Scar-Veteran
spawning of Bob
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“This is not right.”
Slick Venom-Blade froze mid sneak. Aside from mumbling those words, the toad-thing remained inert. Did the cold-seers talk in their sleep? The assassin certainly had done nothing to wake him.
“There used to be a smell.” The toad-thing spoke again, but its eyes remained resolutely shut.
The muscles below Slick’s tail contracted involuntarily without effect. His musk glands had been cauterised in preparation for this mission. So much preparation. There was nothing that could go wrong. In the quest to eradicate the cold-blood enemy, everything that could go wrong already had.
Millennia of costly strife had ended in stalemate. The Great One had even allowed a world to be destroyed and still failed to eradicate the last of the toad-things. The remnant had reappeared in the Mortal Realms, if possible worse than before. Their servants were known to have been obliterated in warp-fire, but they had returned also, summoned from the toad-things’ memories to tear at the throats of the Children of The Great Horned Rat.
The scale-things could be slain, but they returned over and over. Slick knew for a fact that he had killed the same red-crest priest-thing three times. Its body had vanished in a painful silver flash each time, but as long as its toad-lord lived, it would never be beyond recall.
The Great-One knew this also. For a time he threw his children headlong into the mortal realms in great numbers just to bait the toad-things into showing themselves. A meagre claw-full had been killed by the Great-Ones’ luck, but it was a costly exercise even among rats who had no heed for the losses of their brothers around them.
The toad thing murmured again. “The musk of fear. That is what the smell was. This memory is not quite right.”
Slick’s ruined glands involuntarily clenched again. I am not a memory, toad-thing. I am real and I am your ending.
“This memory has a happy ending.”
Not this time.
“It ends how it ends. Happily.”
I will show you diff-
Slick checked himself. He was sure that he had only thought those word-things, not spoken them aloud. So why was he having a conversation with a slumbering slann? He centred his mind on the mission again.
The toad-things could not be easily assailed in the mortal realms, but the Great One’s influence was not confined to that dimension. He had engineered a temporary truce with the secret-seekers, who were already scouring all realms for signs of their lost god. By their daemon-art they had found where in the Vaults of Azyr the toad-things rested between battles. Each one occupied a huge void-boat. A huge, isolated and otherwise empty void-boat.
With the seeker-fiends’ guidance and the Great One’s power it was possible to quietly gnaw a warp portal in a void-boat. Just big enough for a lone assassin. The best assassin. Slick Venom-Blade.
Slick patted his dark robes to confirm that he still carried his wards. He was laden with every available piece of warp-tech and seer-arcana which could make him immune to magical attack. Some of it had even been tested. Slick was barely a dozen paces from his dreaming target, he was all but invisible, unsmellable and magically invulnerable. He had nothing to fear.
So, why did he suddenly feel such dread?
“A silent approach on unwary prey? Stylishly done,” The toad-thing was babbling again, “and with the venom blade, good. One nick and it paralyses. The prey must live.”
Slick quizzically looked at the green-oozing dagger he held in his claw. The venom kills instantly, lizard-dotard. The prey must die. All must die.
“All must die, but not before they see the meaning of life.”
The assassin had had enough of the strange discussion. He took another two paces forward as he decided where to plunge his knife. He had every nook and cranny of a mountain of clammy, unarmoured flesh to choose from. Slick ruled out the throat, if indeed the toad-thing had one, and moved on to speculating about whether his knife was long enough to reach the slann’s aorta. As he changed to an overhand grip on his weapon, he felt a sting in the low part of his back, near his right kidney.
He would have twisted to see what had stung him, but his back and neck locked up in painful cramps. He lost the use of his arms and legs soon after and fell back into the arms of... what? He tried to squeal, but his throat had seized up. His lips curled back from his yellow teeth and his eyes bulged.
The arms gently lowered him onto some kind of raised dais, and their owner stepped into Slick’s field of view for the first time. It was the familiar red-crest priest-thing, and the tip of its obsidian blade held a drop of red blood. The priest thing snapped his fingers in Slick’s eyes to ensure the paralysis venom had taken full effect. Then he sawed through the assassin’s clothing and armour to bare his chest.
The black blade was sharp. It cut through fur and skin with ease. Cracking through the rats sternum took more effort, and the priest-thing had to put the blade aside to use two claws to lever the ribs open. Using the blade again, the red crest cut through the cords and tubes which secured Slick’s heart and he lifted it out, still beating, to display to him.
“Blessed are you, warmblood. At its end, Holy Sotek has given your life meaning.” Slick’s vision faded as the heart’s regular beat began to slow.
“For His Glory.” The whispered words were the last thing the assassin heard. Slick’s contorted claw relaxed and his poisoned dagger clattered to the floor.
At the sudden sound, the toad thing jerked and snorted. As the red-crest watched his master awaken he began to gleam and fade, all at the same time. The skink priest became a silver vapour, and then nothing. The heart plopped onto the floor with a wet splat.
Finally, the Starmaster’s ancient eyes opened.
“I have just had the most beautiful dream,” he yawned.
