Of all the peninsulas, capes, isles, and provinces of Ulthuan, the Blighted Isle may be the most aptly-named among them. Mountains drooled flame down their scarred faces, pouring into magma lakes below. Storms cut the stone with tiny shards of ice and rain, and the great totems and columns of the eldritch Nagarythe temples had been reduced to eroded rubble. Its sand was black and red, stained with millennia of war, and its coasts were haunted by untold thousands of dead spirits. Hundreds of scuttled and sunken ships blocked its shores, and red mist coated the ground; even the very air itself was stained by the amount of blood spilled in this place. The Isle had been the battleground between the Druchii and the Asur for millennia, each one claiming dominion over Khaine's Shrine, the Island's last remaining monument to civilization. For millennia, the Dark Elves had made frequent half-hearted campaigns to claim the Shrine, focused more on the magics of the Vortex than the taking of the religious temple. Now, their hearts have turned fully towards the reclaiming of the Sword.
Crone Hellebron, the Blood Queen of Har Ganeth, watched over her assault of the Shrine. The combined forces of the Druchii kind crashed down upon the Isle. The Asur brought forth a valiant defense, and with shields aligned and with enough arrows to rival the rain, they pushed back the charges, again and again. Over the course of weeks, the Island had become a country-sized battlefield, and each side had begun to exhaust their resources, until only skirmishes between clusters of opposing sides, haphazardly running into each other through great mists, remained. Soldiers drowned in bloody pools of mud, pushed into the murky depths by the feet of their trudging brethren. Despite the utter madness, what battalions remained still trudged to battle, climbing over hills of fresh dead to get to each other, practically too exhausted to raise their swords when they met.
Hellebron knew that the Asur would never allow any army to take the Sword; they would devote every soldier to that cause, especially with news spreading among the nations about the "Gateway Child," capable of possessing the consciousness and power of the gods within him. However, the fact that the Asur would never allow an army to reach the Shrine worked to her advantage, for her armies were off on far-away fronts, and the Asur had devoted much of their forces to chase the scattered Dark Elves off their island.
"They think they have won."
With an arrogant sneer, Hellebron crept up to the shrine, using the trees and the mist to her advantage. She looked out and saw the Shrine, as well as the paltry army that guarded it; a few battalions of archers, a line of spears, a single detachment of Swordmasters, a mage and a small group of cavalry. Nothing ten thousand Witch Elves couldn't handle. With a weak gesture of her hand, the Brides of Khaine rushed past her, emerging from the trees as a great tide of pale flesh, lean muscle, screams, and cackles. The defenders shot their arrows and launched their bolts, the cavalry charged and the Swordmasters slew many dozens, but every Witch Elf in Naggaroth had answered Hellebron's call. To be glorified in the taking of their master's Sword, to bathe in the enemy's blood upon its steps, and to murder before its monuments, this was too irresistible to refuse.
Hellebron moved up the steps while High Elf soldiers fell at her feet. She stepped over them as though they were roots of a tree, grabbing one gurgling survivor by his long, blonde hair, and dragging him up the steps with her. When she reached the top, she breathed the air; it smelled of iron and death. The statue of her God, a massive statue of a grimacing warrior with flaming eyes and mouth, stood behind a great stone sarcophagus, whose stone was red with an aeons of blood sacrifices. She went before the altar, knelt, and prayed, her heart racing from the excitement. What better time to whisper into Khaine's ear than in the midst of a bloody battle?
"My Blood Lord," She whispered. "I kneel before you as a servant, and beseech that you bless me with your Sword, that we might bring it before you when you are birthed into the world."
She slowly slid her blade across the Asur's neck, and she basked in how wide his eyes became. A thousand years wasted by a single piece of metal, she thought, was a glorious anticlimax for such a noble and self-righteous creature as the Asur. Hellebron was a master of murder, some might even say the best, and even the simple act of slitting a throat in anyone else's hands could become a unique piece of art in hers. The Asur's heart rate tripled, and he struggled to escape her mastery, but she held him down with little effort. She looked down into the Elf's wide, panicked, terrified, agonized eyes, and she smiled down at him. She smiled for the sacrifice, for the joy this would bring her god. To watch as this elf was driven beyond madness by a simple slice across his neck, it never grew tiresome.
As the Asur's blood dripped to the floor, old magics began to call the red fluid towards the Altar. Hellebron watched, licking the blood from her fingers. The elf's red juices slithered towards the Altar, whereupon it was absorbed by the stone. Stained by a thousand sacrifices, the red sarcophagus slowly opened, revealing the beautiful weapon inside. With an ecstasy not known in millennia, she slowly moved towards the Altar and moved her hands to feel the Sword of Khaine, the Godslayer, the Widowmaker, with her own hands.
"My Queen!" Came the voice of a panicked Witch Elf from the Shrine's entrance.
Hellebron scowled. "You interrupt this?!"
"It's the Blessed Dread!" The Witch shouted. "Lokhir, he's- he's headed straight for us!"
