From The Wastes
Chapter One:
The strong wind whipped from the northern horizon, its furious gnaw biting to the bone with intense virulence. The tundra bore sparse copses of naked trees, unloving spider webs of dark bark and sinew kept alive only by the unseen aura that permeated the land. For miles the dark ground stretched to the horizon, where it was joined by the never setting sun. Pale light catching his face, Drakar turned from the small hillock on which he was standing, having seen his destiny riding with the winds.
Sheltered by the hill lay Drakar's village, a meager collection of yurts and stables fit only for those hardened by the harsh landscape. The area beyond the village revealed the remains of a small forest, its dark, carnivorous interior giving stark warning to all who entered. It was the road through this maw which Drakar now watched avidly, his unblinking eyes watching the men - if they could still be called that - riding towards the village.
Making his way through the small huts Drakar caught glimpses of the women hiding in their dwellings, covering children in fear. The men who remained outside trembled, many clutching the only weapons that could be found. Drakar passed his own yurt where he strained to see his father clutching a large skinning knife while covering his mother protectively, the meager stew spilled on the table lying forgotten in palpable terror. Drakar himself strode with purposeful strides towards the riders, joined by two other men whom shared his determination. Drakar watched the mounted shapes materialize before him into monstrous men, the foremost clutching a standard which flew aided by the northern wind and the speed of the riders.
The armor adorning the men and their beasts seemed twisted and forsaken, its sharp points and symbols enhancing the aura of fear that surrounded them. When the five riders became more visable Drakar's resolved weakened at the sight of countless grim wards, from hands and arms to heads soaked in dry blood. The warriors bore helmets with the horns of beasts and through eye slits blood-red glowing pupils were visable. As the warriors drew closer Draknar and the two others began to draw back into the village slowly, the sheer size of the armored behemoths overwhelming their initially forced bravery.
Draknar knew from the prophet of the village that these had once been men. Men taken from a village like his for service to the gods. The gods favor was clearer in them then anything the prophet had ever demonstrated, their awesome aura of terror sending shivers down Drakar's spine. These were warriors of Tzeentch, the great god of change, and his terrible gifts were rampant among the great riders.
The forerunner carrying the standard bore a second sordid appendage from his forearm which in its tentacled shape wrapped itself around the standard's pole. The stadard bearer's helmet seemed twisted into a sick version of a beak. The only helmetless man who rode immediately behind the standard bearer had a face elongated so it seemed permanently to be crying in terror. The man's skin bore a faint purple hue which seemed to coalesce into greens and blues as it moved about his face. It was this man who taller mounted than the huts around him rode forward to address Drakar and the others in a voice which seemed to echo into itself, other voices adding their own cries and yells in whispers to that of their owner.
"I speak now for Na'rka, chosen of Tzeentch, who readies for war with the heretics of the southlands." Spoke the thousands of voices within one. "Na'rka has foretold that there are those of potential in this village. All those born under Tzeentch are to come now with us for the greater glory of the Lord of Change!" The last was shouted, screamed and cried in the thousand voices of the speaker with absolute reverence. "For the glory of Tzeentch, come forward!"
