth as it strode closer. The Oldblood’s serrated talons clicked against the scales of his cobalt-flanked mount as he climbed off his stone saddle and leapt to the ground. Quetzan-Ti slammed the end of his gold-chased spear into the ground and the spines on the back of his blue-green neck rose up. “Report, rebel. Plague-rats?” Quetzan-Ti boomed.

“Gone. Lake brown-watered. Grass dead. Trees dead. Animals dead. Too late. Again. Army should have rode sooner.” Ankhachic’qo stared directly into the yellow eyes of the general. They appeared smaller than average because of the craggy scales and scar tissue that surrounded them.

“Rebel be silent! Not Oldblood! Not for you to make orders!” Quetzan-Ti snarled. Ankhachic’qo’s jade-shard narrowed.

“Not for you. Feather-priest ordered march. Ordered march at once. Oldblood is rebel. Ankhachic’qo should be Oldblood. Not Quetzan-Ti!” The Scar-veteran roared, and then clashed his obstinite axe against his Stegadon-hide shield as a challenge. Quetzan-Ti snarled and lashed his tail. He firmly gripped his spear with both hands and charged towards Ankhachic’qo. The Oldblood jabbed at Ankhachic’qo’s underbelly, but the Scar-veteran blocked the thrust with his shield. He countered with a vicious swing that chopped through one of the horns on Quetzan-Ti’s skull helm. The horn clattered to the ground and there was a moment where an awed hush descended over the whole army, Skink, Saurus and Kroxigor alike. Then Quetzan-Ti let out a wordless bellow of rage, and brought the end of his spear crashing against Ankhachic’qo’s rock-hard skull. Miniature suns danced in front of his eyes. He started shaking his head to clear his mind and vision, but it was too late. The snake-fang tip of Quetzan-Ti’s spear pierced Ankhachic’qo’s eye. He screeched in pain and staggered back, clutching at the bloody void where his eye used to be.

“Quetzan-Ti Oldblood. Not Ankhachic’qo. Never Ankhachic’qo. Leave. Rebel Scar-veteran no more. Just rebel now. Banished. Never return, traitor!” Quetzan-Ti hissed in satisfaction, and plucked the eyeball from the point of his spear. He popped the eye in his jaws and began to chew. After a moment, he gulped and bared his blood-stained fangs. He slid his spear into a holster on his back that hung from a leather belt wrapped around his muscled body. He began to wrench the golden plates from Ankhachic’qo’s back and chest, inch by agonising inch with his serrated claws. Then, Quetzan-Ti took the axe that Ankhachic’qo had dropped, and clambered back onto his Carnosaur. With a roar of triumph, he began the long ride north to the Temple-city of Mixcoatl. After a few seconds of cold observation, the rest of the army turned and followed the general at a quick march.

Ankhachic’qo stumbled through the tangled undergrowth, a rumbling sound once more emanating from his chest. He was feeling the closest thing to sorrow that a Saurus could experience. He had tried to uphold the will of the Slann and the Old Ones, and he had failed. He was marked as a deserter now. His body was scarred by deep pits in his scales where long bolts had held his sacred plates to his body. He had lost everything in a single moment, all because he hadn’t thought about Quetzan-Ti’s return strike. The sounds of rustling and crunching snapped Ankhachic’qo out of his musings. He looked up, and glared around with his remaining eye. From out of the trees came a creature, like a hybrid between a monstrous rat and some twisted ogre-spawn. Two of its grotesquely muscled arms pushed aside the low-hanging branches and knocked down mighty trees, and a second pair cradled something to its furless chest. The thing stopped inside the clearing where Ankhachic’qo was standing and set the thing it was carrying down on the ground. It was one of the hated rat-men, but it wasn’t a plague rat. It was dressed in tattered grey robes, and two long, ridged horns sprouted from its head. Around its neck was an amulet carved from a blackish stone that gave off a sickly green light. It carried a wooden staff that was topped with a rat-man rune forged of scavenged bronze. The rat-sorcerer bowed its head as a sign of greeting.

“Poor scale-thing. Scale-thing’s master cast scale-thing out, yes-yes? Scale-thing followed order-plans, but scale-thing’s master was a fool-fool. Not fair on poor scale-thing.” The rat-sorcerer squeaked a clumsy version of the chirruping speech of the Skinks.

“Rat-sorcerer knows? Rat-sorcerer cares? What purpose?” Ankhachic’qo growled.

“Thanquol wants to help-aid scale-thing. Thanquol has magic blade-sword. Made with magic frozen spit-flame of fiery scale-beasts. All for scale-thing. Scale-thing can put all right-right. Scale-thing can become master, yes-yes? In return, humble-weak Thanquol will ask for favour-service. Not now, but soon-soon. Good trade, yes-yes? Scale-thing trades with Thanquol, yes-yes?” The sorcerer-rat twitched violently for a few seconds, and held its tail out ramrod-straight. When it had recovered from its strange fit, it drew a sword from behind its back. It had a twisted blade of red-orange crystal that looked like a raging inferno that had been trapped in a single moment of time for all eternity.

“Why?” Asked Ankhachic’qo. It wasn’t in a rat-man’s nature to be generous for the sake of it.

“The plague-rats are Thanquol’s enemy. Plague-rats scale-thing’s enemy too. Scale-thing kill-kills plague-rats, good-good for scale-thing and Thanquol also, yes-yes. Good for all, yes-yes.” The sorcerer-rat tilted its head to the side, and thrust the sword closer to Ankhachic’qo. The Saurus hesitated for a moment. The rat-men were spawned by Chaos, and had no part in the plans of the Old Ones. But maybe… maybe this one did. It was offering Ankhachic’qo a way to set things right, a way to serve the will of Sotek and the Old Ones. He would ride at the head of the Onyx-scales of Mixcoatl. The Feather-priest would cast his scrying spells and Ankhachic’qo would purge the world of the enemies of the Old Ones and the Serpent God. But what would the price be? He couldn’t ponder it yet. Mixcoatl had to be defended. Ankhachic’qo took the sword from the sorcerer-rat’s paw. The sorcerer-rat bobbed its head up and down several times and climbed back into the waiting arms of its pet abomination. Ankhachic’qo turned his back on the strange pair and started to make his way to Mixcoatl. That was probably where Quetzan-Ti was lurking.

It was three days later when Ankhachic’qo returned to the Temple-city of Mixcoatl, known by some as the Obsidian Mount. The city was built in and around a towering, snow-capped mountain, with the Slann’s pyramid sitting at the very peak, and the spawning pools and tombs inside the stone walls of the mountain. Almost everything of the city was The watch fires were burning high on the walls around the city proper. They cast dancing shadows across the rocky steps. One of the Skinks tending the nearest watch fire looked up and let out an alarmed chirp. It skittered away, most likely to find someone to report to. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Quetzan-Ti strode through the high wooden gates with his spear in one hand, and Ankhachic’qo’s axe in the other. The Old-blood let out a growl of confusion when he saw his former subordinate.

“Ankhachic’qo. You are back. Why?” Quetzan-Ti’s golden eyes narrowed into a glare.

“Challenge Quetzan-Ti. Become Oldblood. Protect Mixcoatl. Serve Old Ones and Sotek, and the Slann. Destroy rat-things and Chaos. Fulfil the Old Ones’ plan. Be loyal to the plan. Challenge Quetzan-Ti!” Ankhachic’qo snarled, and raised his new sword. It glowed with a blazing light that lent a hellish cast to Ankhachic’qo’s angered features. He pounced on Quetzan-Ti before the Oldblood could raise either of his weapons. The blade carved a sizzling furrow in Quetzan-Ti’s face, putting out one of his eyes like he had done to Ankhachic’qo only a few days ago. Quetzan-Ti slammed the haft of his spear into Ankhachic’qo’s chest. Ankhachic’qo bent double, winded by the force of the blow, but he recovered quickly. It felt like he had fire in his veins and soul, and it was giving him strength. In desperation, Quetzan-Ti hacked at Ankhachic’qo with his old axe. Ankhachic’qo dodged to the side and thrust the sword at the Oldblood’s ribs. The blade’s raging heat caused it to tear through Quetzan-Ti’s skin like it was cloth, and it sank into his heart. The stench of burning meat filled the air and Quetzan-Ti slumped to the ground. Ankhachic’qo slashed and gored the body in a blind rage until there were nothing but charred shreds left, then he roared his triumph to the skies. The dark clouds that had gathered began to pour rain down upon the gory scene, as if they wept for the carnage wrought.

Ankhachic’qo stared down at the sword in his hands. There was steaming blood on the blade, and his crimson hide was slick with gore. He looked up to the sky. What would the rat-sorcerer claim that could be worth as much as the sword. With a mixture of satisfaction and uncertainty, Ankhachic’qo raised the sword to the heavens, and bellowed the name he would forever know it by; “Rageflame! The fire-blade is Rageflame! Rageflame will purge!”

Spoiler: Story Seven: "The Coward”

THE COWARD


“You are a coward! You bring shame upon our blood! Shame upon me!”

The Inner Hall was lit by just some torches; the flickering light was casting bizarre shadows and reflections on the ancient banners and the adorned shields, decorating the massive stone walls. It was dark and cold… appropriate for the time being. Thordek Connarsson was used to his brother’s tirades. Nonetheless, they hurt him just the same.

“The Granite Barrier was not salvageable. There wasn’t only clanrats, it was already filled with jezzails and a couple of Warp Cannons. What should I have done?”

“For a starter, obey my orders! The Barrier is of vital importance! We cannot afford its loss…”


“Well, we cannot either afford the loss of one quarter of our troops, charging into a deathtrap. We don’t have warriors to spare, and they would have all died in the assault…”

“Or you would have died, leading the combat, as a Thane should do! And the Irondrakes would have charged on the breach, breaking their line of defense, to save the Clan’s banner and avenge your death!”

“Sweet Grimnir… It has already been epic to bring them back into our lines. The rats were prepared, and they were waiting for us. It. Was. A. Trap. They were already closing the way behind us, and we had to break through rat ogres. All I did it was to bring back our troops for the battles to come.”

“Ah, you’re so a heroic fighter, Thordek! Don’t tell me your fairytales, you’d just run to save your worthless life, and all you brought back, are dwarfs with broken pride. They know far better than you that they failed their duty toward their liege. Are you satisfied? Do you think they are grateful that they are not feasting in Grungni’s Halls? Do I really need to remind you of the Chasm’s Keep?”

No, it was not necessary. It was still an open wound. The Keep was swarmed by rats… wave after wave, an endless sea of furry scum. They were drowning in slaves. After three days, without a single hour of rest, when they run out of gunpowder, Thordek gave the withdrawal order, leading personally the young warriors, dwarfs with beards too short to die so soon. Those lads needed to return safe home.

The longbeards simply gave him a stern look, and stood behind the walls, without following. The sound of the longbeards’ warhorn haunted them for miles, and then there was silence. The warriors didn’t say a word… but within a month, they all took the Slayers’ tattoos and threw themselves in the carnage of the battle that cost them the Southern Outposts.

Thordek lowered his head. This act of apparent submission, seemed to appease the Lord.

“Listen, Thordek, the life of our Clan is at stake, I cannot take the field all by myself… I need you, but the warriors start calling you names. They still follow you out of respect for me and because they’re all honorable dwarfs, but their loyalty won’t last for long…”

Thordek raised his eyes. He knew this wasn’t the right moment, but time was running short.