Hellebron looked down at the blade with confusion, then turned to follow her underling. From the top of the Shrine, she watched as a great Black Ark emerged from the mist, charging full-speed for the shoreline. Hellebron's eyes grew wide.
"What is that fool doing?!" She hissed. "He'll destroy the Altar!"
The Ark slammed into the shoreline, smashing its way through the carcasses of sunken ships, cutting through the sand and crashing across the ground. Its momentum was that of a city, for such was its size, and its great black mass pushed its way across the ground, straight for the Shrine. Hellebron only barely made it down the stairs and out of the way before the Ark crashed into the great Shrine, shooting stone in every direction. Finally, the Ark ground to a halt, and through the dust and debris, Hellebron coughed and screamed.
"Lokhir, you treacherous leech!" She screeched. "What have you done?! Morathi will have your head for this-"
Her accusations and curses halted when from the mist of the Ark, not Lokhir, but the Ghost of Norsca, emerged.
"You know why I'm here." Kratos barked, his axe in his hand. "Where is he?!"
Hellebron took a step back from the hulking demigod. The earth shook beneath his heavy footsteps, loud enough to surely wake the dead from their unwakeable slumber beneath the sands. The very air cowered out of his way, and the clouds of dust seemed to clear for him like a theater's curtains during an enthusiastic encore.
"He's ours, fallen god!" Hellebron shouted. "Now, you pay for what you've done to this sacred place!"
Kratos glanced dismissively at the carnage and dust, then back to the She-Elf before him. "You know where he was taken, and you will tell me!"
"I have lived too long, waited too long for you to ruin this!" Hellebron shrieked. "I have served gods far older than you! Drained the blood of a million mortals into my soul! Ten-thousand witch-elves bow before my blood altars! What are you?! A bird with clipped wings! Come, little bird. You've fallen into the wrong nest!"
Hellebron lifted her cloak, revealing her scant Druchii armour, her crown and death mask, and her twin blades, each one grim, razor-sharp and silently screaming for blood. Her mouth was dripping the blood of the elf she had slain, and her aging skin slowly appeared to regain some of its youthful vigour. Kratos didn't wait to watch, and with a roar, he swung the axe through the air, shooting a ripple of deadly, frozen air across the land. The grass shattered, and the water in the air froze into small, jagged shards of ice. When the ice and dust cleared, the Crone, Hellebron, was untouched, and she grinned wildly at the demigod.
"Your magic is useless, here." She sneered. "The Amulet of Dark Fire protects me."
Kratos threw the axe at the witch, who dodged it with a lazy sidestep. Kratos charged the woman with fists bared, and he roared as he threw punch after punch through the air. The witch was fast, sidestepping and ducking beneath Kratos's powerful blows. Trees were blasted apart, stones were punched aside and even the air itself was pushed into shockwaves from his attacks. Still, she dipped and dived, nicking Kratos' skin with her two little blades, making only small cuts, but somehow, they were more than mere cuts.
"The blades move me, Ghost!" Hellebron shouted with murderous glee. "They know every move you'll make! They know every slow attack, every-"
Kratos ripped a tree from its roots and swung it across the landscape. Hellebron tried to jump out of the way, but the trunk hit her dead-on, slamming her across the sandy ground and into a large rock. She could feel that her skull was broken, and with a trembling hand and blurry vision, grabbed the vile from her belt and drank of the fermented blood. Kratos aimed the tree at his enemy and loosed it like a javelin towards her. With her vision returned to her and her vigour restored, she leaped out of the way of the incoming tree trunk. The tree exploded against the stone, shattering into a thousand little pieces and pelting her skin with splinters and shrapnel. Many pieces punctured her skin and shredded the flesh underneath. Kratos' hand wrapped around the Crone's neck as she recovered from the blast. He lifted her into the air and squeezed. Hellebron smirked and ran her Deathsword across Kratos' wrist. Kratos was surprised by the pain it caused him, and he recoiled, letting go of the witch.
"Shocking, isn't it?" Hellebron snickered. "Don't worry, all of the little cuts and scrapes will drive you mad, and you'll forget all about your precious son. You will gasp for air as Khaine strides across the land, crushing you beneath his boot!"
Kratos looked at her and showed her his other hand. Hellebron's eyes widened as she recognized the little stone in his hand. In a panic, she checked her pouch. The Amulet of Dark Fire was gone. She screamed in rage as Kratos raised his hand, confusing the witch. It was only when she heard the whoosh of the Leviathan axe that she realized what was going on, but by that time, it was too late. The axe ripped through her legs, dropping her to the ground, crippled and bleeding. She screamed, not from the pain, but by the simplicity of her defeat. How could she have let this brute pick her pocket? Her, the Blood Queen of Khaine? She felt the tension on her hair as Kratos yanked her from the earth.
"The poison should have-" She strained.
"You have failed your god." Kratos barked. "Tell me where he is!"
"I won't fail him again by exposing his vessel!" The witch cackled. "Not even warriors like you are impervious to matters of the flesh. My poison will weaken you, even if it takes years. By the time you find your son, he will be a god, and you will be too weak to stop him."
