This is the beginning of Book one of 'The Unattainable', which I hope you all enjoy. I'm not sure about rating it, so It's T for now, I may up it to M when the later chapters turn up, depending on what people think of them.
Adjusting his grip, the proud Brettonian aimed his lance at the foe. The rabble of corrupted bodies were getting too close to the damsel. She and her archers had taken the protection at the edge of the Forest, but the trees could not protect them from the beastmen's charge. Or so he thought as he spurred his horse, and his knights, into the charge.
In the moments before the lances of the noble warriors punched deep inside the flesh of the warped creatures, tree roots sprang up from the ground, wrapping around a number of the beasts, crushing their life away. The roots retreated bellow the surface as the thundering hooves of the Warhorses brought them and their riders into contact with the rabble of undisciplined savages.
The effect was devastating. The impact of a Brettonian charge was legendary. The destructive power of their famed Lance Formation allowing them to pierce not only the individuals, but brought them easily to the heart of the regiment, be it bestial or disciplined, their lances would always find their marks.
The rabble almost broke, but one, a wolf-headed beast, which unlike the rest showed a spark of intellect, stood before the charge. As the press of mutated bodies eventually brought a halt to the Brettonian warriors, the wolf creature stood ready, clawed hands splayed out in anticipation.
The implication was unmistakable, and no Brettonian, least of all the heir of Parravon would ever refuse such a challenge.
Raising his lance he accepted; his signal also instructing that his men were not to interfere. A growl from the wolf-beast, and the beastmen cleared an area, hanging back to watch their champion fight. They moved out of the knights' reach, as any attempt to continue their combat risked interrupting the most ancient of battlefield traditions.
The Brettonian smiled in the knowledge of what was to come. None had ever bested him in single combat since he was a boy; no man or fell beast could defeat him with lance or sword.
With a deafening howl which threatened to split the knights' ears, the bestial champion leapt forward and was met with a crushing blow against it's snout. The Brettonian's lance tip broke away from the main length with a loud crack, and he had barely dropped it to the floor when the beast was up and charging again. This time it's leap was met with iron. As his foe reeled from a heavy blow to the chest, the knight drew his steel blade.
He smiled as he dismounted; patting his horse's neck in gratitude. It was much as his father had said, Allumér was no normal steed. Perhaps he was descendent from Elvish stock after all.
Readying himself, the knight met the beast's next charge with his shield, and responded with a sword strike. To his horror the blade failed to penetrate, the wolf thing's flesh refusing to yield. It remained unbroken for every blow; each strike rebounding as if from Dwarven armour, or glancing away as he might brush off an attack from a child.
As grim as the situation seemed; the warrior clenched his jaw and fought on, trading blows with his seemingly invulnerable foe. It was as the beast pulled back and howled it's intent once again, that a solution presented itself. Grinning in satisfaction, he deflected the wolf thing's claws with his visibly scarred shield; instead of futilely trying to strike the beast again however, he spun to his shield side, and planted his foot on it's thigh, jamming his other knee into it's throat. The metal plates kept his leg from taking too much damage, and the almost blade-like tip of his shin-guard made for an impromptu dagger, though it had no more effect than the sword. As the beast staggered back in surprise, he kept in close, clubbing it with shield and sword pommel. It leapt back, flipping over itself and opened it's maw wide.
As it let out another ear tearing howl, Parravon's heir lived up to his reputation as an inventive, resourceful, and above all, unbeatable fighter. His blade finally pierced the flesh of his foe, driving up into it's cranium. He didn't know whether it was already a weak point, or if the creature's power had merely been lessened by it's death. His blade, slick with near black blood, had cleaved it's skull, and now protruded the back of it's head. It collapsed lifeless.
Seeing their leader defeated in such a manner broke what little remained of the other beastmen's resolve. Their rout took them directly away from the mighty warriors, and the woman whose will commanded even the forest.
Seeing that they still moved together, the duel's victor extracted his blade, and quickly remounted with a triumphant cry; "After them. Leave none alive!"