“We won’t last for long! Blame me if this pleases you, but we must face the truth. We have no more lines of defense, and the mines are gone for good. There’s nothing left between the rats and this place. We’re talking about our families, about our bloodlines. We cannot stop them.”

Lord Alerick Connarsson, Third of his Name, Bearer of the WeepingWidow Greataxe and with-so-many-other-titles-that-a-beardling-would-become-a-ranger-before-hearing-them-all, took a deep and dangerous breath.

“What are you suggesting, Thordek? Do you have some heroic idea?”

“We need help. We have plenty of gold, and magical objects that we cannot use. There are wood elves in the northern forest, we could aid each other. Probably we won’t even have to give ‘em the gold, they are in our same boat and they know it. We cannot do it all by ourselves, Alerick, we need allies.”

Alerick clenched his fist, and gave a hammering blow to his desk.

“We had allies! Then they took our gold, and our beards, and then King Gotrek gave ‘em our steel! We won’t bow to some pointy ears, only because you fear to die as a dwarf. You won’t humiliate my people. High King Thorgrim would spit on this nonsense.”

“Probably yes, but King Thorgrim is no more, the Book of Grudges is no more, and even our land is no more… we’re stuck in this chunk of our old empire, floating into the void. There are no other Clans to help us, there are only we, the elves and the endless rats. I would like to have other options, but our duty is to protect our people… “

Alerick’s face was hard as a stone. Thordek knew he was losing also this battle.

“Please cousin, help me! Tell something!”


A third dwarf had remained on the sidelines. He shared many of Thordek’s worries, but when he spoke, he sealed Thordek’s last hope.

“Here I am as the Clan’s Runelord, Thordek, not as your cousin. I appreciate your concerns, but, as you say, we must protect our people: we must protect their honor. If you don’t live by traditions, then what’s the point of living at all? Our Lord’s will is crystal clear, and I’m fully with him.”

“This meeting ends here. I suggest to go back to your duty.”

---------------------------------------------

The final assault was beginning.

For almost a week, the rats tested their defenses all across the main stonewall, and they knew there wasn’t an unbreakable opposition. Rats were dying in spades, but they had reserves, while each fallen dwarf was irreplaceable.

It was a sunny day, the roaring of organ cannons reverberated gracefully against the rocky cliffs and the musicians were giving the right mood to the army… but the lines were thin, and their faces were tired.

That morning, his brother came to see him, bringing a large object, draped in blue velvet with golden embroidery. Thordek knew it was his death sentence.

“This is our Oathstone. I’m giving it to you. You are going to join the Ironbreakers and you will guard the entrance of the fortress: if our lines crumble, you will be our last line of defense, all the remaining troops will rally around you. If this happens, I will probably be already dead. Don’t fail me.”

And so he was standing there, within the ranks of the prideful Ironbreakers, nailed to that little personal pedestal, which at least was giving him the advantage of a good sight of the battlefield. Squeaks of pain sounded every time an engraved stone landed in the packed hordes.

Then it happened. With a rumble, half of the eastern tower collapsed on itself, probably undermined by some tunnel work. Loads of stormvermin, flanked by a couple of Abominations, erupted within the ruins, murdering the remnants of the quarrelers in a matter of seconds.

The King’s banner moved toward the breach, Thordek heard his brother war cry, echoed by his personal Hammerers’ guard following closely as they joined the fray. For some long minutes, it seemed the vermin would be repelled, then a dozen of stormfiends emerged, and the royal banner fell.

The beating drums were ordering to fall back and reform, and the secondary cannon batteries were already aimed at point-blank. And Thordek knew he would have failed his brother.

“Ironbeard. To me!”

The massive warrior suddenly came to Thordek’s side “Yes, my lord?”.

Thordek stepped down from the Stone. “We need reinforcements. I entrust you the Oathstone, form the Steel Wall and don’t let them pass.”

Bewildered eyes looked at him “Sir, you aren’t supposed to…”

“I’ll be back as soon as possible.”.

Thordek left the formation, hurrying toward the inside of the mountain. But he had the time to hear someone say “Let him go. We’ll die better without Thordek Cowardisson”.

Thordek proceeded toward the inner sanctum of the fortress.

“Of course they despise me, I’m fleeing. I lied to them and they know it. Well, if this is my burden, then be it… I’ve always done the best for my Clan, I’ve always tried to save the lives of the dwarfs under my command. What do you think? That dying on the walls will save the lives of your beloved ones? There are almost a thousand women and beardlings in the Great Hall, all waiting for their fate. To die in battle is just the easy way out, you don’t hear their screams, when the rats will find ‘em!”

Thordek’s plan was simple. He needed to save that thousand dwarfs, the future of the Clan. Firstly, he would have took all the unused magical gear that was lying in the Inner Vault. Dwarfs were too proud to use items without dwarves runes carved on them, but elves are not so choosy. Then he would have guided the women and children toward the elves, through the northern tunnel (since there were no reports about skaven in that one), collapsing the tunnel behind them. Within two days, he would have find the rangers and the border garrison… this way, he would bring also more than 50 fighters and couple of cannons with him. More important than fighting, the rangers could help forage given all the mouths he had to feed.

The Inner Vault was huge. Thordek took an Arabyan Carpet, crafted by human wizards and therefore unusable by proper Dwarfs. Next he began to amass all the items he could find, flying from one chest to the other.

The echo of a distant explosion stopped his search. A Rune of Immolation… time was running short.

It was at that point that something leapt on the carpet, and a blade tried to cut its way right into Thordek’s kidney, just to be stopped by the gromril armor.

Thordek turned to face his assailant… a couple of malevolent little eyes, a pointed snout and a fierce grin, bordered by a black cape, an Eshin Assassin.

The poisoned blade tried to find an opening between the full plate joints, so Thordek closed the gap, clenching his armored fist upon the skaven’s wrist. A satisfying noise of broken bones.

The grappled skaven tried to bite away Thodeks face, without much luck; the Thane grabbed firmly the head’s pelt, turning it away… and then he dropped his axe on the neck.

The decapitated assassin fell upon the treasury, spilling blood all across the carpet; disgusted, Thordek kicked the body out and gained some height, keeping his eyes on his kill. “It’s just a drop in the bucket, but you at least, you won’t feast this night.”

At that point, he noticed the glowing light.

It was coming from something in the stack of the magical items; it was a red light, almost purple. The source was a strange, golden plaque, with bizarre symbols engraved on it; looking closely, the pattern resembled a sort of pyramid, with huge snakes around it. The snakes' red ruby eyes, veiled by skaven’s blood, were pulsing, in an almost hypnotic way… and the Plaque itself was absorbing the blood. Thordek was feeling a strange sense of hunger, and cannot help but to add some drop of blood, from the severed head. The pulsing become brighter.

Something hisssssed, breaking the enchantment.

Thordek raised his eyes; he was surrounded by many strange, blue lizard-things, with a red crest, and they were all threatening him with blowpipes.

In the middle of the hall, a sort of.. portal? was floating mid-air, a white, luminescent oval, growing larger each second. From it, a dozen warbeasts were coming, followed by other lizard-things with spears, prodding them forward, when they tried to stop to smell the dead rat.

“This cannot be… I know what this things are. These should be the Lizardmen, I remember them from my Grandfater’s stories, but… but…”.

The lizards with blowpipes didn’t care about his confusion and remained hostile; for once, Thordek didn’t knew what to do.

Then the portal become even larger, and something impossible emerged from it. It was a huge beast, bigger than a steamtank, with a massive, three horned armored head. Upon it, there was a sort of palanquin, with a large banner, made entirely of… fur? “it isn’t simple fur”, realized Thordek “those are skaven pelts”.

On the palanquin, there was another red-crested lizard, stouter than the other ones, armed with a serpentine blade, and with a golden plaque on its chest, very similar to the one that was at Thordek’s feet… and that now was levitating, at a gesture of the lizardchief’s hand, floating toward him.

He finally took the plaque, caressing it, then he looked at Thordek, which was still holding the severed head of the skaven. The lizardchief hissed something, and the blowpipers relaxed, diverting their attention from Thordek.

The whole lizardmen army started moving across the Inner Vault and into the tunnel, toward the sounds of battle. Other lizardmen were emerging from the portal: another three-horned beast with a ballista on it, then more red-crested little ones, accompanied by large crocodile-like beings; a seemingly endless river of troops.

And Thordek realized that the Ironbreakers were in its path.

“For the Ancestors, someone must tell them that reinforcements are arriving!”

He moved the carpet at full speed, heading for the light of the day.

Spoiler: Story Eight: "Harvest”

Harvest


I’ve learned that if you want to disable someone without hurting him, you need to be a lot stronger than him. If you are close to equal size and strength, you can take the fight out of him as long as you are prepared to do some damage. Like break his nose, that kind of thing. I learned about the strength thing from my kid brother, Rowan. When he got big enough to fight back effectively, he taught me the lesson about the nose thing, too. After that I didn’t worry too much about not hurting him.

The scaly thing had been almost gentle as it cornered me against the watchtower, took my knife and picked me up by the neck. So you can see that I appreciated that I was so much weaker than it that I wasn’t even in the same league.

I tried punching its face to even things up, but it didn’t have a nose to break. Just tough scales and bone. With my body swinging by the neck from its claw, I was hurting myself more than it. To be able to breathe I had to use both my hands to chin up on its forearm. I would have still used the weakling’s ultimate weapon and kicked it in the balls, but it didn’t have any.

I gave up struggling and just clung on to the big Seraphon, because that’s what it was. I wasn’t dead, so I figured I would continue to be not dead for a little bit longer if I cooperated. I looked at the thing eyeball to eyeball and gave it my best look of meek compliance. I was a bit surprised that it lowered my feet to the ground and let go, because my innocent look had never fooled anyone before. After it set me down, I was looking at it, eyeball to chest. I’m not a big guy, but it was huge by any human standard.

There was no point running. The thing could catch me again easy, and it wasn’t alone either. There were other star lizards, some bigger, some smaller, coming out of the trees and crushing the half grown barley crop. Headman Alder would be pissed. He was always going on about waste, and not working hard enough, and too many mouths to feed on the farmstead.

Another Seraphon came up. This one was smaller and it looked like it had won a fight with a golden chicken and wanted everyone to know it. Behind the feather decorations, I could see that it had spines on its head and neck like the back fin of a fish. Its fin wiggled up and down as it made a bunch of hisses and clicks. The big one responded with something between a gargle and growl from the back of its throat.

Part of my staying alive strategy was keeping still and quiet. The little one had this stick thing with a sparkly crystal on the end, and it poked my cheek with it and made me turn my head. Then it turned me the other way. It had its head cocked to one side and it was looking real close at my neck. That was worrying because it had plenty of sharp teeth and I hoped it wasn’t planning to take a bite.

It looked at my mouth and gave me a hard jab in the guts with the stick. That took me by surprise but I managed to just breathe out heavy and keep my lips closed. Then the little one forgot about me and poked his stick right in the face of the big one and started hissing and spitting. He sounded pissed, but for the first time in my life, I wasn’t the one getting the dressing down.

I took a step towards the far off farmstead. Then two more. They were ignoring me. “Sorry to trouble you,” I said, “I’ll just be going back now.”

