The Greatest Offering
The warband thundered across the Chaos wastes, sixty six warriors all running, crazed for blood. Their leader, Chirard, was at the forefront, as befitted a Chosen Of Khorne. The Blood God loved brave berzerkers best of all, and so to maintain His favor, one had to be at the front of all attacks. Since war was constant in the Wastes, that meant one ALWAYS had to be at the front.
Not that Chirard was unhappy with the situation. He loved to fight and kill, as one must to be Chosen Of Khorne. And the position had many other benefits. The most visible were the changes that had been made to his form. When he'd been human, Chirard had been a large man with firey red air, a brash good-humor and a lover of war. Nothing was left of this man save his large size (even larger now, a full ten feet tall) and his love of war. He had fought in his Lord's name for years (decades?centuries?millenia?) and had gained greatly.
Now his head was that of an immense beastman, with rams horns, and small yellow eyes. His hands were talons of a srange brass-like substance which he knew from experience could slice through armor with great ease, and his arms were literally as thick as tree-trunks. His feet were now hooves, like a horses, enabling him to run great distances at speed. Most noticeable of all was the tail, which resembled that of a lion, yet was prehensile enoug hto choke the life from his enemies.
As he ran, he ran through his list of triumphs was long, a long list indeed. First, his last battle as a Greatsword in the Empire's Reiksguard. He had gained Khorne's attention by slaying an Ogre, no mean feat for any warrior, particularly one without the blessings of Chaos. His defection from that pathetic 'guard of humanity', and his migration into the Wastes. Dueling with Kislevite warriors. Years of battle in the vast, fallen dwarf-hold of Kazad-Durm. The campaign against the Dark Elves, in which he personally had dispatched an entire force of Corsairs. The raids into the labyrinthine Skaven UnderEmpire. His duels with Zagreb Chosen Of Nurgle, Slythr Chosen Of Tzeentch, and Volarth rival Chosen Of Khorne. His prowess in the recent invasion of the Empire, already referred to as the Storm of Chaos. That had been a good time, he refected, and he had acquitted himself admirably by slaughtering an entire village on his own. Yet what was coming would easily dwarf all of this, if he suceeded.
In the course of this long and bloody career he had naturally picked up followers. He didn't seek them out, nor did he recruit them. He just gave orders in battle, and more often then not someone would obey. He thought of his lieutenants. Hrard the Bloodbull, a minotaur who for some unknowable purpose had attached itself to a human Champion. Gorat, formerly a Brettonian knight Errant named Giles du Maukisse, who ad loved battle more than he loved the Lady of the Lake.Teron Bloodfiend, Sylvanian mercenary who did not worship Khorne, save as part of the pantheon of Chaos Undivided, but whose skill in battle made him a valued part of the warband. Finally, Lyudmila Zapolskik, daughter of a Kislevite baron, and now a warrior of Khorne, gloried in her own right. It seemed likely she would break off from him soon, carrying a number of warriors loyal to her. She would not challlenge hi, for he was Chosen, and only another Chosen had the right of challenge. But even her deciscion to retain her name poke volumes of her independanc, and he knew she could not be content as his follower.
Yes, they were all mighty warriors, but none had been chosen, not like him, not like this. Years before, someone had told him that Khorne had Chosen him, and he had asked what that meant. It meant that one day Khorne might deem him sufficiently worthy to call him, and that he would come. That time was now. The Call was now.
It hadn't been a tangible thing. The efeminate God Slaanesh was the one who spoke to his/her/its followers through their sensations. Nor was it a vision as Tzeentch would have been likely to send. It was a simple, primal need to travel as quickly as possible to an unknown destination. He had told his followers:
"Warriors! I have been CALLED! Mighty Khorne is calling me, calling YOU, and WE-WILL-ANSWER! Come, follow me, and I will lead you to even greater glory"
This was not, strictly speaking, a lie. Chirard was positive immense glory waited at the end of this journey. But he had no idea when, or where, that might be. Nor that any glory would atach itself to his follower, though he did not care overmuch about that. Their destiny was to be his tools until this was over, and afterwards…
He smirked. He would be Ascended or he would be dead. Either way, his followers were apt to be of little concern to him.
The running continued for days, and slowly Chirard began to guess their ultimate destination. The Brass Mountain at Blood Lake, the most sacred site in all of Khornate belief. Thousands of sacred battles had been fought at the feet of that Brass mountain (for it was, supposedly, composed entirely of the sacred metal), but ONLY between Khorne worshippers. Though all the rest of the waste was in constant flux, four spots always remained in the hands of their respective powers: The Plague Swamp of Nurgle (a fetid tropical swamp, where the air was literally thick with disease), the glade of Endless Delights and Torments which was sacred to Slaanesh (a bizarre forest where the trees changed colour and gave off heady perfumes, yet the grass was metal and raor sharp), and the Well Of Eternity for Tzeentch ( a deep pool whose location constantly shifted in Time though not Space and which supposedly revealed the futures). These spots were sacred, and no one NOT affiliated with the places patron Deity could ever be able to find it, though many were always abroad trying.
For these were not just ceremonial spots, holy places or temples. The Wastes were full of such places, and though they were venerated they were also battlefields like any other. These Four Sacred Sites were the HOMES of the Gods. In each, the core essence of the patron God was believed to reside. If the spot could be seized in the name of a rival, might not this extinguish the resident? Might this not kill the God?
Chirard put aside his thoughts, and focused on running. His destiny came nearer with each hoof-beat, and he wanted to hurry.
Ascencion or Death, he would welcome either as good in the eyes of Khorne
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