The echoes of the empty star vessel were the only reply.
Slick Venom-Blade froze mid sneak. Aside from mumbling those words, the toad-thing remained inert. Did the cold-seers talk in their sleep? The assassin certainly had done nothing to wake him.
“There used to be a smell.” The toad-thing spoke again, but its eyes remained resolutely shut.
The muscles below Slick’s tail contracted involuntarily without effect. His musk glands had been cauterised in preparation for this mission. So much preparation. There was nothing that could go wrong. In the quest to eradicate the cold-blood enemy, everything that could go wrong already had.
Millennia of costly strife had ended in stalemate. The Great One had even allowed a world to be destroyed and still failed to eradicate the last of the toad-things. The remnant had reappeared in the Mortal Realms, if possible worse than before. Their servants were known to have been obliterated in warp-fire, but they had returned also, summoned from the toad-things’ memories to tear at the throats of the Children of The Great Horned Rat.
The scale-things could be slain, but they returned over and over. Slick knew for a fact that he had killed the same red-crest priest-thing three times. Its body had vanished in a painful silver flash each time, but as long as its toad-lord lived, it would never be beyond recall.
The Great-One knew this also. For a time he threw his children headlong into the mortal realms in great numbers just to bait the toad-things into showing themselves. A meagre claw-full had been killed by the Great-Ones’ luck, but it was a costly exercise even among rats who had no heed for the losses of their brothers around them.
The toad thing murmured again. “The musk of fear. That is what the smell was. This memory is not quite right.”
Slick’s ruined glands involuntarily clenched again. I am not a memory, toad-thing. I am real and I am your ending.
“This memory has a happy ending.”
Not this time.
“It ends how it ends. Happily.”
I will show you diff-
Slick checked himself. He was sure that he had only thought those word-things, not spoken them aloud. So why was he having a conversation with a slumbering slann? He centred his mind on the mission again.
The toad-things could not be easily assailed in the mortal realms, but the Great One’s influence was not confined to that dimension. He had engineered a temporary truce with the secret-seekers, who were already scouring all realms for signs of their lost god. By their daemon-art they had found where in the Vaults of Azyr the toad-things rested between battles. Each one occupied a huge void-boat. A huge, isolated and otherwise empty void-boat.
With the seeker-fiends’ guidance and the Great One’s power it was possible to quietly gnaw a warp portal in a void-boat. Just big enough for a lone assassin. The best assassin. Slick Venom-Blade.
Slick patted his dark robes to confirm that he still carried his wards. He was laden with every available piece of warp-tech and seer-arcana which could make him immune to magical attack. Some of it had even been tested. Slick was barely a dozen paces from his dreaming target, he was all but invisible, unsmellable and magically invulnerable. He had nothing to fear.
So, why did he suddenly feel such dread?
“A silent approach on unwary prey? Stylishly done,” The toad-thing was babbling again, “and with the venom blade, good. One nick and it paralyses. The prey must live.”
Slick quizzically looked at the green-oozing dagger he held in his claw. The venom kills instantly, lizard-dotard. The prey must die. All must die.
“All must die, but not before they see the meaning of life.”
The assassin had had enough of the strange discussion. He took another two paces forward as he decided where to plunge his knife. He had every nook and cranny of a mountain of clammy, unarmoured flesh to choose from. Slick ruled out the throat, if indeed the toad-thing had one, and moved on to speculating about whether his knife was long enough to reach the slann’s aorta. As he changed to an overhand grip on his weapon, he felt a sting in the low part of his back, near his right kidney.
He would have twisted to see what had stung him, but his back and neck locked up in painful cramps. He lost the use of his arms and legs soon after and fell back into the arms of... what? He tried to squeal, but his throat had seized up. His lips curled back from his yellow teeth and his eyes bulged.
The arms gently lowered him onto some kind of raised dais, and their owner stepped into Slick’s field of view for the first time. It was the familiar red-crest priest-thing, and the tip of its obsidian blade held a drop of red blood. The priest thing snapped his fingers in Slick’s eyes to ensure the paralysis venom had taken full effect. Then he sawed through the assassin’s clothing and armour to bare his chest.
The black blade was sharp. It cut through fur and skin with ease. Cracking through the rats sternum took more effort, and the priest-thing had to put the blade aside to use two claws to lever the ribs open. Using the blade again, the red crest cut through the cords and tubes which secured Slick’s heart and he lifted it out, still beating, to display to him.
“Blessed are you, warmblood. At its end, Holy Sotek has given your life meaning.” Slick’s vision faded as the heart’s regular beat began to slow.
“For His Glory.” The whispered words were the last thing the assassin heard. Slick’s contorted claw relaxed and his poisoned dagger clattered to the floor.
At the sudden sound, the toad thing jerked and snorted. As the red-crest watched his master awaken he began to gleam and fade, all at the same time. The skink priest became a silver vapour, and then nothing. The heart plopped onto the floor with a wet splat.
Finally, the Starmaster’s ancient eyes opened.
“I have just had the most beautiful dream,” he yawned.
The echoes of the empty star vessel were the only reply.
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