The two Seraphon stopped their argument. The big one gargled. The little one waved a hand in the big one’s face and then unclipped a wide gold band from its own neck. I didn’t get a good look at the band because, before I knew it, the Seraphon had clipped it around my neck. I felt all around. It was heavy and tight and it didn’t seem to have any kind of catch. I didn’t know if I had just been given a gift, or if I had been collared like a dog.

The little Seraphon touched the middle of the collar and I felt a tingly feeling in my throat. Then I said, “Good. I was worried that Sunblood Alpha had had damaged your...” there was a long pause. “...had damaged your voice box.”

I said it, but it wasn’t me saying it. The pause to find the right word wasn’t me either. The Seraphon had used the collar to make my throat speak the words it wanted to say.

“How does this...” I clammed up, put my finger on the collar and thought what I wanted to say, “...work? It works!”

It was funny. It was my voice, but different. It was cold, somehow. Like using the collar squeezed all of the life and warmth out of it.

The little Seraphon touched the collar again. “Now I can speak to you.”

“Why are you using my voice like this?”

It hissed and clicked, then spoke through me again. “I cannot form the sounds of your primitive tongue, yet we must speak.”

Now, I’m not a prince or some son of a governor. I am a no-account refuge kid, according to Headman Alder. He would probably add liar, thief and slacker to that list if he was going into detail. But I wasn’t going to let the star lizards know that I was a nobody. I put on a big frown. “Before we talk about anything, you can get your pals off of the valuable oat crop.”

Alpha gave a long growl and all of the Seraphon, there must have been fifty by now, turned and looked at me then they walked out of the field. Some of the really big ones tried to stand the squashed green shoots back up again. I had just given a command and they obeyed. I felt like a prince even if I wasn’t one.

“Okay. What do you call yourself?”

The little Seraphon gave me a queer look and replied, using my voice again. “Starpriest.”

“Starpriest. Good. I am Ash.”

Starpriest cocked its head the other way. “Ash? Are you a seer? Do you know the future?”

“Maybe.” I figured I could be a prince and a seer if it was going to keep the Seraphon from eating me. “So you better tell me everything.”

“When daemons kill mortals they gain power.”

“Everyone knows that. I mean, I know that. Who cares?”

“Daemons are coming to this place. They would take all lives here as trophies. We would prevent this.”

I thought I was scared before, but the news that daemons were coming was terrifying. There were stories from across the realm about villages, even whole towns, burned down and not a soul spared. I didn’t like any of the deadbeats at the farmstead, particularly not old Alder, but I wouldn’t want them to be butchered either.

“So you are going to fight the daemons. Why talk to me?”

“We will prevent the daemon harvest. It is better if mortals are calm and in one place to allow us to do what we must. This is easier if there is a speaker.”

I could see this going my way. I could be the hero who saved the farmstead with my Seraphon allies. That would get me the respect I deserved, and hopefully less drudge work. I would just need to sneak the star lizards up before anyone could come to the wrong conclusion and run away or grab a pitchfork or something. Easy.

I scratched a map of the farmstead on the ground. It was a pretty small map. Apart from the barn and stables there were only five larger buildings and a handful of shacks pressed up against the muddy inner yard. I showed the Seraphon where to wait for my signal and covered up the gold collar with my kerchief.

Headman Alder was pretty surprised to see me when I walked into the yard.

“You should still be up that watchtower, son. You need to miss a few more meals to properly learn your lesson about stealing.”

I just ignored him and started pulling the bell rope. One pull for meals, three pulls for an emergency. I was stopped at ten rings by a painful kick in the ass from the smith, Birch.

All the women and indoors types came out straight away and the field workers arrived at a run. Every single one of them had that look on their face when they saw it was me beside the bell rope.

Birch exploded. “Adler you’ve got to get rid of this no-good kid. Send him back wherever the Hell he came from.”

That was the best cue I was going to get. I tried to look dramatic and commanding. “I’m not going anywhere. But Hell is coming here.” I pulled off the kerchief so everyone could see my gold collar.

“Where did you steal that from, you little sneak?” Birch is a bastard to dramatic moments. It didn’t matter, though, because heavily armed Seraphon appeared behind everyone and closed off all the lanes between the buildings. Starpriest and Alpa came through the shocked people towards me.

“That’s where you got the gold.” Birch knocked me down into the mud. “You were on watch duty, and you sold us out. I swear I’m gonna kill you, you treacherous little piece of ofskyte.”

He would have done it, too, except I yelled, “Alpha, hold him.” The big lizard dropped his axe thing and tried to grab Birch by both arms. The smith got a few good shots in, but in the end he was as helpless as I had been. With Birch being held tight, it gave me an opportunity for some get square.

“Wanna see how it feels, dumb-ass?” I gave Birch a kick in the same place he got me. I would have given him more, but Starpriest hissed and Alpha tossed him back into the crowd.

Headman Alder had been slowly backing up. “Ash, those are Seraphon. Just come away slowly over to me.”

“Those are my Seraphon, Old-timer.” This was the best moment of my life for sure and I wasn’t going to waste it on some scared old man’s caution. I put on a big smile and patted Alpha on the head like it was a big dog. Gods know what it thought about that, but it just blinked at me.

“What’s going on, son?” Alder asked.

There was only one thing in the farmstead that could spoil my fun at this point, and I saw it coming. Starpriest was raising his hand to touch the collar and use my voice again so I stepped out of reach. If it wanted a speaker, I was happy to do it. Just so long as I could use my own words to talk to everyone.

“They’re Seraphon, that’s right. Daemon Slayers. They chose me, ME, to be their speaker, so you all had better listen good. There’s Daemons coming here real soon.” I had to stop to let all the reactions to that news quiet down before I could keep talking.

“Daemons are coming and if they catch you, they’re gonna steal your soul. Now my boys,” I gave Alpha a thump on the back that hurt my hand. “Aren’t gonna let anybody’s soul get taken, which means you all are gonna need to stay out of the way and do what I say. Understand?” I never knew who my folks were, so maybe I was a prince after all. I was obviously born to command.

“When are they coming? What do we need to do?” Birch again.

“Uh, soon, I guess. And you should all... uh...” Bastard.

Some of the other smaller Seraphon helped me out by hissing something from over near the barn. Starpriest cocked its head at me and pointed at the open doorway with its sparkle stick.

“Yeah, okay. Grab the kids and all go into the barn. Go on, hurry up.”

Maybe some of the people didn’t like that, but they didn’t have any choice about it with all the star lizards around them. They went into the barn and started making space around the grain sacks and hay stacks.

Adler and I were the last ones to the door. He grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear. “These are Seraphon, son. Cold Killers. What were you thinking, putting us at their mercy? We don’t have any weapons in the barn.”

“Ow. Let go.” I twisted out of his grip. “Seraphon only kill daemons and monsters. You know the stories.”

“Those are kid’s stories, son, and we want kids to be able to sleep after story time. I’ve heard things you ain’t. Seraphon kill whoever they want, including people.”

“Well, they told me we are going to be safe, and I believe them.” I tapped the collar. “They use this to talk to me and they can’t lie ‘cos it only says what they are really thinking.”

Alder wasn’t convinced. “I want to hear that for myself, son.”

He didn’t need to wait long. Starpriest came up and reached for my collar with both of his claws.

“Don’t I get to keep it? Aww. First though. You are going to protect us from the Daemons, right?”

The Starlizard pulled his hands back like the collar was real hot. He stopped for a moment before he tried touching it again to talk. “These humans will not be harvested by daemons.”

Other lizards began pushing the barn door closed while I asked another question. “Will we be safe in here?”

Starpriest took even longer before he touched the collar again. “You will be ash.” He unclasped it and took it off me.

The big door closed a second later leaving me and all the farm folk in the dark. A minute after that, heavy objects began bumping against the door, blocking it shut. I could tell people were still pretty scared.

“It’s okay,” I said, “my Seraphon buddies promised that nobody here is gonna get killed by Daemons.”

My kid brother Rowan found himself a knothole so he could see outside. “Hey, Ash,” he asked, “why are the lizards putting firewood against the door?”

Spoiler: Story Nine: "A Memory?"

A Memory?


'From dust we came and to dust we return. Motes we are in the eternity of stars. Until we are but memories slowly turning to dust.' – Hrasssk the Seer


I feel my heart beat as I look over our target.

It’s strange to be alive and yet long dead. I’m a memory of the Saurus I once was, though I wonder if I truly am Tox of the Darkened Scale. My companions don’t seem as reflective as I, their tongues quiver between lips and their eyes fixated at the target.

I try to remember their names.

What is wrong with me? Of course I know their names. We have served together over uncountable lifetimes. We are the Darkened Scale, ending threats to the Plan with a well-placed claw. The mortal race would call us assassins, I think. But we are no simple cut-throats or cowards. We are the Darkened Scale and we enact judgement.

The scent of our target drifts on the wind. It is filthy smell of fur and fear. Skaven. I can remember the sounds of their screams, their black blood painting the forests, the taste of rat flesh. Yes. I will enjoy this.

From what knowledge was imparted by our master, the Skaven had taken a human town of little importance. To be involved would usually be a waste of time. I stop myself from considering the loss of our lives. It doesn’t matter if I die and die again. I’m but a memory. This operation is however of importance. The Skaven leader if not destroyed today will one day threaten this reality, perhaps all realities. He will die.

The image of his verminous face blazes behind my eyes. I taste his name, such strange creatures. He will die.

We move in under the cover of darkness. The Skaven can see well enough in the dark but for the darkness of our scales. Our name is also our greatest strength.

The dead sentries are a surprise. Their faces are twisted in fear and pain. Whatever killed them acted with great precision, both sentries died from a single stroke to the throat. My nostrils flare, seeking to pick up a scent. Yes. Three scents linger, the two sentries and a single attacker, all of them Skaven and yet... And yet there is something strange about the attacker’s scent; a hint of brimstone.

The blood scent is tempting and I feel the need to consume the slain sentries. No. We cannot stop; we have to eliminate the target.

We continue, even more warily. It can’t be long before a patrol finds the corpses and raise an alarm. Whilst I am confident we can exterminate the Skaven, our quarry is liable to escape. This we cannot allow.

One of the Skinks, his name escapes me, holds up a darkened claw. I stop and peer through the darkened houses and spot it. A verminous shape flittering across a roof top, it is wearing something on its head. Not a hood. Through the gloom it seems to peak at the centre of the rat’s head and lips out as it descends. The figure does not seem to be wearing a cape but some form of long coat that flutters in the breeze. My eyes pick out a shade of red on this rat. As I think on this, the Skaven drops down and vanishes from view.

One of my brother Sauri makes a silent indication to the left. I try to remember his name but it is like grasping at smoke. I follow his eyes and lash my tail in agreement. Yes, that direction. The target is close.

I taste the name of the target again to focus. Ironfur. I push my concerns about the other Skaven to the back of my mind. We push onwards. The shadow of a larger building hides us as a patrol scurries past. One of them pauses and sniffs the air suspiciously, but it does not pick up our scent. We are the Darkened Scale. The Skaven moves on.

There are sounds coming from the larger building. I let the scent of the place flow through me. Humans. Survivors from the Skaven, now their slaves. They are whimpering; their deaths will be prolonged and painful. I do not even look and neither do my brothers. The plight of these humans are not our concern.

We move on, the scent stronger. It is a metallic scent, with a heady edge of magic. Ironfur.

