Robber Killer, Killer Robber - Part X: The Coldhide "It had twelve legs, all writhing, dangling down and six long swaying necks, a hideous head on each, each head barbed with a triple row of fangs, thickset, packed tight – and armed to the hilt with black death!" - Recollections of Khyprian warlord Oulixēs the Lost. Spear of the Gods, Jungle of Squalls, Isthmus of Lustria 29th of Erntezeit, 2538 IC // 40.0.9.15.18 12 Etzʼnabʼ 11 Yax Reinhardt stumbles, the greenwood rod resting across his shoulder blades digging into his sunburnt skin thanks to the overweight cloth satchels hanging from both ends. The man keeps his eyes forward, even as sweat stings his eyes enough to blur his vision, and he is forced to pant like a dog just to keep enough air entering and leaving his lugs. Step after step, he keeps moving with a rhythm that only resounds in his mind. He still remembers, merely weeks after his capture -which had occurred three years ago while sailing the Sea of Claws- that he had been put to work in a lumber camp in dreary Naggaroth. There, some of his fellow slaves, southlanders whose tongue or tribe he knew nothing of, had sung to keep themselves working with coordination and rhythm. Their masters had had the mouths of all of them sewn for long enough that some had died from starvation, and then had forced them to “free” each other with their own hands as part of some public festivity. After that, the singing had ended. It had not mattered -as one of the southlanders had begged- that the singing made them more efficient. After all, the singing had also lifted their spirits. And cruelty is the point among their masters. That is also why Reinhardt doesn’t offer to help carry the sacks of gold being lifted by the younger lad just in front of him. He knows that that would only lead to himself carrying the weight and being whipped. And the lad would immediately be ordered to refill his saddlebags to bursting, most likely also being whipped before or after. Cruelty is the point. And so he keeps walking, hoping that this will be his last trip to the beachhead, praying to Sigmar that the dark elves will finally collectively agree that their greed is sated. He’s long given up on his captors realizing that this hellish expedition would ever be profitable -by now, he’s quite sure that more than half of his fellow slaves have perished- or about the fact that mangled corpses just keep… Showing up. If the exhaustion doesn’t kill him, a snake bite of a spider’s sting will do him in. And that’s assuming that none of the pale immortals decide to just stave off their boredom and aches on his body. His best hope, as depressing as it is, is that he and the rest of the slaves could soon be ordered to march into the bowels of ships. He’s heard that the druchii tend to get rid of their slaves on return trips to allow for more cargo. But they’ve genuinely lost so many hands that he doesn’t need to be a hopeful idiot to believe such a thing could happen. And so, Reinhardt keeps walking, shouldering the weight of two apple basket-sized piles of gold and gems chiseled and levered out of a weapon’s shaft taller than any mountain he has ever seen. A wondrous sight to behold. Or at least it would be wondrous if his first look at it hadn’t been followed by the beheading of three slaves who had tried to run for the treeline. Why they had tried to do so escaped him. If the tales told during what few hours or rest they are allowed are true, one could argue that the bipedal monsters without are no better than those within. Perhaps it is being exhausted and underfed like he’s never been before -even by the standards of the Druchii, his current masters seem overly petty- or perhaps it is just that the thousand people who have traversed the footpath between the spear and the beachhead have made the soil hard as rock. Or maybe it’s the weight that leaves his upper back bleeding. But finally, after almost four years of grueling servitude, a body that should be the very image of vitality age-wise simply gives up. In some ways, the flesh is just joining the mind in a breaking that happened long ago. He stumbles and falls, the greenwood carrying pole falling before him, at first sliding to press down on his neck, but then fully stumbling as the gold and gems stabs into the ground. Blood pouring from his nose mixed with the foamy saliva that puddles around his dirt-eating face. His arms spasm and tremble uncontrollably as he lays there, incapable of even trying to sit up and lean against something, anything. The lad before him keeps walking, the people behind him keep walking like ants barely disturbed by a fallen leaf. They do give him a wide berth, however, as they do not want to be close by to watch what is surely about to happen. They won’t whip him, he knows, the druchii have a knack for telling when a slave is too broken even for them. He’ll likely be made an example out of, perhaps nailed to a nearby tree, or flensed alive to provide entertainment for the officers. Hopefully, he may be given over to the admiral’s thing , such a death would be gruesome to behold, but lightning fast to endure. Armored leather boots stomp towards him, shouting in a language that his owners have never had a reason to teach him. He can hear the sound of a blade being unsheathed, of drums, of whips cracking in the distance, of shouting, of… ‘Wait, drums?’ The vibrations are steady, only audible thanks to the ear that he has directly against the ground. They come in sets of four. First two almost in unison, and the latter two only a moment afterwards. Then come more, and more. And then he is no longer feeling drumbeats, but also hearing them. And then he realizes. Some are drum beats. The rest? The rest are steps. Quickening steps. A stampede. The druchii reaches him, Reinhardt feels it as a glove studded with sharp metal grabs his ratty shirt -in the process lacerating his mid-back- and hauls him upwards. The dark elf likely wants to look him in the eye as he chooses punishments. The imperial takes in a snort of bloody phlegm and spits it up, landing the glop of reddened snot against the slaver’s cheek. Reinhardt smiles. The blade moves towards his belly as the elf sneers. Then shadows fall upon them both, and a mace tipped with a stone the size of his own head leaves him looking at a gorish pulp. His would-be-killer’s entire head having been flattened into the base of his neck. This time, the shock does allow him some extra strength. Reinhardt lands on his back and scuttles back like a terrified rodent, looking up. The thing that looks down on him is covered in azure scales painted with oranges and reds, its body decorated with piercings, fixings and collars of gold. It turns its head, reminding Reinhard -whose father had been a chicken farmer- of the way foxes would inspect interesting things. The lizardman raises an arm -the one not holding the massive stone maul, and points . Reinhardt doesn’t think twice, abandoning the bags of gold, and follows the four-fingered and clawed hand’s directions. He knows not what he and the rest of the slaves are running towards. But they all know what they are running away from , and he sure as Sigmar’s Mighty Balls will not be staying around to see how both things mix together, Coldhide Fleet Beachhead, Jungle of Squalls, Isthmus of Lustria Rankec looks up when the sound of something cracking makes his long knife-like ear twitch. His eyes locate the source soon enough, even as the land-wards winds once again undo part of his hair bun and a few strands of hair as black as tar intrude upon his vision. His eyes find the sight of some kind of… Tree frog, one that is clearly too large for the branch it has cracked with its weight, leaving the slimy and clumsy animal hanging from its front limbs, while its much larger back limbs kick and try to find somewhere to grab onto. The sight of the struggling animal should have caused him to, at the very least, let out a sensible chuckle. Instead, all he does is let out a scoff, and return to what had been keeping him busy during his tedious guard shift in the slave pens. Digging scum out from under his nails with his dagger. Usually something as menial as keeping tabs of the humans would have been relegated to one of the more well-trained slaves, being beneath the standing of even a Druchii unattached to a clan like himself. But they had run out of those early on, as they had been attached to scouts as porters, or as leaders of work crews. And now, the fleet greatly diminished, menial tasks fall upon those like him, next lowest. ‘What did I think, jumping aboard one of that bitch’s ships? The only thing I’m getting out of this fucking idiocy is maybe a promotion if we recruit fresh meat when we return to cross the Witch Gate.’ He, like a thousand others, had been entranced by the idea of a raiding expedition deeper into Lustria than Coldhide’s fleets ever had. On top of that, the mutiny had been easy on him, he’d been irrelevant enough to not have anyone in particular seek his death out during the chaos. Now, with his pale skin burned and his joints chaffed from wearing leather and metal in a climate of salt and humidity, he’s reconsidering the fact that the price for betraying Admiral Coldhide is simply being paid in posterior installments. ‘I never thought I’d miss Clar Karond, at least there the gold would be useful…’ He grimaces as his dagger punctures the tip of his left ring finger, letting out a single drop of blood. Currently, he is richer than he had ever been in his life before joining the current endeavour. But enough gold to encumber a slave is quite useless among a fleet where almost everyone else has the same amount, or more. Currency among his fellows has become favours rather than silver pieces, and there’s -quite obviously- no one to buy anything from with his newly acquired gems. Rankec stands up from his leaning position against the pen’s stake wall. He gives a look into it, but finds nothing more than expected: A few hundred off shift slaves, resting on piles of dried grass they themselves had been made to collect. The place reeks of human filth, he should order a few of them to gather buckets of the nearby sea’s water, to at least splash away the worst of it. But he has already accepted that he’ll be exposed to the ordure of humans until the Admiral’s delusional daughter finally gives in and orders them all back aboard the ships the fleet still has enough hands to- ZWOOP Rankec jumps in place, suddenly lanced by some kind of insect, his neck stung just as the rest of his body had been now for a thousand times. The druchii moves to slap the offending mosquito, slapping his own neck. Instead of a possibly satisfying crunch, his palm slams into- A diminutive piece of wood, thinner than even a food skewer, so brittle it cracks under his slap. As he brings his hand back to visually inspect it, he can feel a tingling sensation up and down his neck. The piece of wood is diminutive, the tip stained red with his blood, alongside some kind of thin whitish pellicule. Rankec’s mind instantly floods with explosive fear, his body pumping out adrenaline. He goes to shout and alert the rest of the guards. In doing so, he goes to take a step. His leg -both legs, in fact- has fallen asleep, his mouth opens more due to gravity than him trying to scream, little more than a strained whimper comes as his body limply slams into the ground. Within a few more moments, he can’t even move his eyes to look around, much less close his eyelids. His heart, just like the rest of the parts of his body controlled by neurons -meaning, the totality of it- stops sending or receiving signals as soon as his bloodstream carries the poison to it. The last thing he sees is the reptilian foot of something that scampers and climbs out of the pen, its other clawed foot landing on his back, he can’t feel that either. A few moments later, and as the pen’s entrance is unlocked and slaves quietly try to remove each other's shackles and collars, his body is already dead. It’ll take a few hours for it to reach the parlor of death, however, a strange quirk of the hot and humid local climate. Somewhere, far above the ongoing events, a treefrog finds it footing and returns to the dense canopy, just in time to avoid a flying reptile’s snapping jaws. The commotion, the violence, the sounds of battle, they come like the boiling of water, unnoticeable at first, catastrophically overflowing if you are distracted from it for but a second. In her case, one moment she is overlooking her camp as her troops retreat closer to the moored