Little fic i wrote about two weeks ago to celebrate the release of Warhammer Online. Not much to say, have fun.
The Ways of Change
My name? Long ago such trivial, insignificant things meant something to me. Long ago, I believed in the nobility my name carried with it. It matters not to me anymore. But if it helps you, call me Scorpio.
My life? Well, that is something to say. My life is death. The death of the unbelievers, the death of the blasphemers, my death if it is Tzeentch will. I fight for my god, I bleed for my god, and I die for him if the need arises. Such is his will, such will be done.
Today, I kill for him. I smite and slaughter those who deny him, those who cling to their false pretender gods. They say the fortress we march against is impregnable. The unbelievers hide inside and drink, laughing at us. They know we are coming, I allowed us to be seen by their scouts. They hide and reinforce and laugh and genuinely believe that they are safe. Today, we shall prove them wrong.
I do not mid the greenskins. The orcs are repulsive brutes, save minds held within bodies composed solely of muscle. They do not care for the Changer of Ways, and in time they shall feel the fury of his wraith. But for now, they are useful. For now, they lift their crude weapons against the unbelievers. So they are tolerated, and the repulsive small ones hide behind my shield as my bones break, so they may call on their gods and use their powers. Their gods fill me with strength and heal my broken body, but Tzeentch does not mind. He's concern is the unbelievers.
Ah, the attack. We march against the walls of the unbelievers. The orcs have been fighting amongst themselves and the marauders all days, working themselves into a frenzy. I allow this, but give them strict orders to only spar. Lives must not be lost. Noble you ask? That I care for these brutes that fill my ranks? No. I care not for them, but the walls we march against are strong, and the unbelievers held within are many. The Changer of Ways will accept nothing less than their complete annihilation. To raze this city, I will need my ranks full. But when one of my marauders kill one of the goblins, unable to wait any longer to feel blood sooth his skin and believing the small one to be beneath my notice, I brain him without a moment's passing.
Ruthless you call me? You make me laugh. Insolence is like a crack in a dam. It must be dealt with, or the cracks will spread and the dam will break. So call me ruthless if you wish, but know that there were no more "accidents" after that, and now as we will siege this city minus only two.
The arrows fall as we advance, and as we work to enter the fortress, thinning the ranks even as we press against the divider to the blind spot. Curse their archers, their elves. Why do they deny the Changers of Ways' gifts, his power. Why do they lift their blades and strike us down. Their cousins understand. Their cousins march with us, one stand by my side at this moments. They claim to be loyal to their king, but I can sense the belief that swells inside of them. They worship the Tzeentch, perhaps in secret, but it pleas him. He hears their prayers and gives them his strength. That is their concern, the strength, the power that the Changer of Ways grants. How it must pain the unbelievers, that our gods grant us strength, while theirs remain silent. Perhaps there will be some conversions after this is all done, but that is a long ways off. For now, the fortress.
"Stand back," the sorceress whispers. I lift my hand, and the warriors back away, heedless of the arrows that still plague us. The sorceress extends her staff and the stone wall grows stiff as ice spreads from the spot where her staff touches, like the spread of the blast radius as a bomb detonates. Speaking of bombs, the dwarves have begun dropping explosives on our heads. At last, they understand. Using their trump cards, their last resort. It matters not. Explosives are messy, sloppy. They deal as much damage to their users as they do to us, weakening the wall, the shrapnel spinning high and slicing into their elf archers.
Ah, the walls. The ice has spread to a diameter of ten feet, and a gentle tap of the sorceress' staff shatters it, shards raining down, mingled with the arrows and bodies of the elves that lose their footing. The unbelievers, who had without doubt stared at the wall as it froze and broke, now stare in terror as I enter. The eager hordes at my back know well enough that it is my right to enter first. I draw my sword. Slow now, lets enjoy this. Let them understand what has happened. Then my ranks pour forth. Orc and chosen and elf swarming in, frothing and desperate for the kill. The sorceress, my sorceress, snuggles close and lifts her staff. The faces of the unbelievers are frozen beneath a sheen of ice. She waltzes forward, glides forward, and taps each blasphemer. They shatter.
More holes in the walls have opened. Squigs that could swallow the blasphemers whole (and I am pleased to say that they do) swarm through the sea of humanity, gobbling up flesh and bone, crushing tiny bodies beneath their feet. The orcs tear and crush and slash with their appropriately named tearer, crushers and slashers. The slaughter is everything that I had promised.
The blasphemers spot me. My armor, my movements, how I order my men to attack, mark me as a commander. They decide that if the day is lost, at least my blood will stain the earth.
Brave you say?
No. They are fools. Nothing more.
Tzeentch does not grant his gifts with ease. One must raze the lands, flay the flesh, burn and salt the earth so nothing may grow from the ashes. The unbelievers fall like dead leaves in the autumn season as my blade swipes through them. The dwarves say their prayers, the humans call on their false pretender gods, but all are bitten by my steel.
There. Do you hear that? The horn. They sound the retreat. I lift my hand and the hordes stop. Not all at once of course. They continue to ravage, to rape, to burn. I allow them to, they have fought well, they deserve it. But gradually they cease their slaughter, and the few straggling unbelievers flee.
Mercy, you say? Understand, I have not granted them life, but merely postponed their death. Let them go. Let them spread word of what was done. Let the stories spread that on this day, we broke through their defense, we crushed them. Let them always remember that moment when we crashed through their pitiful walls, the barriers they had trusted their very lives to. And let the songs of the Changer of Ways be sung.