Up ahead is a ramshackle tent that seems partially composed of sheets of metal. There are a worryingly large number of dark furred Skaven milling around it, they seem on edge. I exhale slowly. We have to strike. I motion to one of the Saurus next to me, his scarred head dips in agreement. For a moment I catch his name and faded memories flow back to me. And then they are gone. I shake off the feeling and give the low whistle to attack.

The black scaled Skinks around us spread out, darts sliding into their blowpipes. I cannot help but smile as the four other Saurus and I break from our cover. The thunk of the blowpipes are music to my ears as selected Skaven topple to the ground, the poison coursing through their vile bodies. One of the larger Skaven turns and shrieks in surprise. The look on his face is beyond rewarding as my blade cuts him down. My brothers are around me and like the fist of one of the Old Ones we smash through the vermin.

One of my nearby brothers falls, several of the ratfolk dragging him down. Starlight bursts from his mortal wounds and I watch in fury as his form dissipates. I snarl and swing my blade in a wide arc, cutting down his killers and putting the others to flight. The Skinks have stopped firing, I can only assume they are also locked in combat or they have been overwhelmed. Despite this, the Skaven are fleeing, their numbers no match for our prowess.

We push on. The last black furred Skaven in our path are cut down like long grass and I surge into the tent. Sitting in the centre of the tent on a throne of rusted metal is our target. He looks up and I fancy he is smiling, though his iron mask covers his features in cruel metal. Twin horns that look to be sheathed in a similar iron curl up from his head. Glowing green eyes regard us hungrily from the mask’s eyeholes and the figure slowly and mechanically rises. His body seems clad in plates of various metals and strange devices that crackle with energy. Ironfur.

A metal claw moves in a blur and there is a loud noise. I grunt as agony courses through me and I stare from the smoking stick in Ironfur’s claw to the wound at my side leaking starlight. I smile. It is only a scratch.

The two Saurus beside me leap forwards, their blades whistling at Ironfur. He blocks the first with a hissing metallic arm whilst the second clangs off of his iron frame. I ignore the pain of my wound and launch my own attack, battering aside the smoking stick and casting the target back against his throne. The metal Skaven seems to panic for a moment but then his glowing green orbs change to a crimson red. He gives a grating sound which I wonder might be laughter, and he rises up, claw outstretched.

I whistle a warning but I am too late. Green tinged lightning erupts from his claw and engulfs us. The Saurus to my left collapses, smoke rising from where his eyes once were before his body seems to fade away. We are the Darkened Scale. We must not fail. I rise and drag my body forwards. I feel my heart hammer against my chest. I may be a memory but in this moment I am more alive than I have ever been. Ironfur falters for a moment, I fancy his soulless eyes flash with disbelief. Then he raises his other claw...

Two deafening roars come from behind me and Ironfur twists backwards as two invisible fists strike him. He topples backwards, blackish blood oozing from two large rents in his armour. His glowing eyes dim and are extinguished. I collapse to my knees, feeling the pain of my wounds and the star energy leaking out of me.

“Well, let’s have a scent-look at you, heretic” a voice behind me utters in a poorly accented human tongue with a high pitched quality to it. My nostrils flare and I recognise the scent. The strangely garbed Skaven from before. I make to rise but the voice makes a strange tutting sound.

“No, you stay put, foolish lizard-thing. Move much-much more and your body will not handle it. Very nice work on the guard-things. Pity-shame there isn’t many left to interrogate.”

The Skaven steps past me and I take a better look at him. A long red coat, tanned by the looks of it, wraps around the rat’s wiry form. The smell of brimstone lingers around the rat, perhaps ingrained in him somehow. He spins the two smoking sticks in either paw and thrusts them into holsters before drawing one of two blades at his side. He barely gives a backwards glance as he places the blade to Ironfur’s mask and prises it off.

Shakingly I rise and give a low growl as Ironfur’s face is revealed. The Skaven also hisses something that I presume is also a curse.

“One of Ironfur’s apprentices” the Skaven snarls and smartly sheaths his blade. “Looks like we’re both after the same heretic, I’d rather not have to waste fight-slaying you as well and doubtless Ironfur will be aware of this attack.” He straightens the crimson wide brimmed object on his head.

“I take it you can understand human tongue, yes-yes?”

I grudgingly nod; the wound at my side closing over and I feel my strength returning

“Well, I think I know where Ironfur’s heading next. I have to destroy him and I imagine you do too. I am Kerzim, of the Skavenblight Inquisition, charged with removing this heretic and all his works. Are you going to get in my way?”

The Skaven is wary, his paws within reach of his blades. I consider this unvoiced offer and weigh it against the treachery of these Skaven. Yet there is burning fantatical hatred in this Kerzim’s eyes on mention of Ironfur. I remember an old human saying: ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend...for now.’

I wonder what the real me would have done but I feel my heart beat in my chest.

I smile.

Spoiler: Story Ten: "The Forgotten Slann”

The Forgotten Slann


Lord Luluni, the Lifebringer, was an all but forgotten Slann, a bulbous creature left to its own devices long ago. The Old Ones had forsaken it. Abandoned and alone Luluni was to discover the unique powers it possessed on the hidden dwarf planet Tutimnek. Tutimnek began a cold world, a barren rock filled land home to little more than desolate days and darker nights. Luluni wandered the wastelands wishing life upon the surroundings. Its enormous fingertips ran the course of the magma flows ushering in an age of water; a great flood swept the surface of the planet, engulfing hills and mountains in its wake. The tides of change lapped at the shorelines greedily but there was to be no more of that. Luluni knew there needed to be a balance.

Through sheer will alone Luluni began to seed the planet with life - Trees, Fish, Flowers. The mountains began to spew ash once more covering the land in a rich fertile blanket, the furnace fumes of the volcanic virgins gave way to new minerals and ores. Though cataclysmic in approach the destruction of one thing lead to the birth of many more. A cacophony of chaotic centuries continued as life sprung into its own Luluni had terraformed Tutimnek. Though there was something missing...from the shadowy sub-conscious of its mind sprung forth a scaly Skink, and then another. The first of them, fire red and full of vigor, began carving a giant palanquin from the stone beneath their feet. The second ocean blue equally as active began casting ancient incantations giving flight to the great slab. At its centre lay a bubbling basin into which the Skinks soon slithered never to be seen again. Next came forth Soto, the Scribbler & Siti, the Sightseer. The pairing were scribes and began documenting Luluni’s past as if though they had too lived it. Finally spilled forth from the cauldron thousands of tiny lizards they scattered into the woodland to begin their legacy. Clambering upon the palanquin Luluni levitated high above its creation - up into the heavens high above the clouds stopping to survey all below. Now Luluni was a Lord over this dominion. Sinking down into the safety of the sproutling forest Luluni lay in slumber, a meditative sleep. The Skink companions too slept in a stasis of immobility, a preserving persistent spell of perpetual paralytic protection coated them.

Aeons passed...civilizations rose and fell, crumbling back to the dust from which they came and yet Luluni sat still and silent. Its mind was troubled by an encroaching darkness, a prophecy of great evil; from the deep recesses of the void they would flow into our world and with bone and bile break all before them. Luluni cast its mind thousands of years into the future catapulting its consciousness onto a frozen plain. The sky was dominated by an enormous vessel a living embodiment of progress that had traveled vast distances. Luluni had the advantage of time, this had not happened yet nor would it be allowed to happen. The glaciers beneath cracked mile long breakages separating from one another revealing treacherous crevasses. Almost as instantaneously the ship was forced into the ice then set in the blizzard - snow and sleet assaulted the exterior burying it in icy clutches. Lord Luluni had reached far into the future and carved into it an event, an ending.

It had little time to rejoice in its actions the mind moved further still forward to a time when more would traverse the void seeking to obliterate the inhabitants of the Milky Way. Luluni snapped back to the present, more work had to be done, the visions had altered understanding and offered new insight into the Great Plan. The Slann lord had ensured in halting the advance of an unspeakable terror. The others had to be warned. The Slann’s kin were not even aware of the wizard existed such was will of The Old Ones. Luluni bore a giant palanquin upon the forests of Lustria, a bloated Slann now glided through the air. The branches of ancient trees creaked snapped and bent in his presence. The hulking mass cared little for their fate, their existence a mere blink compared to the eras Luluni has endured. Manipulating the surroundings as easily as warping the minds of Skinks, they were subjected to his will, forced to obey. Their loyalties were much needed in these times.

Lord Luluni was a first generation Slann ...the last Slann of that age. Several hours of sluggish travel culminated in the finding of a pond. The hoary toad began dangling its toes in the water, and before long rose from the palanquin and plummeted into the depths. No sooner had the large body entered had half the water decided to leave. Being thrice the size of your average Slann had its disadvantages and this was one of them. Luluni regressed in the water splishing and splashing and striking at songbirds with the enormous tongue that pulled them back towards its mouth. Whilst gorging on the wildlife and reveling in the impurity of the water Luluni remembered its purpose for visiting. Siti and Soto sprung into life from their dwellings on the slab, the Lustrian sunlight felt all but natural in their cold blooded bodies. The momentous moved further through the thicket.

Heading south towards Hexoatl chancing upon a skirmish between Lizardmen and Dark Elves. Luluni seized the opportunity to preach to both sides, telepathically communing with the forces, they thought the Slann mad and continued to slay one another in close quarter combat. Seeing the larger picture as always, enslaving them all was the best option. They marched towards the city cleaving down brush and bush alike. Much blood was spilled within the realm of lizardfolk. Luluni demanded an audience with Lord Mazdamundi, but no such audience came. Forging ever deeper into the heart of the city the invading band of brethren and foe fought all those in their path. Slaying the weak and clashing with the strong. The temple guard protecting Lord Mazdamundi fought long and hard to prevent the ramble from disturbing its meditation. They eventually faltered and failed. One lord faced another in an eerie silence exchanging thoughts on a higher plain. The two “talked” at grave length. Luluni pleaded with Mazdamundi, urged the Slann to lead another path, joining him on a quest to unite all races among the stars. Mazdamundi was stubborn and refused, refuting Luluni’s opinions even calling into question its relation to the old ones. They would not and could not agree, the fate of their race would depend on who was right. Luluni strongly felt The Old ones had created many and varied races to stave off and fight a foe far greater in number and power than themselves. They had the foresight to raise an army millennia before it was needed and the Lizardmen were one small part of an integral network, a web of deffense stretched across a galaxy. Luluni served both a curse and a warning on the Lizardmen before taking to the stars once more:


On black waves a vessel will fly,
The course it’s set to sail,
The Old World will die,
At the coming of the second tail

Spoiler: Story Eleven: "The Bounty”

The Bounty


A sudden clamour in the jungle had woken up Ti’Rakz. “I am never drinking with Dwarfs again.” He said to himself as he checked his surroundings. He looked around, hoping to see his dwarf friends, they were nowhere in sight. Something in the jungle was making a lot of noise. He figured he could ignore that for now, even if it was the beastmen he had been tracking. The only cure for this kind of drinking headache would be food, and a lot of it. Ti’Rakz got on to his belly and crawled as quietly as he could toward the stream. There it was, standing before him, a gorgeous white stag, gently lapping up water from the stream. The legendary beauty of this majestic beast, thought to be a myth. Sighting one is said by humans to be a sign that they are favoured by their god to become the next king or emperor of the lands.