ships, alerted by the few wounded who manage to flee into the beachhead from the dirt path to the Spear of the Gods. Davara doesn’t doubt for a second that all those still within the jungle have been cut down to the last. The next moment, even after her crews ready to put the Ravenships to sea, the sounds of commotion make her focus on the westernmost edges of the camp, where she had had the slave pens built, making sure to have them downwind, where the slave’s stenches would be carried away instead of mingling with Lustria’s odors in her nostrils. What her eyes find is the distant sight of blue-scaled reptiles scampering up and down stake walls and tents, jumping upon the unready while the tail end of a mob of escaping slaves disappears into the treeline, skirting clear of the scaled creatures vomiting forth from it. For a second, she doubts whether she should divest some of her soldiers to seek them out, be it to check the reptilian infiltrators or to put down the slaves, who seem to have attempted to use the commotion to stage an escape. ‘Fools, the jungle will punish them as much as I will.’ She growls, making up her mind and deciding to forget the hu… Mans…? ‘You will repay the insolence of your trespassing by giving into our care all the human slaves you have brought to Lustria, with enough food and water to sustain tem for twenty days and twenty nights.’ Her mind provides the Herald’s words, his words. Suddenly, she is much less content with letting them succumb to the diseases and beasts of the jungles. Her face grows into a snarling sneer, and the usurping fleetmaster begins to turn to bark orders out for Rures -who by now has gone from being her most reliable captain to de facto being her second in command- to echo out. Only then does she realize that the proverbial water is already boiling, and her skin is already getting scalded. The first wave of the reptilian assault has already arrived. It arrives in the form of something she had never pondered the possibility of before. In her father’s tellings of his and other fleetmasters’ forays into Lustria, there had been plentiful mentions of garrisons and scattered bands like the ones she herself had faced already. Instead, what breaches the treeline consolidates within a few seconds into the solid ranks of a marching unit of infantry. Infantry made up of massive snarled reptiles, their head crests decorated with jaguar-like spots of fiery colors. Davara is reminded of the appearance of some of the saurus slain during her plundering of the temple dedicated to the saurian sun god. As the ranks solidify into a shield wall facing the palisade her darkshards are massed behind, she admits something to herself for the first time in her one hundred and fifty nine years of life, Davara Coldhide truly entertains the fact that her expedition might… She shakes her head, and starts barking orders, her gestures somewhat diminished by her immobilized arm. Her eyes remain locked in that wall of strangely-shaped shields as crossbow bolts slam and stab into them, barely lessening the enemy’s momentum. Even when the bolts slam against one of the monstrous heads sticking out of the shield wall, the creature’s sloping crests often divert them like a rounded metal shield would. Still, reptiles do fall here and there. Hopefully enough for the gaps in the shield wall to allow for a cascading amount of damage. Then her eye catches a glint that makes her squint. Just a line behind the forwardmost elements of the shield wall, where -for some reason- the air wavers as if in a desert, stands a saurus taller than most, its scales copper-like in their colouration. Equally cupric is the massive standard that he holds aloft, a piece of glinting metal decorated with streamers that resemble the licks of a flame. A particularly bright reflection off it forces her to squint her eyes. Then another, a few seconds later, and another, and another, quickening until- Davara hisses in pain as everything she can see becomes harsh white. From the sound of it, the silent flash has had a similar effect on those readying her ship, they all are left blinded as if they had stared at an eclipse’s end. Those sounds of annoyance and pain are soon drowned out by others, much more prescient. The sounds of combat, of weapons slamming into armor, of dying warriors, of tearing flesh and cracking bone. When her vision finally clear enough, her eyes red and stinging, Davara is gifted with the daunting sight of what exactly the reptiles have done during the precious few seconds in which they -by arcane means- have left her entire expedition blinded. They have closed the gap. Saurus warriors have climbed over the palisade like agile birds in the precious few seconds during which the firing line has been disabled. At the same time, the treeline is now teeming with even more foes, a veritable army, breaking through defenses and clawing its way towards the ships, her ships. “Rures, we set sail, immediately.” “I… Admiral…” “What?!” She turns around, ready to use her still-usable arm to cut the would-be traitor down, if needed be. Instead, he finds him pointing at… Well, all around them. The vessel is awash with sailors and reavers, trying to, indeed, put the ship to sea. Something made impossible by the fact that their sails have had to be retracted, as the wind is… The squalls race inland. “The sails are useless, if we cut anchors and attempt to set sail with this wind, the ship will run agro-” “Then gather the galley-slaves, you useless-!” “THERE ARE NO GALLEY SLAVES LEFT!” Rures screams back. … Davara takes an insecure step back, the small of her back hitting the ship’s gunwale, she turns around just in time to hear a bellow so loud that it overrides the newly-learned lesson not to look at the enemy force directly. The lizardmen have split themselves in two, leaving a causeway-like space between the two halves of their force. A wide one, of many spans. And, only barely large enough for the colossal greenish shape that trampes its way out of the treeline, armed with horns that make quick work of tree trunks, and that will even more easily breach her palisade. A warbeast, one of four sturdy legs, covered in rough armor and a semicircular crest covered in horns, the color of a drab swamp. A stegadon. One with a platform, a