by Murdoch Mon Feb 14, 2011 11:40 am
Ooc: Let’s get rocking : )
Ic:
The sun beats down on the small clearing in the Talabec Forest, the midday heat forcing down upon everything in the woods. The animals all move around a little sluggishly in the heat, the crawl of the predators offset by the crawl of the prey. The leaves on the trees stir gently in response to a gentle and sudden breeze, and several animals stop to enjoy the feeling.
Oddly enough, no birds can be heard in the trees around the clearing, and almost no movement can be found in the outskirts of the meadow. It’s as if something inside the clearing is repelling them, or otherwise silencing them. A lone bird decides- against its instincts- to fly through the area in search of prey.
There could be food, the bird thinks, that others have missed. I should take a lo-
The birds thoughts are silenced suddenly as a small bolt of purple energy strikes it from the sky. It plummets, tail smoking and crashes to the floor.
Varkash The Twisted, Sorcerer of Tzeentch and advisor to Garsharak The Bloodthirsty, spares not even a single glance for the innocent animal. Stupid creature for ignoring its instincts.
Varkash stands in the centre of the clearing, alone, dressed head to toe in his blue-and-gold Sorcerer Battle Gear, his staff standing next to him. He is looking down with contempt at a shape at his feet, something motionless. He kicks it sharply, and the figure coughs as it comes to. A small fountain of blood appears from his mouth, spraying the grass around him.
“Awaken, Worm,” Varshak snarls, his voice distorted and echoey through his helmet. “I am not yet done with you.”
The figure awakens fully, coughing some more, and attempts to shift its golden-armoured form. Varshak places a boot on the mans chest and forces him down, slowly and deliberately. “You will not move until I say so, Maggot.”
“I am not the Maggot here, barbarian!” the man spits weakly. Varshak simply laughs.
“Who is the one crawling on their belly, praying to a false God for help? Sigmar cannot help you, ‘priest’” he spits the word out like a foul-tasting piece of meat.
“I shall not hear a word more of your blasphemy!” The priest of Sigmar growls, struggling to get up. Varshak simply pushes him back down with his boot.
“You do not have a choice,” Varshak sneers, “Your petty magic has been defeated. Your men slaughtered. You are at my mercy. You are helpless. Now,” he said, not giving the priest time to answer, “Tell me. Why were you out in the middle of nowhere in such force?” The priest doesn’t answer. Varshak suppresses his frustration; he has been questioning this man in his moments of consciousness for the better part of an hour, and still nothing. He twists his staff- embedded in the mans leg- and sends a jolt of agonizing energy coursing through the priests system. The Warrior Priest convulses, but grits his teeth. Nonetheless, a small grunt of pain can be heard.
“Tell me.” Varshak insists, but the Priest staunchly remains silent. Varshak sighs. Stupid priests; enduring all this pain, all this suffering for a False God. Can they not see that the only true power is that of Chaos? Chaos is the past, the future; Chaos will consume everything, in time, and can never be vanquished. Surely they see that theirs is a fools task?
He idly sends another jolt through the priests system. If he is not going to tell him anything, he may as well dispose of the Priest. No more time for gloating; he already broke a personal rule by keeping this one alive. Warrior Priests were at their most dangerous when they were cornered, all set to become Martyrs…save for the fact that they tended to survive. Like cockroaches. No matter how hard you stamp on them, they continue to scurry around.
His musings are cut short by a movement from the priest; Varshak looks down just in time to see the Priests hand clench around his hammer, and his eyes begin to glow golden. Brilliant white and gold light flows from his eyes in streams, and his hammer begins to glow in a similar manner as well. Roaring defiance, the now-empowered Priest strikes at Varshak with all of his remaining strength.
Yes. They can be most tiresome. Binding the Priests arm with a tendril of Tzeentchian energy, he merely twists his staff around- ripping the counterweight from the mans leg sharply, leaving bits of torn muscle and flesh behind- and buries the bladed end straight into the Warrior Priests face. The glowing stops immediately, and the priests hands go limp. Varshak removes the staff and his boot from the priest casually, turning around and paying no heed to the now-dead priest with the ruined, blood-drenched face, giving no attention to the blood that has drenched the surrounding area and the mans once-immaculate and now-battered-and-bloodied armour in a crimson colour.
He watches the trees for a short while, until a figure can be seen approaching. It is a boy, of Brittania stock, enslaved on their way through a small hamlet. The village had traded the boy for the warband to leave them alone…unfortunately, they had overlooked one fatal flaw; Chaos doesn’t make deals. The hamlet is no more, even though Varshak didn’t agree.
The boy himself was strong, though, and anxious to please, and beyond that Varshak didn’t care. He cared not about the features, only that the boy know his place in all of this. Namely, to serve until he used up his usefulness.
“M-milord…” the boy stammers, prostrating himself on the ground before Varshak. Good; the boy remembered his last lesson. A day at the mercy of the Warhounds has taught him proper respect.
“Speak.” Varshak orders coldly.
“Garsharak requests your presence, Milord…” request? Garsharak? He never requests anything, only orders. The boy probably changed the words to offend Varshak less, which he appreciates. Oh, the boy will be punished for lying- maybe a night in with the captured beastmen?- but his curiosity has been piqued. Garsharak usually wants to forget that he has a Sorcerer with him.
“Very well.” Varshak strides off towards where The Legion of Blood was last time he saw them, leaving the boy to scramble to his feet and follow at a distance.
Ooc: No one notice them yet; not ready XD