The Saurus slowly crawled closer, and then pounced. His teeth sank into the leg of his prey. The Stag attempted to buck, but it was too late, Ti’Rakz had toppled the stag onto its back. The mighty saurus sank his teeth into his meal and greedily began to eat. The legends of other races make for a satisfying meal. After eating his fill, he drank deep from the cool waters of the running stream.

Ti’Rakz followed the noise and destruction. He couldn’t tell if it was caused by his dwarf friends, or if it was the beastmen he was planning on tracking down and slaughtering. That’s the problem with parties, when done right they cause a lot of damage to the area and reputations of all involved. Which made it hard to discern the difference between the aftermath of a party and the everyday typical habits of a herd of beastmen.

Ti’Rakz got closer to the noise, he peered through the foliage at the cause of the commotion. In the clearing was a battalion of daemons, led by a bigger daemon on a chariot. “Bloodletters?” He said, caring little if they heard him. The Oldblood pushed the foliage out of his way, and walked right up to the Herald sitting on his chariot.

“Just you or did you bring more?” Asked Ti’Rakz.

“The question is, where is the rest of your friends?” The daemon shot back, with an evil grimace on his face.

Ti’Rakz swiftly drew his weapon and beheaded the grimacing daemon.

“My friends are right here. I am your leader now, who wants to get some killing done?”

The bloodhunter lunged at Ti’Rakz, Hell blade at the ready. Ti’Rakz caved his skull in with one blow.

“Anybody else? Or would the rest of you care to get some blood and skulls today?”

The daemons laughed and grinned to each other.

“Right then, rank up and follow me, today we hunt beastmen.”

A few of the bloodletters began to giggle maniacally.

“On second thought I will lead from the back, not that your puny weapons can get passed my impenetrable back scales, but you know, just in case. Now you two that are pulling my new chariot, behave yourselves, I know ancient daemon killing techniques. The painful kind. ”

-------------------------------------------

Skink Priest Eli-Nezs put on his long black robes, holstered his pistols, and put on his witch hunter hat. These were rather unorthodox priestly trappings. He couldn’t control the winds of magic, instead he chose to control the magic of technology. He remembered his Trials, which seemed like a lifetime ago now.

The Trials had been long and hard. The young skink was thirsty and starving, and he was certain that he would be the meal for those carrion beetles. That was until he saw it in the distance. Hope. The skink ran as fast as his exhausted legs could carry him to the remnants of a bloody mess of a battle that had been fought by humans and dwarfs. The young skink had found all that he had needed to survive the Trials. It was not easy burying crates of ammunition and subtly marking them for later, but with a couple of bandoliers strapped around him, he had enough ammo to get him home. Hunting and scaring off predators became much easier with his new found technology. His magic. While this was, of course, highly contested by the skink priests, High priest Kar-Linn, was amused by this. The High Priest had warned the other priests of the dangers of questioning the will of the old ones.

Priest Eli-Nesz had his orders, which were disappointing, but nevertheless his duty. He was less a traditional priest, and more of a bounty hunter of sorts, in that he was basically just a bounty hunter. Not that he minded, priest work was a lot of bureaucracy, bluffing, posturing, negotiating and rituals, bounty hunting was like that, but far less formal and far more chance to use his “magic.” He knew his target well. It was Oldblood Ti’Rakz, again. Once again Eli-Nesz would bring Ti’Rakz back on regiment abandonment charges. It wasn’t exactly normal priest work, but it was at least interesting.

Priest Eli-Nesz and his troops had been hot on the trail of the errant saurus. Dwarven pipes and tankards, carrion beetles feeding off of mammal carcasses. At least Ti’Rakz was courteous enough to allow himself to be easy to follow. The problem of course was the Dwarven pipes and tankards, that possibly meant that he had allied himself with dwarfs, who likely would outgun Eli-Nesz’ own troops. He had since invented some “magic” of his own, but his main “spell” was still shoot it until it is dead, which the dwarfs invented. They would be much more powerful in that type of “spell."

----------------------------------------

Ti’Rakz stuck his forked tongue out to taste the air. The tongue retreated back into his mouth and as the forks of his tongue touched the roof of his mouth. He could sense that they were not too far from the beastmen encampment.

“Does anyone here speak sheepish?”

One of the bloodletters raised its hand. I do, but very bah-ah-ah-ah-dly.” It giggled.

This was met with a mix of laughs and groans.

“Sounds right to me. Go up ahead and get them to follow you back here. We have company.” Ti’Rakz pointed to where the beastmen would be.

The bloodletter ran off towards the beastmen, braying and bleating as he ran. Ti’Rakz dismounted his chariot, he had his weapon at the ready. Priest Eli-Nesz strutted into the clearing, he tipped his hat to the prodigal saurus.

“Ti’Rakz, you smell like a brewery. So you’re working with chaos daemons now? I am unbelievably disgusted with you. How could you work with this vile scum?”

“This mission is incredibly dangerous, you should probably go play with the other priests. Besides, why waste good saurus, when I can sacrifice enemies to enemies and clean up what’s left.”

The bloodletters started cheering before the realization slowly dawned on them. The assembled battalion of daemons turned to look at the Oldblood.

“Not you, you guys are party animals, I was talking about the dwarfs that I brought.” Ti’Rakz said to his impromptu troops.

“My Brothersss! Form up around me, Chaossss Beastssss will ssssoon be upon ussss.” Ti’Rakz shouted in Dwarven, with a thick Saurian accent. The sound of hundreds of pistols being cocked followed.

“Seems I have you surrounded Eli-Nesz.” Smirked the Oldblood.

---------------------------------------------

“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” Brayed the Beastlord. “Yes my immortal frie-eh-eh-eh-nd, we will help you kill the lizards.”

The herd started bleating and shouting with excitement.

The bloodletter let out a maniacal cackle. “I don’t think they reproduce that way, but you can cut your own holes.”

The beastmen came stampeding into the clearing destroying what they could along the way. They stopped and looked around, these were dwarfs not lizards.

“Why did you betray-ay-ay-ay us? These are dwarfs, we kno-o-o-ow where their fun bits are.” The Beastlord said.

The bloodletters and beastmen shared a laugh over this statement.

The dwarves did not know or care what these beasties were laughing at. The chameleon skinks hiding in the trees likewise did not know or care what the abominations were laughing at. Dwarves and chameleons opened fire on the beasts and bloodletters.

Ti’Rakz decided to get out of the line of fire, Eli-Nesz watched his every move from a safe position.

“Don’t think you’re getting away from me” Shouted the technology priest.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, I was just going to invite you and your hidden friends to the Dwarven after party.” Ti’Rakz shouted back, and raised his hand in the air.

“I think we should all skip the party, and you should come back with me, to your proper regiment.”

“I think we should go to the party, skip the disciplinary hearing that is awaiting me and go on an adventure. I hear there is some rat creatures that need to be destroyed a few days from here.”

“I thought you might say that, and I just wanted to let you know that my orders didn’t specifically say to bring you in alive.” Eli-Nesz pulled out a small egg shaped metallic device. “Do you know what spell I have prepared?”

“Well since you aren’t aiming your boom wand carefully, and fumbling it in your claws, I am going to make a guess. Is that the lovely Blot Toad Stink device in your hand there?”

“Correct, can you guess which other troops I brought with me?”

“It would be a shame if I picked up a few “spells” from the dwarfs, and shot that out of your hand. Or maybe I have a dwarf sharpshooter, waiting on me to signal by putting down my arm.”

The skink looked at the saurus’ raised arm, and slowly put the grenade back into its pouch.

“You’re bluffing, why would you ally yourself with lesser races over your own?”

“If you thought I was bluffing you would still have your spell prepared. It’s not so much an alliance, as I lead them to each other and let the problems deal with themselves. Besides that, have you ever tried Dwarven ale?”

“We are at a bit of a standstill it would seem.”

“It would seem that way, I’ll tell you what, do you see that big beastman? If you can kill him with one shot, I will come back with you.”

“That’s a fair deal.” The priest drew his pistol from the holster. He took aim and cocked the gun. The priest took his time with his aim, he had time, he needed to do it right the first time. His claw on the trigger, with a silent prayer, he gently squeezed it. The pistol emitted a loud boom and the bullet exploded forth from the barrel. The bullet struck the Beastlord directly in the head, the exit wound splattered brains and gore onto the corpses littered around the abominable beast.

"Best two out of three?" Asked Ti'Rakz

"There's nothing left to shoot but the dwarves." Replied Eli-Nesz

"Marlecht! Alright let's go."

Lord Khan’Man looked over his battlefield. Everything had, of course, gone according to plan. “I told you this was a solid plan Lord Roob. Pay up.”

“I don’t think you are remembering them right. I don’t remember there being a skink priest that couldn’t use the winds of magic. The Trials most certainly would not have gone the way you described. You cheated.” Replied the magnificent Lord Roob, reluctant to give up his increasingly rare Ixti grubs.

“We did not stipulate that my memories had to be the same as yours. We only said that I had one Oldblood, one skink priest, and a unit of chameleons to take out the beastmen and the bloodletters in this area.” Said Lord Khan’Man almost smiling.

“Marlecht!” Replied Lord Roob, handing over the Ixti grubs.

Spoiler: Story Twelve: "Trinity”

Trinity


I stared at reflection in my sword. The years had only made me sharper. As a champion of the mighty Slann As'cloxi I led a large block of infantry to war. We had now vanquished the evil before us, and I had taken myself a purple hilted blade from their champion. Standard-bearer Chosi asked me if I was sure. I didn't like that. Why wouldn't I want to use cold steel over a stone axe? It was such a well made sword, it seemed to hum to me.

After the battle I had decided we needed to train more. Campaigns are mostly standing around waiting for orders. But we needed to be faster and stronger. We marched for one full sun and moon. Speed was important. Catch your enemy out of position and you can conquer all. Then we wrestled. I found us a place where the mud was up to our knees. It made it harder. It made us stronger. Chosi was looking at my sword. Why would he do that? His concentration should have been on the training.

Chosi had been on my mind lately. I had been watching him. And I had seem him look at my sword. I did not like that. I had summoned him to me.

“You're conduct has been unacceptable” I said firmly.
“What?” He replied. He looked surprised. His blank expression.
“You are our standard bearer. I am the champion. We represent the great Slann As'cloxi. And I only will accept victory.”
He paused. He was playing this very well. “Victory?” He said, “In the training?” Curse him and his stupid expression. He was trying to catch me out of position. He wanted me to bring up his transgression. Said out loud, it might seem minor. I would not fall for it. He knew what he had done.
“We train again,” I said “we train again, and I expect more. From you. From everyone. Dismissed.”

And so the next day we trained again. And the day after. Chosi had known what I was talking about. Because now he was refusing to look at my sword. He was making an effort to never let it catch his eye. I watched him. He was a tall one. Yellow teeth. Broad shoulders, that is why he carried the banner. But it was my banner, my unit, and I would not let him act like his. I stuck to him at training. I made sure he was next to me in the marches. He was my partner in the wrestling, in the sparring. We sparred with sticks, though I could feel the warm steel next to me on my hip. It was as if the sword knew that Chosi refused to meet it with his eye. Chosi and his broad shoulders. Chosi and his banner.