howdah, firmly planted upon its upper back, one stuffed with both of the lizardmen breeds. And a single shape perched upon its horns. Humanoid and wielding a great pole weapon. With that kind of momentum, the thing will easily stampede all the way to where the gangplanks connect to the still moored ships. “ALL WHO DO NOT TAKE UP OARS WILL BE ABANDONED!” She finds herself screaming, instantly, dozens of those still ashore start running for said gangplanks, abandoning baskets and bags of gold and gems. Hopefully enough to flee beyond the reptiles’ ability to swim after, and then parallel to the coast until the squalls give up. Davara jumps up her vessel’s rigging, strong core muscles doing the job a necrotizing arm cannot. And whistles as loudly as her lungs can provide for. “Buy me time, girl, buy me time…” She mutters. From the waves starts breaking out a mass of serpentine necks and grasping webbed limbs, a mass of scales as green as emeralds breaches out of the frothing waves. Pinkish tongues, proboscis and retractable jaws snap and twist. The most valued of all things she took from her father during her coup. Her family’s namesake. The Coldhide Kharibdyss. “KILL THEM!” She orders it. “KILL HIM! THE HUMAN, TEAR HIM APART!” The monster’s five heads don’t make for much of a collective name, but servitude under generations of Davara’s ancestors have trained the monster well enough to sense their intent. The monster starts swimming closer to shore, its bulk so large that it actively shoves another ravenship aside, throwing a few of those in its rigging overboard, to be snapped up by the mouths of two of its heads. Davara can hardly begrudge the monster for grabbing a snack, considering that it represents her sole chance of delaying the enemy long enough to make it out alive at all.
Gotta ask, how many of you saw the Kharibdyss coming? I wasn't specially sneaky about it, but also didn't see the point in obscuring its existance. I hope I threaded the line and kept the reveal interesting. As to the end of this story arc. While last chapter was the emotional conclussion to its plotlines, this one is the action one. Apologies for the cliffhanger, but I simply had to I hope you enjoyed the story and I honestly appreciate all and any kudos or comments you may be gracious enough to gift me! And in case any of you are interested, here's the link to my Discord server, where I discuss my projects and all are welcome It would be great if, if you enjoyed the story that is, you took a second of your time to go over to ao3 and left a kudo and a comment over there, since it is my main posting site.
Robber Killer, Killer Robber - Part XI: Cauterization “For every ten men you send west, you lose two to the sea, two in the streets of Skeggi, and five in the jungle. That leaves… hang on… five plus… no, wait, I can do this…” -Ignor the Uncountable, Marienburg Press-Ganger. Coldhide Beachhead, Jungle of Squalls, Isthmus of Lustria 40.0.9.15.18 12 Etzʼnabʼ 11 Yax The beast that rises before the Herald of Pahuax carries the stench of dark magic with every dribble and breath of briny ether that leaves or enters its body through any of its five heads. But especially the one in the middle. Roland can’t do anything but stop his march towards the ships -most still moored, the rest failing to row against the squalls and waves- as he beholds the monster pulling itself ashore by clawing at the sandbanks, clearly heavy enough not to be comfortable on land, but too large for such a constraint to fully stop it. The way its heft quakes and the spined fins that decorate it tremble with each heave makes him think of how a seal on the fatter side of things would navigate such terrain. Except seals aren’t usually armed with hull-rending claws, or multiple serpentine necks each topped with a blind face made up of a mixture of barbed tongues and strange grasping appendages, the central one being further equipped with a frankly grotesque lower jaw, so long and flexible as to curl into itself, its teeth forming a spiraling saw. At least, Roland reasons, not in his experience. Tentatively, the herald utters a few noises in the language of the marine reptiles, those whose flippers breach the warm waters that surround his homeland. If the nameless monster even hears him, it certainly does not react. And it does not surprise him, for the miasma of dark magic wafts from it like the smell of rotting fish. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the loud bellowing of a stegadon and the shattering of wood. Wajgrani -and the skinks upon his howdah- are doing a wonderful job at breaking through yet another section of the defenses. Under any other circumstance, Roland might have called them back to him. But Wajgrani is a subadult, young enough that it may still take half a decade for him to reach the size to carry his complete howdah. And while stegadons are formidable animals at any age… Roland winces and steps back as the monster is met in battle by the foremost line of the saurus cohort. He gets a pretty good look at how the monster’s necks lashes out, one grabbing a good hold of one of the warriors, and simply swallowing and shredding half of his body before the mess of blood and gore simply spills out of its mouth, the lower half of a reptilian warrior twice Roland’s size simply slamming into the sand, the waist-height area at which the “bite” had occurred having quite literally been blended. No, there is no way Roland is exposing the Stegadon to something twice its size and with that kind of ability to simply tear through scales. “Kharibdyss…” A voice growls by his side. Roland finds himself staring up at the exposed gums of a hissing Old Blood Moiak, the green saurus’ muzzle stained by druchii blood that shines red under the sun. A Kharibdyss, loathsome beast of the uncharted depths. Roland strives to remember the creature's name, and to seek to educate himself on the warbeasts of his masters’ northern enemies. “Have you fought them before?” “I was chosen to lead this army because I have had the pleasure of excissing parties of the Fallen Itz’xa’khanx before. They are fond of twisting the natural world into their enthrallment.” “What ought we to do? It seems lumbering enough to avoid on land but…” “It will decimate us if we attempt to reach the