The Old World's most powerful Cavalry were as famed for their chivalry as for their strength, and in the normal course of events, charging a defeated foe and mercilessly ending them would seem dishonourable, but the minions of Chaos' had no honour, these beasts least of all. The fleeing creatures were caught up in a thundering tide of iron-shod hooves, and plunging lance-tips. None survived.
It wasn't long before the knights realised their folly. In their rush to slay the filthy beasts, they had brought themselves too close to the enemy battle lines. Their champion looked at their next foe, expecting to see the armoured warriors of Chaos, purported to be as deadly a foe as any other in the world. What he saw in their stead both froze his heart and, to his own disgust, ignited his desire.
The swaying forms arrayed before them moved closer with such sensuous grace that he was unable to keep his body from reacting. The majority of their unearthly flesh was uncovered, showing undeniable femininity, next to which all else seemed unimportant. He tried his best to avoid looking directly at them, desperately attempting to focus on the one human in their midst, but their bodies were so strange that he couldn't draw his eyes away. So familiar, and yet, utterly alien.
Their skin was impossibly black, light fell onto their skin, and was absorbed completely. The tentacles sprouting from their heads fell about them like living, writhing hair, so pale as be almost white. The sharp contrast with their flesh was matched in what little clothing they wore. The few armoured plates which clung to their bodies were a shade of pale silver he had never thought possible, and appeared so light and supple that they could not possibly offer any amount of protection, much like the single strip of pure white cloth which fell, much to his relief, between their gracefully toned legs.
Even their exact anatomies varied from one to the next, most had almost human torsos but a few seemed to be a letch's greatest desire, their chests supporting an unfeasible, inhuman number of breasts.
Through the fog threatening to overpower his mind, he noticed that there were only a minority with two human looking arms, and though each held a wickedly curved dagger, they did not fill his mind with horror. It was the other arms, ending in a huge, vicious, white claws which disturbed him, because in spite of their obvious ferocity, he found himself believing them capable of the most sensuous, loving caress.
As the luscious creatures drew near, He dragged his head around, to see that his men were immobile in their saddles. No, not quite immobile. Their arms were jerking slightly, and the occasional grunt came from within their helmets.
He swung back to face their enemy, and saw that they were already within striking distance. A space they lost no time in closing. He could only watch in horror at the speed and manner in which his men were slain. The beautiful daemons moving their bodies against their victims sensually as they drew their blades slowly across the flesh of his warriors, bleeding them to death with hundreds of smaller wounds as they stripped them of their armour.
Finally, through a great force of will, he managed to tear his eyes away from his friends and comrades, as their lives were slowly taken from them and their souls corrupted as they died. He faced the human mistress of the daemonic creatures.
Her skin, though not black like that of her servants was dark, the dark skin of the Southlands and soft thick hair the colour of rich cream cascaded down across her shoulders. Though half her face was covered with a shimmering, disconcertingly pink, metal plate, he couldn't help but admire her beauty. His eyes roamed down her body, marvelling at it's perfection.
He found himself in a ring of open space, left by the daemons who still tormented those of his companions still living. Unaware, he dismounted and approached the figure before him, breaking one of the most important rules of combat, and removing his helm. In her right hand she held a dagger even more wicked than those carried by her servants, but he barely noticed it as her left hand reached up to caress his face, sending a shock like fire though his body. He felt such agony as he had never believed possible, and yet, he didn't want it to end.
When she took her hand away, the pain receded but still wracked through his body in spasms. She looked oddly thoughtful, then, in a voice that sounded like the silken tones of an angel, she said "Most men couldn't stand after such pleasure. You're fun." She smiled evilly, revealing her perfect white teeth, and licked her painted pink lips. "I think I'll keep you." She pressed her mouth to his, and the intensity of it jerked his head back, his spine curving in agony and he collapsed to the floor, utterly unconscious.
The Slaaneshi sorceress giggled. "Oops, I guess that was too much."
Can you guess why I might be upping the rating yet? If not read the second word of the last line CAREFULLY, and think about all the implications that go with it.