I kept him in mind that night at camp. I walked around the camp fire and the stories. His feigned lack of interest was noticeable. Every action of his seemed to bore into my skull. Chosi and his attitude. Pretend indifference was the worst. Chosi sat with his friends around the fire. His arms longed for my sword. I tried to concentrate on my food but I couldn't. Lucky for me. He made a critical mistake that night. He threw his left over bones in the fire. This was in express disregard for procedure.

I walked up to fire and stood over him. I said firmly and bluntly. “You will train with me tomorrow, alone.” I walked away. He needed to be taught a lesson.

The next morning the two of us wrestled in the mud. He started by shooting into my legs. His momentum carried me backwards and he fell into my guard. My legs were wrapped around him as our chest pressed together. The more his scales pressed into mine, the more I was aware of that sword on my hip, I knew he wanted it. It was a simple hip bump that sent him backwards, as I mounted his chest he reached up in vain. I wrapped his arm and head up in my legs, I fell backwards and let gravity do the work as I choked him with my thighs, wrapped around those broad shoulders of his. He tapped out. But this was just the first drill. It lasted a minute or two. But we would spend the entire day wrestling. He needed to be strong. He needed to be better. Soon the mud coated us both. As the sun set I realised that my muscles ached from the days work. But it was nothing compared to the humming I could feel in my head. I knew the problem with Chosi and I knew that he needed to be punished.

So the next day we would train again. He had violated my orders. And he would not admit how much he craved my sword. He craved it but it was mine. Chosi and his stupid vacant expression. But this day we would spar. I would beat him and he would learn. As we thrust the sticks at each other I could feel his intent. He wanted that sword. He wanted MY sword. Then I realised no one was around, and I could end it right now.

That sudden realisation froze me for a second, it allowed him to slip past me and deliver a blow to my skull. He walked backwards in triumph, ready for the next duel. I drew the sword and charged him. He looked horrified. He put his stick out to fend me off but I smashed it away with the white hot steel. He was now out of position. With a flick of the wrist I drove the blade between my ribs. The sword and I were one and the same now. He looked at me horrified as I fell to my knees and grabbed onto his waste. I stared upwards into his eyes and joy shone from me. Even as my strength faded I knew that he would not touch my sword now, it was mine, and only mine, and we would be together forever.

Spoiler: Story Thirteen: "Serpent’s Brew”

Serpent’s Brew

Thuk Thuk Thuk Thuk.

The rhythm echoed around the temple chamber. An erratic dance of shadows flickered across the walls, the quick motion of their master energising their revelry.

The sound stopped. Nahualli reached into a red vase and cupped an oozing, chunky mixture in his hands. The compote had strong, innate magic – a powerful vector for the ritual. Dropping the chunks in the basin and, shaking off the straggling slop, Nahualli picked up a heavy pestle. Gripping the shaft with both hands he began his rhythmic grinding once more.

Thuk Thuk Thuk Thuk.

The spell would be complete soon. Once the lather reached the right consistency Sotek’s favour could be invoked and the wrath of the Bloody Serpent would be made manifest. Nahualli thought on the atrocities of the Skaven pestilence: insidious, the rat-men’s arts of espionage and disease had successfully spread their warren of corruption, plaguing town and forest alike until it gnawed at the city gates. Nahualli gripped the pestle harder, his blisters weeping, and pushed his aching muscles. Sotek would once more grace the lands. It would be a clarion call to his people. A cry of hope to the refugees. A toll of death to the Skaven.

Thuk Thuk Thuk Thuk.

Reaching again into the vase Nahualli cupped only air. Hissing at his lack of organisation so close to the ritual, Nahualli dropped the pestle and gathered to him a select number of items: a large bag lined with thick scale and leather; a dull cloak with no sign of pomp or stature; and his holy knife. Its blade felt warm in his hands. He held it to his chest closely, finger unconsciously caressing the notched handle.

Lastly he picked up a nearby scrying orb and muttered a quick incantation. Cyan clouds stirred within as the artificact suckled on the magical wind of Azyr. Nahaulli’s fingertips tingled as the orb reacted to the portentous magic, and he closed his eyes to receive their vision. Though calibrated to anticipate the machinations of Chaos, the orb’s Azyrite magic could be persuaded to cast its gaze further abroad. Fortunately the Elves’ regimented nature meant that their immediate movements were easy to predict. Fortunately it was only their immediate futures that were needed.

The possible patrol routes of the Elven sentries wove a detailed map in his mind. At the centre of the vision a crisp image formed: many colourful ribbons fluttering in a breeze. Satisfied, Nahualli slipped the Azyrite Orb into his satchel and left the shrine.

Cautiously, Nahualli slid the heavy stone door flush with the surrounding temple walls; to the uninitiated there was little to give away the shine’s entrance. Tightening his palms around his satchel Nahualli walked out into the main temple concourse. His short time in the complex had taught him to keep shoulders slumped and head down. That way most people ignored him, already bent towards their own motives. The tepid colours of his vestments only magnified this effect among the bright feathers and ornaments of priests clamouring for the eyes of the gods.

Soon enough the temple concourse yawned open to a grand vista: daubed the dawn’s light, a golden web clung to the pinnacles of the city’s ziggurats; its dying misty threads drifted lazily into the city depths. At Nahualli’s feet a sharp set of steps had become a glittering waterfall of mist, the sunlit cloud cascading in languid fashion into the city far below. Partially hidden in the mist a discordant patchwork of lamplight formed a stark contrast against the ordered ceremonial fires of the sacred city: the refugee camp. Resolute, Nahualli began to make the long descent down towards the ram-shackled settlement.

A sharp cry faltered his step:

“Nahualli!”

Hissing to himself, Nahualli turned to see who had spied him under the humble robe. A Skink jumped down the steps to him, bone armour clunking dully with each leap. Nahualli recognised the Skink as Teotoca, a lesser member of the scouting parties and an ardent member of his former congregation.

“Nahualli, it has been so long. What has kept you?”

“I’ve been busy-“

“Ah, busy, of course. Busy with the works of the gods no doubt.”

“Indeed. The gods wait for no-one. Neither me nor you. As such, Teotoca, I must bid-“

“I see you’re heading towards the refugee camp.”

Nahualli faltered. A coolness gripped the back of his neck. Had his movements been so transparent? Concerned, he gestured for Teotoca to continue his line of questioning.

“Well, you know, more of these refugees enter the city by the day. And never-mind the “children of the gods” rhetoric the High Temple keeps running, they’re a drain on our resources. I mean, even after our help, did you hear that the Elves might rescind their military support over these Skaven kidnappings? After we shelter them and all. We’re too soft. Send them back out to the jungles, see their soldiers fight back in their own lands.”

Teotoca gathered himself. “Well, what I’m saying is, you going to sort them out? The Elves contribute nothing and disrespect the gods by bringing in their own idols. And, say, isn’t that an affront to, well, to all of us naturally, but to you?”

“I’m sure the mage-lords have a reason for their presence: they may serve the gods in other ways yet” Nahualli answered carefully.

“I wish I shared your optimism Nahualli, but even the Slann are blind to the wills of the gods. I know, say heresy if you wish – Sotek knows, you’re the one to do it – but it’s true. The sooner we open our eyes to what’s going on in this city the better. Did you hear that Skaven are sneaking plague-carriers in with the refugees? The Elves are a corruptive force, Nahualli, whatever our Lords might say.”

“I heard of a few diseased Elves caught trying to enter the city, but I thought Temple Command quarantined them as is protocol.”

Teotoca shrugged.

“It’s only a matter of time, Nahualli. Mark my words – the Horned Rat will be within our walls in days. Only the coming of Sotek’s prophet will save us now, but where is he? I’ve seen no red-crested Skink emerge from the spawning pools, and not a smidgen of the signs they say accompany Tehenhauin’s coming. I swear the gods blessed us generously in the old days. It’s like we’re being punished. And I know you’d agree with me when I say I know why that is.”

Teotoca motioned to the Elven camp below them.

“Even the Temple of Sotek have increased their daily offerings”

That was true at least. Puncturing the haze to dwarf all other ziggurats was the serpent’s temple, its flumes already flushed with red. At its summit small silhouettes wavered in the heat – a sharp flash of metal suggesting a new sacrifice was about to face their deity.

“I told you, Nahualli: they’re desperate. Anything for the Bloody Serpent to smite his ancient enemy. Maybe Sotek is already fighting the Horned Rat in the heavenly realms. Maybe he can’t hear us over their warring. Who knows with the gods. It’s not like we seen much of their divine providence.”

“Often the gods send rot to wounds they could heal” Nahualli advised. “Take it as a test of strength – the hottest flame purifies even the most tainted flesh.””

Teotoca laughed “now you’re sounding like an Elf! For sure, Nahualli, the Temple was wrong to suspend you. I say you were a needed voice, unafraid to say and do what was needed. Will you return soon?”

“Whenever the Temple deems it.” Nahualli said. Assured that Teotoca had just been using the opportunity to rant, Nahualli deflated conversion.

“I must attend to by business.”

“Of course, the gods wait for no mortal. Sotek bless you, Nahualli.”

“Indeed.”

Eager to avoid any more attention Nahualli hurried down the steep steps into the city proper and made his way to the camp. Saurian guards and Skink artisans exchanged gestures of goodwill with their Elven neighbours: palms open and raised in a symbol of passivity. Pushing through the unnatural racial confluence the city quickly adopted a façade of squalor: a labyrinthine market of the dispossessed welcomed Nahualli into its cramped and clammy innards.

Furtively moving his hand into the satchel he consulted the Azyrite orb once more. Noting the small changes made to the Elven patrols Nahualli adjusted his direction for the least probable path of confrontation. Head down, he weaved his way through the market.

The Elves had brought many curiosities with them, and their ramshackle market reeked of arcane potency. Stalls lined the streets, hanging from them ivory trinkets and alabaster amulets. Potions of rich and sweet scents were brewed from familiar ingredients ensorcelled in foreign ways and fermented using odd equipment. Scrolls clustered the decks of each stall, their exotic and elegant symbols pricking at Nahualli’s sorcerous instinct. However what he needed was far more precious, far more potent, and lay deeper in the Elven camp.

Following the route through numerous alleys of hastily constructed wood and stone, Nahualli finally came across his destination – trailing ribbons floated ethereally from an infirm house. Cautiously Nahualli approached. His body ached with tension; weight leant heavily on the balls of his feet. He had to be discreet and effective. The door was likely to be secured and any sign of attempted entry had to be reduced. Instead he grasped one of ribbons in his claws and, slowly, winched himself up. His arms ached still from gripping the pestle, but he had become well accustomed to entering buildings through such unconventional means.

Reaching a window he placed his palms against its roughshod surface – locked. It was of little matter: the buildings were hastily constructed and joints weak. Delicately balancing his toes on the frame, Nahualli placed his shoulder against the window and heaved upwards. It lurched open. Nahualli slipped inside.

A strong mingling of smells greeted him. Dust drifted lazily through the air, winking in the many colourful motes of light that penetrated the fluttering ribbons. Nahualli flared his nostrils: one odour was familiar. Tracing the scent, the Skink found a room scattered with half-eaten foods, trailing charms, and rough icons of the Elven gods. Small carvings, like that of toys, were strewn across the floor, chairs, and cot.

A sudden shift startled Nahualli. From out of the gloom a long and slender figure had suddenly risen. The Elf looked as startled as he did.

“You weren’t supposed to be here…” Nahualli cursed himself. He had relied too much on the orb for guidance.