ships without putting it down.” “How did you slay it, last time you encountered one?” “Surrounded it with a strong shield wall of saurus, stabbed at it to keep it from picking a point from which to break out. Eventually, exhaustion killed it as much as the wounds we inflicted.” “Even that will delay us far too long.” Roland observes as more of the ships try to make their way out of a coast adamant on keeping them within its bossom. “Indeed. We will have to distract it by other means.” “What do you suggest?” “Make it angry. Its mind is simple, partitioned between three heads instead of multiplied. If something grabs its attention enough, it will seek it out for as long as it can.” Roland takes in a deep breath, knowing what the saurus is about to suggest. “You seem singularly adept at catching the attention of the foes, First among the Xho’za’khanx. I am sure you will do nicely. Fear not, as soon as the enemy is routed and its vessels captured, we will come to your aid.” Roland takes a first grasp of his polearm and hisses in his own unavoidably human way. “Old Ones protect me…” And, with little other fanfare, he starts shouting and grunting the sounds of challenging in every beast-language he has been taught by a lifetime spent in the Jungles of Pahualaxa. The Kharibdyss may be unable to communicate with him, or vice versa, but all predators are deeply familiar with what it sounds like when another beast encroaches upon one’s territory. One of the jawless heads snaps around to directly point at him, forgetting about the warrior it had been trying to nip at. Roland redoubles his efforts. Slowly, one by one, the heads begin turning to focus on him. Ultimately, he gathers the attention of the central head as its disgusting jaw toys with a mangled corpse. “COME ON!” Roland waves with his polearm. “YOU FIVE HEADED CANCER, COME AND GET ME!” The monster’s response is the garbled roar of something that can only close its maws by curling its tongues and crustacean-like appendages while squirting a heavy spray of bloodied seaspray. Tiefwässer Port, Autonomous Imperial Colony of Sudburg, Settler’s Cove, Isthmus of Lustria Governor-General Siegmund Armbruster isn’t one to take strolls across the city he is the ruler -manager would be a more adept descriptor- of. The years haven’t made him any more accustomed to either of the seasonal extremes that the New World cyclically tries to kill him with. As such, he can’t be anything other than deeply uncomfortable as he inspects the fleet of vessels leaving out of Sudburg’s deepwater port. His garb, the full uniform he continues to force himself to wear whenever he appears in public among the city’s young aristocracy or settler levies, is meant to be usable in campaign or parade at all times of the year. The Old World year, that is. Here, at the height of Lustria’s dry season, he is experiencing heat worse than the worst of his youth’s summer campaigns. The only thing that brings him comfort is the wind. Today, it seems, it has become his balm. As early as the hour before his own awakening in the morning, the winds have been strong, constant, and unidirectional in their south-eastwards direction. Usually, and especially in the dry season, winds coming from Lustria’s inexorable inland regions would be sapped of all humidity, carrying the smell of natural wildfires. Today, however, the winds appear strong enough that they seem to be crossing the width of the Isthmus without losing much of the marine humidity and salt of the Far Sea. And while Siegmund is grateful enough already for the respite that every gust offers him, he is still far down the list of those glad for it. Much higher than him are the hundreds of dockworkers laboring to load the bellies of eight different galleons with hundreds of sacks, barrels, bundles, rolls, baskets and boxes of every one of the goods that Sudburg’s less adventurous industries produce. Those men, whose skins are covered by a sheen of sweat, utter thankful prayers whenever the winds pick up. If only the winds could also get rid of the flies, the mosquitoes, the scurrying rats, the welts, the cuts and the pinpricks, the work might have been even bearable! In coordination with those men are the crews of all the galleons preparing to leave before the winds die down, and those of other less hurried vessels of lesser tonnage. Those men constantly enter and exit the lower decks through hatch covers as if they were miners lowering themselves into a mine shaft. Unlike miners, they obviously tend to exit the hatches less burdened than how they entered. But the constant movement up and down ladders carrying the loads seems exhausting enough. Finally there is a second force of sailors, spry men who climb up and down rigging, inspect sails and make last-minute repairs. First and second-class mates of all the ships inspect the work and deliver harshly shouted critiques to their men’s work. To a degree, it reminds the Governor-General of the ambience that would be created by an army on the march as it deconstructed its fieldcamp. The two seasons of Lustria do make one thing simple, and that is the commerce of foodstuffs. The rainy season is for planting, for growing, for fattening animals and for harvesting from the nearby jungles. The dry season is for harvesting, for processing, for drying, curing, or fermenting, and for exporting. The vessels being loaded right now with Sudburgs bounties will arrive -depending on the winds and current, of course- in one or two months to the great ports of the Old World, mainly to those of the empire and its allies, considering whose colony Siegmund administers. Hopefully, Brocco’s true masters in ultramar will be gladdened to see the profits and so will be Siefmund’s own superiors. Perhaps glad enough to further invest resources into shoring the city up… It depends as much, he knows, in the competition’s luck as it does on the labour of the city’s populace. But at this point there is not much he can do beyond pray, is there? “Father!” A voice distracts him. Turning around, the old officer sees his own daughter approach him, single-minded in a way that forces the dockworders to swerve and weave around her, for once. “Noemie, I thought you’d still be busying yourself with the travelvers, now that most of them are soon to