Nahualli noted that the Elf was without armour. The next step would be considerably easier.

Stepping forward Nahualli made the gesture of goodwill to the Elf. The Elf was clearly perturbed but, as Nahualli had anticipated, the Elf was also clearly aware of their delicate situation as guest in the city. The Elf returned the gesture, flourishing his palm outwards.

Nahualli made his move: as the Elf raised his hand the Skink turned on his heel and threw his cloak. In the same moment Nahualli unsheathed his blade and thrust it into the confused cluster of robes. Leaping backwards the Elf cast off the robe with a decisive motion.

Nahualli felt his heart begin to thunder – the odds would’ve been against him given the Elf’s superior agility. Would’ve been, had Nahualli not found his mark: a red curve had traced itself across the Elf’s thigh, the stain spreading as he eyed his assailant up and down.

Nahualli pushed forward, confident in his holy blade. But, though wounded, the Elf was still far more agile. With a deft sweep Nahulli’s arm was caught. Pain flared in his wrist. Nahualli’s blade dropped to the floor.

Locked together the pair struggled. Dust swirled in eddies about their heads. Shards of colour cut across them as the ribbons fluttered in distress. With a sudden bend in the Elf’s knee Nahualli found himself on his back. He scrambled to right himself but already the Elf had leapt on top him, Nahualli’s dagger in hand.

The Elf’s grip resisted any of Nahualli’s attempts to escape. With every moment the blade slowly pierced the air, arduously closing the gap between the dagger’s tip and Nahualli’s throat. Eyes bulging, Nahualli grasped frantically for something, anything. The Elf’s eyes were peeled and wild, and he pushed his weight down on the dagger.

Nahualli’s claws touched something cool and hard. He flung it against the Elf’s head. Nahualli felt a hard smack and the Elf was briefly stunned. Nahualli hit the Elf again, knocking him to the floor. Jumping upon him Nahualli locked the Elf between his thighs and grasped the object in both his claws: the Azyrite orb. Raising it above his head Nahualli threw it down with all his strength, smashing the blunt orb into the Elf’s face. He brought it down again. And again. And again. Bone cracked, blood pooled, and azure fractals danced across the room. The sound changed from crack to a wet crunch; the panicked flailing became a twitch. When Nahaulli finally stopped all that remained was a fine chunky red paste, all distinguishing features erased.

Shakily Nahualli dropped the orb, its azure surface winking between thick red smears. Picking himself up Nahualli reminded himself of his objective, and made his way over to the cot. A delicate light shrouded the small, chubby features of the babe inside. Likely a blessing made under one of their false gods. Such wards were effective against the malevolent chaotic powers, and the common Skaven soldier would find little success in trying to break it. The Elf’s father had made much anticipation of a Skaven attack, but such magics neglected those powers sourced from that other to Chaos.

Nahualli swept the babe up into his satchel: the thick scale and leather easily muffled the babe’s cries. The child may acquire some bruises on the way back to the shrine, but fortunately nothing considerable – Nahualli couldn’t do with the babe being too damaged or even killed on the way back. He needed it pristine, relatively.

**

Shadows danced erratically across the walls, violently fracturing and merging in the flicker of the rejuvenated fires. Nahualli briefly stopped his churning and reached into the red vase, full once more. He poured the viscous slop into the basin. Nahualli was satisfied: he had been able to grind a considerable amount of the mixture. Soon the lather would be complete.

Feeding off the rising excitement, Nahualli couldn’t help but reflect on the next few steps. He imagined himself dressed in dripping red, the final incantations of Sotek echoing about the spawning chamber. As the ancient rites would end he would enter the spawning pool and receive the god’s majesty. Tehenhauin would return and the ratspawn would be purged from the land once more, as in the days of old.

Thuk Thuk Thuk Thuk.

Spoiler: Story Fourteen: "Chosen"

Chosen


He raced through the jungle, bursting out of the trees into the glorious sun of Chotec. The new world was a vast emerald carpet stretched out before him, a thick layer of potent, visceral ecology.

His heart burned with outrageous optimism as he revelled in the mad, audacious joy of it all.

“It’s perfect!” he cried. “Oh! What a world! What an impossible world!”

5.

“Still he does not stir,” muttered Hexankha of Hexoatl. He peered into the Eternity Chamber and the ponderous silhouette within.

“You believed he would? He has weathered worse. This catastrophe will pass him by like all the others.”

Hexankha turned to his fellow priest with a scowl. “A servant of Tepok would say as much. You have been blinded, Uaxti. I fear the coming cataclysm is beyond even the might of Hexoatl. Unless the Mage Priest stirs…”

“You chastise the cult of Tepok, yet only a pawn of Sotek would dare utter such heresy here. The city of Chotec’s chosen will prevail: any other outcome is unthinkable. And if our lord does not wake, it is surely because his contemplations further the great Plan more than his revival.”

The two skinks narrowed their slit eyes. Hexankha hissed and shook his feathers.

“There have been no new spawnings for twelve seasons. Trees and beasts are dying in the jungle. Dozens of our outposts have fallen and our armies dwindle every day. Kroq-Gar has not been seen for many summers, Zlaaq has been missing since the skaven wars, and our lord continues his slumber of the centuries. You say the defences of Hexoatl will prevail. Without our slann, I doubt they will even last the year.”

Uaxti reared to his full height and hissed in return. “Watch your tongue, blasphemer! He may be in a trance, but the Lord Mazdamundi hears every word you say!”

They both looked back into the Chamber.

It was too dark to see that Mazdamundi was awake. Or that a single tear had fallen from his cheek.

4.

In another age, another pair of priests ogled the majestic Mazdamundi. At the very summit of the Great Pyramid of Hexoatl, their mouths were agape. The slann had tapped the geomantic grid, his serene bulk wreathed in the dancing lights of a telepathic aura, his face expressionless as he communed with others of his kind.

In the astral conference, Mazdamundi was far from serene or expressionless.

“The Plan does not bow to the whim of a mere mage priest, let alone one of the fourth spawning!” he was saying to Lord Tenuchli of Tlaxtlan. “It is inalterable. It is perfection itself!”

The other slann regarded the enraged ruler of Hexoatl.

“Lord Mazdamundi. Perhaps your exertions of late have been rather taxing. And the loss of your-” began Tepec-Inzi, Mage Priest of Itza.

“Do not dare to patronise me, fool! Am I the only one among us who serves the Plan?! The greenskins are impure! They have no place in this world. They must be targeted with the utmost prejudice.”

“What the esteemed Lord of Itza was trying to say,” rejoined a third slann, Huinitenuchli of Oyxl, “is that there is more than one interpretation of the Plan. We all know this. The orcs are our enemies, yes, but they may have their role. Without exploiting their strength in the East, we will be hard pressed to counter the undead forces that even now march on the cities of the Southlands.”

“Orcs are not part of the Plan!” wailed Mazdamundi in a telepathic shriek of frustration. “They were not made as allies, they exist as vermin. As anathema!” He glared at the other slann. “There are many ideas in this world for us, the firstborn, to interpret. But the first stage of the Plan is not one of them. Destroy what does not belong! It is clear! It is known!”

“Known by whom?” inquired Huinitenuchli.

“By me! This command was vouchsafed to me! They told me...we would complete the plan together…”

“And yet they are gone. Clearly their purposes were more mysterious than you realised. Perhaps it was nothing more than arrogance that lead you to believe you had some kind of special connection, that you could ever hope to understand-”

“Do not speak of what you do not know!” This time it was a real shout, and the defensive wards of the other slann flared to shield themselves from its vehemence. There was a bloodless silence.

“You- but-” He stared around him. The spectres of the mage priests were like statues now, impassively returning his desperate look.

At the top of the Great Pyramid, the cowering skinks watched as the dancing energies faded and their lord’s expression shifted from calm to horrified. With grotesque speed, the palanquin turned and fled to the chambers below.

3.

The rage of battle was everywhere. It filled every corner of Mazdamundi’s vast consciousness.

“Impurity! Filth! You will suffer! I will flay you! I will torture your spirits for eternity!” he proclaimed as Zlaaq decimated the rodents that swarmed around them, fuelling spell after spell with his endless wrath. But there was a presence at his side. The Master of Skies.

“My lord. You are too far ahead of our lines,” chirped Tiktaq’to, as his mount sailed skillfully alongside the palanquin. “Kroq-Gar and his cavalry have pursued the right flank out of sight. The remaining troops are mired in rat bodies far behind you. Your guardians cannot protect you here!”

“Skymaster, do not speak to me of protection!” cried Mazdamundi, making a gigantic effort to temporarily reign in his fury. “There are vermin before me, so I will destroy them. Aid me or die!”

“Lord, to continue your course is ...it’s suicide. Please-” He stopped when he caught the slann’s expression. With a frightened click to his terradon, he wheeled up and away, streaking desperately into the distance.

Mazdamundi’s mind filled with battle once more. “Zlaaq! You are my oldest and most faithful comrade. I ask you to serve me yet again. Let us obliterate these detested creatures forever. Let us make a charge to make the Old Ones proud!” The colossal stegadon was already rushing headlong through rank after rank of the skaven battalions. Rats screeched and fled in panic. Mazdamundi cackled as he scorched their terrified hides with enormous spouts of magical flame. Confusion and death was everywhere. But the vermin were still as numberless as the insects of the forest.

“Hurry!” panted the terradon master as he frittered to and fro just ahead of Grymloq’s snapping jaws. “I have never seen him like this!”

“His leadership has always been erratic, you know that,” barked Kroq-Gar from the carnosaur’s back. “But his orders of late have been more unbalanced than usual. His directionless rampages have been devastating but reasonless. It is as if he lives only to slaughter the lesser species.”

Soon they could see eruptions of magic among the sea of rats. They found the palanquin entrenched by a towering ring of dead rodents. The bodies were piled so high that they threatened to topple and bury the Mage Priest alive.

“My war chariot!” screamed the slann when he saw his general. “My stegadon! They have taken it! Where is my Zlaaq?! My friend…”

Mazdamundi was babbling incoherently, frantic spasms of magic shooting off in random directions. Kroq-Gar could see new waves of skaven approaching, accompanied by much larger brutes. Desperate action was needed.

With a leap that shook the earth, Grymloq was at the slann’s side. In the same motion, Kroq-Gar fixed a hook-shaped ornament on his Revered Spear through a nodule of Mazdamundi’s palanquin, and immediately urged the carnosaur back towards the lizardmen lines. The mage priest was pulled along in tow, no longer possessing the capacity to resist.

When their lord was finally safe behind his temple guard, Kroq-Gar and Tiktaq’to shared a meaningful look.

2.

Mazdamundi had had time to adjust by now, but the situation was no less awful. They’d been holding back the tide of daemons for days, ever since the World Portals had fallen to the chaos gods. The great jungles had been sullied by abominations. Ichor had polluted the spawning pools themselves.

The Lord of Hexoatl knew things were desperate. But he was unafraid. Lord Kroak had stationed him in the north, where the brunt of the insurgency was concentrated.

“To me now!” he cried to his fellow slann. “Let us do our duty! Let us protect this world, and everything we have built here! And if we should fall, let us make our sacrifice worth remembering!”

He felt the web of power surge as a result of his little speech. The mage priests pushed forwards, incinerating the daemons in their path with raw power. But the onslaught of chaos was redoubled in response. The shields of the First were suffering enormous strain.

“Just a little longer, brothers!” cried Mazdamundi again. “We have but to wait for our protectors to reach us. They are coming! Fear not!”

At this moment, a shadow passed across the battle and the slann’s world changed forever. Turning his eyes to the heavens, the chosen of Chotec saw a skyship of unutterable splendour. Its silver flanks glistened in the sun like the scales of a transcendent fish. The daemons cowered in dismay, and a great cry of triumph went up across the slanns’ telepathic network.

But the ship did not enter the fight. It continued its ponderous path above the battle and sailed onwards into the distance. Soon it was nothing more than a gleaming star breathing the last of its faded, pinprick light. And it was joined by a constellation, a tiny cloud of dots dwindling by the second.

Mazdamundi felt a cold horror envelop his heart. His mind was paralysed with disbelief. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness were the hideous warcries of the daemons, overwhelming the First and gushing towards Itza.

1.

He raced through the jungle, and burst out of the trees into the glorious sun of Chotec. The world was a vast emerald carpet stretched out before him.

“It’s perfect!” he cried. “Oh! What a world! What an impossible world!”

“It is for you,” he was told.

“For me?!”

“For all of you. The first. We made it for you, our perfect children.”

“How can we ever thank you?!”

“You were made out of love: flawless creatures with unblemished minds, to enjoy this world of majesty. But despite the glory that you see, it is not yet fully perfect.”

“What?!” he exclaimed, unable to sense anything but wonder in the view he beheld.

“We have done much to shape the world towards the fullness of the Plan conceived for it. But certain ...impurities remain. You can help us remove them.”

“Of course! But how?”

“There are creatures who dwell here that are not part of our designs. We have granted you great powers: use them to eliminate those that defile the Plan.”

“The beautiful winds! I hear them hum! Eight strands of the most divine chord.”

“These are yours, indeed. But also we give you creatures of your own, strong and obedient, with which to fulfil our purposes together.”

“Together?!”

“Yes, my child. We will perfect this world together. This here is a stegadon, the mightiest of its kind. He will be a great ally in accomplishing our designs.”

“He is truly magnificent! I will name him Zlaaq.”

“A fine name indeed.”

“Can we start at once? Will you come fulfil the Plan with me?!”

“Of course. We will guide you every step of the way. You have nothing to fear, for we will never abandon you. So let us begin. Remember: The first and most important step is to destroy what does not belong.”

His heart sang with ecstasy, and - lit by the numinous rays of the sun - the jungle cried out in reply. For he was Mazdamundi, chosen of Chotec.

0.

The teardrop hit the floor.

All at once there was a commotion in the corridor. More hushed whispers could be heard.

“Tiktaq’to. Your presence here is most unusual.”

“Stand aside, Uaxti of the temple of Tepok. I would have words with my master.”

“Lord Mazdamundi slumbers and will not be disturbed, skink chief. Would you like me to ask the temple guard to clarify this rule?”

“I bring intelligence that our Lord must know, whether he slumbers or not. It is a matter of great personal importance to him. You will let me pass.”

“If your news is so urgent, so-called Master of Skies, you will entrust it to the High Priests, and it will be delivered in the next Ritual of Communication. Entrance to the inner sanctum is completely-”

“Let him pass. I would hear his tidings.”

The voice that spoke had not been heard in the lifetimes of either of the priests. It took them a moment to determine its source. Finally they peered back into the depths of the Eternity Chamber, and stiffened as the great palanquin slowly revolved to face them.

The terradon rider shook his head and marched confidently towards the Mage Priest, bowing on one knee when he reached the palanquin.

“So you disturb me now, after all these years. I should have dismissed you for your insolence centuries ago.”

“My Lord. I will not attempt to excuse my actions. I serve only Hexoatl and the will of the Old Ones. You must return to us. We cannot hold out much longer without your aid. The Golden City will fall.”

The slann stared at the kneeling skink for several uncomfortable minutes.

“Let it fall,” he breathed eventually. “What purpose does it serve still standing?”

“My Lord-”

“I finally understand, Skymaster. We have been abandoned. The Great Plan was left to wither and die. There is no use in fulfilling it any longer.”

Tiktaq’to was speechless.

“Is that all you came to pester me with, Skymaster?”

The terradon rider steeled his mind against what he had just heard.

“N-no, my Lord. I have further news. Your war-stegadon Zlaaq has returned, my Lord. My riders are herding him back to the city even now.”

Now it was the slann who was speechless.

“Zlaaq,” he said to himself, too quietly to be heard by the skink chief. “My little Zlaaq…”

The palanquin began to bob. Tiktaq’to hastily rolled out of the way as it hovered towards and past him. Trance-like, it proceeded placidly down the hallways, stupefied skinks scattering as rank after rank of temple guardians formed up behind and followed in its wake.

Smoothly it descended the golden staircase, heedless of the prodigious commotion it provoked in the city’s denizens. Shadowed by the impassive saurus, it headed straight down the main street, through the gates and into the trees. Soon it was joined by an airborne Tiktaq’to.

“This way, my Lord,” he trilled.

There was the kind of crashing sound you get when a monumental charging dinosaur comes to an abrupt stop, followed by the intense silence of recognition.

Mazdamundi floated up to the stegadon and - with exquisite tenderness - passed a feeble limb across its gnarled hide. Ancient wounds had healed with an even more impenetrable set of scales. Then the slann levitated himself onto the creature’s back. As Zlaaq bellowed in exaltation, he turned to the Master of Skies.

“Raise the Sunburst Standard. You were right, my faithful servant. The Great Plan lives. And the armies of Hexoatl will be tireless in its execution.”

Spoiler: Story Fifteen: "Paranoia”

Paranoia


Brikkit was going to betray him. Lyrok knew this. It was an indisputable fact. He was going to overlook the fact that Lyrok had almost single-handedly come up with their genius plan (burrow under a temple-city and poison their Spawning pits), bartered with the Skyre Clan to get the drills, secured the brief alliance with the Clan Pestilens to get the poison (something that had nearly bankrupted him) and had actually approached him about the plan.

He knew this from the shrewd looks Brikkit had been sending his way since day 2, when that strange assassin had approached him in a bar and asked to be left alone. All things considered, Brikkit was lucky to still be alive - when Clan Eshin comes a'calling, life expectancy for everyone around drops by five years. And this is a Skaven life expectancy. Five years is all most Skaven get.

"Dig-dig more, Lyrok! My nose wants the smell-scent of spawning fluid!"

Lyrok dug the drill further into the soil. The light down here was awful, the only illumination from the faint glow of the warpstone-tipped drill and a rare spark - although sparks lit up the area (and had a useful habit of appearing right before the mining partner decided that partnership wasn't for him), the sudden flash played hell with night vision and could also cause explosions.

His paws scrabbled at the floor. Lyrok couldn't move anywhere.

"Something block-blocks the passage!"

Lyrok threw down the drill in disgust, then howled and danced around holding a paw.

"Owowowowowow. I thinks time for break-rest."
"Brikkit agrees. To the up-world for lunch, before cursed-sotek smells us."

Taking care to round corners with his rusty blade drawn, Lyrok was sure at each turn that Brikkit was there, ready to cut his throat and steal his idea.

Brikkit was at the entrance eating a... well, it looked like a slug and a lizard had had babies, and this was the deformed, unwanted one.

Anyway, by the time Lyrok left the cave system, it was almost completely finished off. Brikkit offered him some, but no. Maybe it was poisoned. Maybe, given that even a small dose of Lustrian poison could outcompete Deathmaster Snitch for deadliness, it was accidentally poisoned. Either way, Lyrok would live longer without it.

With that treacherous Brikkit, a good way to kill him (because death means they can't return and kill you - mostly) would be to frame the Lizardmen. Heck, he wouldn't even need to frame them. If only there was some subtle way he could point out to the Lizardmen where and when they'd arrive...

Neu'dles the starpriest was having a break from training starpriest spawnlings, and was walking around the spawning pools when something caught his eye.

A badly drawn skaven digging up out of the badly drawn ground, holding a labelled holding a labelled blob of 'poyzen' was scribbled in the dirt, presumably with the stick lying slightly to the right of it. Also, some helpful soul had drawn an arrow towards one spawning pool, and a helpful soul had scribbled 30mins next to it. Nearly dropping his ceremonial staff, he sprinted back out the room towards the nearest slann...

Lyrok felt good. Bizarrely, not because he had neutralised a threat, but because he had saved some lives. A strange feeling crept through his mangy fur - a kind of Un-sad (is this what the other races call happy?) tingling. He was thrilled. If being good felt this way, he would be good more often.

He reached Brikkit, who was kicking around the bones of a previous meal, and almost dragged him inside the cave.

"Brikkit, you Dig-dig more than I. You carry drill, I carry warpstone battery."

This meant he could decide not to follow Brikkit into the pool if he chose. After 15 minutes, they had cleared the obstruction. After carefully avoiding another one, Brikkit announced he could

"I smell the lizard-goo".

He turned to Lyrok.

"You die now, Boss-leader.

Lyrok opened his mouth to argue, but suddenly a Weeping Blade sprouted from his belly. Coughing blood, he crashed to his knees and keened loudly. Hopefully the saurus heard that. As he fell he twisted and slumped against the wall. How strange. A fair number of Eshin assassins and gutter-runners had sneaked up behind him. He wasn't as good as he thought he was.

Now (as his vision slowly grew dark) sounds of digging seemed to be coming from the other side of the end of the tunnel. Then light broke through the soil, and a salamander, no, two, no three poked their heads through. Each took a deep breath, and the streams of burning were the last things Lyrok ever saw.

Given that we have FIFTEEN awe inspiring pieces, please keep you comments organized and on topic. Future literary historians will thank you. If you take on the ambitious project of analyzing or critiquing every piece try one or two posts is better than fifteen especially if the posts are short. These are guidelines not rules. I won't be draconian as last time, it was a mistake to delete those posts.

Just because the contest started doesn't mean I can't make edits. If you find an minor correction you'd like to make in one of your pieces, please private message me. You can also point out corrections in other people's pieces if the error is typographically in nature.

EDIT: Since the poll is closed, I have revealed the author IDs

Story One: "Watching Things Burn" by Scalenex
Story Two: "The King of Lustria" by Hyperborean
Story Three: "Eyes on the Sun" by Tlac’Natai the Observer
Story Four: "Pirates of the Dragon Isles" by Warden
Story Five: "Snow Saga" by Essmir
Story Six: "The Fireblade’s Challenge" by Lady Tor’tl LIaz
Story Seven: 'The Coward' by Killer Angel
Story Eight: "Harvest" by Spawning of Bob
Story Nine: "A Memory?" by Y’tarr Scaletale
Story Ten: "The Forgotten Slann" by Slanta Clause
Story Eleven: "The Bounty" by Bowser
Story Twelve: "Trinity" by Discomute
Story Thirteen: "Serpent’s Brew "by Slanputin
Story Fourteen: "Chosen" by thedarkfourth
Story Fifteen: Paranoia by Otzi'mandias

 

Filthy skaven... one of their diseases stroke me down.
The upside is that, staying in bed, I've had the time to read all the stories.
Many are really impressive, and I've already a vague idea... but it’s hard to cast those votes. Because it’s not to choose 5, it's to don’t choose 10! (well, 9 in my case)