leave.” “Oh, I was,” She smiles. “Until this arrived.” From among the bricks of paper, parchment pieces and notebooks that turn his daughter’s ever-present satchel into an obese piece of leather, she pulls a singular letter, its wax seal broken, but visibly decorated with an imprint of a bicephalous eagle holding some kind of plant. “A response from Santa Magritta? Already?” “Arrived this morning aboard one of those smaller ships that Brocco and König hate so much. Penned by the viceroy’s own son.” His daughter is, of course, referring to the unlicensed merchants and smugglers who make their wealth trading up and down Lustria’s oriental coast, stopping at colonies and outposts. Officially, such a thing is frowned upon. Most colonies are obligated to only trade with their mainlands, and dens of criminality like Port Reaver, Skeggi or the derelict Swamp Town would especially be frowned upon. And yet, the reality is that the different pockets of civilization have limited and distinct resources or needs, meaning that their prosperity relies on a certain degree of unsanctioned mercantilism. Secondarily, they also make for convenient couriers. “Son? I was under the impression that the viceroy was without children, especially at her age.” “Believe me, father, the contents of the letter are going to be a lot more relevant than that detail to you.” She smiles, ecstatic. ‘This is going to be bad.’ Siegmund realizes as he unfurls the parchment. Firstly, he's surprised by how little writing there is upon the yellowed material. Then he actually begins to read. ‘Captain General of the Laguna Brillante Ariel Verin de San Pedro Mendoza-Velasco Ferrer del Sur y Cueva, Diestro of Santa Magritta; to his excellency the governor-generalship of the Autonomous Imperial Colony of Sudburg Siegmund Armbruster, Bearer of the Star of Sigmar; Greetings.’ ‘It is not our fault that we are better at this than you, a joderse putos.’ ‘Have a good afternoon.’ … “Uh?” “Right?” His daughter starts laughing. Coldhide Beachhead, Jungle of Squalls, Isthmus of Lustria Roland leaps out of the way as one of the heads slams into the ground he had been standing on seconds before, the rest of them remaining entangled in the rapidly shredding tent canvas that he had fooled the amphibian monster into racing through. Moments later, as he hears the approaching clamoring of mandibles he is forced to use his momentum to swing his polearm -and his entire body- around, describing a predictable arch that slams into the side of another one of the individual heads. The attack would have been suicidal against any cognizant opponet, but against the Kharibdyss it does a good enough job. The sickle spikes that cover the weapon’s golden obstinate brace dig into the side of the thing’s tubular head, sending it reeling back and almost carrying both the weapon and himself with it. Individually, he has quickly learned, none of the heads are particularly dangerous. They are comparable to more natural beasts he has already faced, and the length of his weapon deprives their tongues and appendages from tasting his skin. Now, it is whenever the body and all the heads collaborate that his only option becomes that of simply running away in short bursts. Just enough to put himself out of reach, but close enough to dart in whenever that causes its five-fold wandering mind to switch targets. He has bloodlet the monster. But one could be forgiven for not noticing, as the scale of the cuts, punctures and bludgeoned scales he has pockmarked its body with pale in comparison to the total area of the monster’s body. The obstinate blade of his polearm has severed a number of tongues and mandibles, but that’s as meaningful as downing a copse of trees within an entire jungle. And so, he continues facing it as he constantly walks back, stepping over bodies and the wares of the destroyed camp, his mind singularly focused on keeping the right distance between himself and the longest of the monster’s necks. The enemy could have won around him, and he still would not have noticed. Roland’s eyes flicker to the webbed claws of the beast, the way in which the musculature of the arms that they connect to grows taunt. The kharibdyss’ necks also retreat into an s-shape. “Not again…” The Herald groans to himself. With force unfitting for a creature of its nature, the five-headed monstrosity shoves itself forwards, all five heads weaving and snaking in hops to be the one to get at him first. Just as in previous times, Roland does his best to jump to the side, avoiding the oncoming shrine-sized mutant by the skin of his teeth, literally feeling how one of its many quill-tipped fins graves his back and almost catches onto the leather strap that crosses his chest. The jump leaves him unbalanced and stumbling as he turns on a dime, fearful that the monster might be flanking him with one of its heads as the body continues to move forwards. With little thought, he delivers a downwards swipe against the mass of greenish scales before him. The strike is so forceful that it actually leaves his shoulders sore as blood begins to stream from the cut. The monster barely slows down, and drags him alongside itself even as it lets multiple gurgling screams of pain. His weapon, he realizes, has found its mark near the base of one of the outlying necks, carving down into a good fourth of its diameter and… Roland tugs at it. Leaving it stuck upon its vertebra. The monster coils into itself, Roland lets go of the weapon rather than be dragged along. While the affected head begins to droop and twitch, another one slams itself into the wound, while it clearly is trying to remove the weapon, the anxious force with which its tongues wrap around the shaft instead shatter the wood as it pulls back, shards of obstinate and bent gold alloy remaining embedded upon the profusely bleeding cut. Roland isn’t left with much time to consider what he should do, now that he’s lost his blade. But most importantly, the agonizing monster continues to coil and turn around itself. He sees its paddle-like tail tip -armored with spikes like those of a djuradon, its thin skin scarred with holes all over- seconds before it slams into him. A few moments which feel like an eternity, before he can react -as if there was anything he could do- the entire world has started orbiting around him, his feet are unconnected to the ground, and he- SLAM Something catches his fall, and subsequently breaks , being just brittle enough not to break his back, but far from soft enough to welcome him for a painless landing. His entire body is battered, the breath is driven from his lungs, and his vision is overtaken by white hot pain. He comes in and out of consciousness multiple times in quick succession. While he is no longer tumbling through the air, his sense of balance very much believes so. Gasping, he manages to hold his torso up by digging his elbows into the ground of what must be a destroyed tent of some kind, the pain of splinters making it clear that he has been “cushioned” by a pile of crates. “Owww…” He groans, only for his churned stomach to unload itself, the sensory overload greater than even the worst of Swamp Town’s stenches. As he continues to fail to stand up, the vibrating ground does not help. A small part of his mind that is still thinking about the wider context notifies him that there’s only two things lage enough around here to cause such quakes. And he doubts Wajgrani is coming to his aid. The sunlight that makes it through the half-collapsed tent dimms, the smell of marine rot assaults his nostrils as it mixes with his own vomit and that of… Charring wood? Roland looks up. And up, and up across a wide torso that forks into five necks, one of them limp, unresponsive and being dragged along by the rest of the creature’s body. “One head, only four to go…” He allows himself to joke as he finds himself being stared down by four eyeless heads. The central one’s strange jaw coils and uncoils multiple times, implying a grotesquery of a creature licking its chops. Thoughts start racing across Roland’s head. Shame at his failure, sadness borne of the knowledge that his sister will have to carry their kind’s role on the Great Plan alone, fear and anger sourced within the same pit of hate within his chest, and most of all… The heads rear back, it is clear that the monster intends to draw and quarter him in its own way. He can’t stop feeling the burning heat that laps at the small of his back. And yet, as the heads begin their momentous descent towards his defenseless body… A blur of vibrant blues and unmistakable oranges. A feathered shape that flies against the wind with a speed unnatural to its species. Tlahui, as much as he may be a carrion bird, is still a carrion bird of Lustria. Which means that, even if his claws may be far from as sharp as a falcon’s or as strong as an eagle’s, they still do some mighty damage to the head the rylok lands upon, tearing at its facial tentacles like a songbird pulling earthworms out of the soil. The sudden impact distracts the monster, its massive claws landing on either side of Roland’s as its heads stay their attack, two of them trying to snap at the bird before it flutters away, barely missing its wings with their bites. It gives Roland a few precious seconds to scoot back, thankful for his companion’s reckless stunt. In his retreat, his palm comes across some kind of grip, and instinctively grasps it. Any weapon or tool would be welcome in this very mo- “MAHRLECT!” He shouts in pain and lets go, as he finds that whatever he has grabbed is, in fact, hot enough to blister his hand. Roland looks back to see whatever it may be, and attempts to further avoid it. What his eyes locate takes his breath away. A mighty macuahuitl of the scale that only a saurus would be able to wield in a one-handed manner. Its blade is wrapped in steaming towels, clearly used by the druchii to contain the heat it produces, strong enough that the uncovered handle is singeing the ground it touches. The smell of sulphur clogs Roland’s nostrils. His brain, dazed as it is, instantly recognizes what can only be a heirloom of his masters’ masters. Had the Druchii not raided the Monument of the Sun, precisely to pillage it? Had the Cohort of the Copper Sun, blessed spawning of Lord Chotec himself, not joined them in their pursuit? Has he not, less than an hour earlier, beheld the sanctimonious usage of the Sun Standard of Chotec? The mighty relic had blinded the entire enemy force for them to exploit. The Burning Blade of Chotec, sits there, unattended, before his very own eyes. Growling, however, brings him back from his fascination. The kharibdyss, it seems, has given up on snapping Tlahui out of the sky, and the bird has allowed the squalls to take it far higher away than it could ever reach. As such, its attention has returned to him. “Oh Lord of the Sun…” Roland grunts as he tries to raise himself to his knees. “You whose rays warm the bodies of the children of my very own master. You who fashioned Tlanxla’s chariot from the metal that is the sun’s engine, you who return to us each and every day to breathe life into the world. Forgive my intrusion, so that I may use your fire to cauterize that rot which infects the paradise you made for us…” He whispers to himself, cobbling together a prayer from a childhood of being taught about the Old Ones by Scar Veteran Nakor. When both of his hands reach around the weapon’s handle, the biting pain is still there. Yet, somehow, the pain is dulled, and his palms only burn as if scalded, and not as if branded. “HEY, YOU ABYSSAL FREAK, HOW ABOUT YOU EAT A WARM MEAL FOR ONCE?” He shouts, and with the last of his strength, throws the weapon forwards and upwards. If there’s anything that his short time baiting the kharibdyss has taught him, it is that the monster’s heads will thoughtlessly snap at anything that is placed before them. Including, apparently, the swallowing whole of the weapon that gyrates towards the outstretched central head. Messily it swallows, its gullet wide enough that the steaming blade passes through most of the way before its effects begin to take. And take, they do, as the weapon becomes fully lodged near the base of the central neck, the monster’s screams and clawing at itself become deafening. And yet, as it claws at its own chest, and all five heads -including the dead one- begin to cough and reech like smokestacks, there is little it can do. This is no mere torch or cloth soaked in the spit of salamanders, such fires would theoretically be put out by the lack of air inside the monster. The Burning Blade acts like a forge, producing its own heat, boiling and searing the monster from the inside. The marine hydra continues to contort itself backwards towards the beach, its fins becoming crisp films as spasmodic movements slow down. Maybe it is trying to get to the water, or to its master. Or maybe its boiling brains don’t have the capacity to do more than fire off charred neurons at random. Within less than a minute, the body has collapsed, the cuts that Roland has laid across its body becoming the birthplaces of what at first are flames the size of candles, but soon enough grow and lap at more of the creature’s flesh until it is nothing more than a gigantic cremated husk. Roland attempts to walk towards it, but his legs give out and leave him gasping for air on his knees. Out in the distance, he can see swaying vessels, some still moored, some freed with their hulls slamming against each other or outright beached. their masts broken or covered by climbing lizardmen, the waves around them piling hundreds of bodies against the shore. Some are out to sea, a wonderfully pitiful number, their sails nowhere to be seen as oars move like the legs of a centipede. Maybe it is just his exhausted imagination offering a morsel of celebration to his brain. Or maybe it is true. In either case, he can’t take his eyes away from a diminutive and white haired speck upon the deck of the largest seaborne vessel. Is she looking at him, with her rotting arm and seething eyes? He hopes so. Roland collapses face first into the sand. Somewhere nearby, a Rylok starts to share a meal of roasted sea monster with a flock of local seagulls. Spear of the Gods, Jungle of Squalls, Isthmus of Lustria 40.0.9.15.19 13 Kawak 12 Yax “Take care of the weak, they will be escorted on the way to Pahuax, but our masters will not wait for the wounded or the sick.” Roland finishes his explanation of what is soon to happen, and Chloe nods in reverent understanding, the crowd of freed slaves seated and eating around him looking up at him as if he were some kind of object of worship, an idea that makes Roland deeply uncomfortable. Idly, he wonders how his sister and their younger charges may take the news that their cohort could soon be joined by a force slightly larger than one hundred adult humans . He is as curious as he is scared. Also making him uncomfortable are the bandages now covering his hands, which join the rest across his upper body. A sight that leaves his torso half-covered in leaf-made ointment packings and wrappings made with the cloth of ransacked enemy corpses. The result means that his body is covered in a mismatched collection of greens. Still, as he walks across the camp, he can only be content. His belly is full of hearty food, courtesy of the ecstatic warriors of the Cohort of the Copper Sun, who had invited him and his skink companions to dine with them. Fresh in his mind is the amused chittering that the sight of Spawn Leader Tlemiauatl embracing him like a lost spawn-mate had produced amongst them all. He cannot deny it, the idea of having aided the blessed of Chotec in regaining their patron’s weapon fills him with pride. As he walks, he can’t help but overhear the latest news as the skinks of the force chitter about them. According to Tek’Qila, a red-crested skink attached to the force had received a vision the night after their battle upon the Coldhide “fleet”. The skink has spoken with reverence of a vision from devouring Sotek himself, in which the serpent-god had demanded that all the captured foes -those not already sacrificed during the celebrations- must be sent to The Watcher, so that their blood may be employed to paint the blank facet of the monument with the hissing face of Sotek the Deliverer. A recovered relic and a god-given command all on the same day. Surely, the Old Ones smile upon the host of Pahaux. “Welser-Nakor!” A roar distracts Roland from his musings as he walks among the firepits and the cauldrons. As it turns out, Kharibdyss do have a pleasant richness to their flesh. The voice is that of Old Blood Moiak, who beckons Roland closer. He is surprised, as the general had already commended him on his feat soon after waking him from his exhausted sleep. Roland jogs up to him, bowing as he does so, still unused to gesturing without his weapon on hand. Something he ought to fix when they return home after a few days of travel. Curiously, standing by the green saurus’ shadow is a skink, one whose scales -blue, but painted with the reds and yellowish greens of Hexoatl- shimmer as if recently shed. “A message for you, kharibdyss-slayer, from the City of the Sun, if you would believe.” The skink offers up -literally, considering their heights- a clay tablet which Roland gingerly grabs and reads quickly enough. Only to be left with an ajar mouth and the wide eyes of an idiot. “I will have supplies be allocated to you, Herald.” The Old Blood laughs. ‘By the command of Lord of the Solar-City, Mage Lord of the Second Spawning Mazdamundi, heeded be his deeds, the one who herald the armies of the City of Ashes is summoned to audience within the halls of the Stellar Pyramids of the Southern Skies.’ “Mahrlect…” Is all that the stupefied human can utter.
So, with this chapter, we have reached the conclussion of HotOO's third arc, and the first one that I worked to plot and draft out for the most part, since it was caught up by my hiatus. I think it really shows, it wastes a lot less time and has a stronger focus on the actual plotlines of the arc, even if most of them are setup for later events. All in all, I hope you have enjoyed this arc. And I would love to hear which part of it you enjoyed the most! A small (one or two weeks) hiatus will ocur after the interlude to allow me the time to fully draft the upcoming arc, the title of which will be releaved in the notes of said upcoming interlude! I hope you enjoyed the story and I honestly appreciate all and any kudos or comments you may be gracious enough to gift me! And in case any of you are interested, here's the link to my Discord server, where I discuss my projects and all are welcome It would be great if, if you enjoyed the story that is, you took a second of your time to go over to ao3 and left a kudo and a comment over there, since it is my main posting site.