"Then tell me where he is if you are so certain." Kratos ordered.
Hellebron cackled. "Morathi will love to watch you fail. He will soon be sent to Ghrond, where Morathi will make him into what he was destined to be."
Kratos frowned, and with a single motion of his arm, snapped the witch's neck and dropped her body against the sand, there to be buried by the winds to join the thousands before her. Ghrond; home of Morathi, the first of the Hag Queens, the mother of the Witch King. The city was defended by mind-slaves to Morathi's beauty. Its defenders would fight to the absolute death before letting him inside. It mattered little; mortal weapons were a trifle, not to be worried about. The only concern he had now was the weakness growing in his body from the Blood Queen's strange poison blade. His vision grew blurry and his legs staggered.
As he made his way towards the destroyed Altar of Khaine, through the smoke emerged Luthor Harkon, smirking with a pistol in one hand and a decapitated Witch-Elf in the other. Behind him, his zombie armies emerged, bloated and rotting, and filled now with the undead bodies of Elves, both dark and high.
"Did you find out where he is?" Harkon asked. "Your boy?"
"Yes."
Harkon waited for a moment before blinking once or twice. "Well, go on, where is he?"
"Ghrond. We sail for Ghrond." Kratos sighed.
Harkon eyed Kratos. "You look unwell."
"It is nothing."
"Are you sure? I can have-"
"It is poison, my body will recover. It always does."
"But for now, you're weak?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Kratos felt a giant ball of iron ram into his chest, knocking the air from his already-winded lungs. His body hit the ground, and when he looked up, there stood a three-story-tall hulking humanoid beast, made of pieces of sunken ships, flesh of the dead, firearms and black magic. The Necrofex Colossus creaked to look down at Kratos, aimed its cannons at the demigod, and shot another cannonball into Kratos' skull. It stung and made his head crack from the sheer power, but he was still conscious.
"You foolish creature," Harkon giggled, "So innocent, so trusting of a man's word. Did you really think I was here to help you?!"
"Why-"
"If your son truly is some sort of vessel for a god, who's to say his body can't hold some other mind within it?" Harkon explained. "My mind is broken, and I just- can't find a way to fix it! Your son's mind is intact. I think I'll use his brain to house my own. Maybe then, just maybe, I'll be free of this madness that plagues me endlessly! Centuries I've looked, and now, I finally have hope. Excuse me, Ghost."
From his blurry vision, five more Necrofex Colossi emerged, followed by scores of the undead, legions of Depth Guard, and multiple monstrous crustacean creatures appeared. Kratos got to his feet and drew the axe, and through his blurred vision, watched as Harkon made his way towards the crushed Altar of Khaine. Knowing Harkon's quarry, Kratos began to charge his way through the horde, hacking apart the overwhelming amount of zombies without concern for efficiency, only speed. Still, despite the weak and slow nature of his enemy, there were uncounted legions of them, and they piled high atop each other to form a great wall of flesh, against which, Kratos's poisoned strength did push through, eventually.
The Promethean monsters, crabs of unnatural size, as well as the zombie ship Colossi, all slowed him, as each monster took some time to dispatch. Precious seconds ticked away as he fought through the bones and shields of his endless enemy. Had Kratos been seconds earlier, he might have been able to stop Harkon from ripping the lid from the bloodstained sarcophagus and snatching the Sword from its mount. As soon as he touched it, the blade morphed into a cutlass of gold and diamond, with a razor-sharp edge and a green, sickly aura around the blade. With a wild smile, the vampire pirate turned to face the weakened demigod.
"Why didn't you take the Godslayer yourself when you had the chance?" Harkon asked. "No matter. All treasure sinks into my chambers soon enough. This sword was no different. Your son...will be no different."
Kratos roared, and the axe clashed against the Widowmaker. Ice against blood, cold against warm. The Sword of Khaine sliced through the air, and with each slice, Leviathan and its wielder grew weaker. Kratos grew dizzy and off-balance, and when the Depth Guard came charging into the collapsed shrine to join the fight, there simply were too many blades to keep track of, and Kratos felt the poison finally spell his defeat. When the Widowmaker thrust into his chest, Kratos rarely noticed, for his body was already in enough pain already. Luthor laughed maniacally as the Widowmaker made its mark within Kratos' chest.
"I actually did it!" Luthor sang. "I killed a god! I killed a god, I killed a god!"
The Godslayer ripped from Kratos' chest, and the undead armies dropped the Ghost of Norsca to the floor. Luthor stood over Kratos and stabbed the blade through the demigod a few more times for good measure. Kratos pushed against the blade with his palms, but the Godslayer was just that; a god slaying weapon, and his hands were sliced apart in the attempt.
"Never could've done it without you doing all the heavy lifting." Harkon murmured. "But now, the greatest treasure, the Sword of Khaine, is mine. Oh, don't look at me like that, did you think I'd fight you one-on-one? I surely would've died that way! Thanks for all your help. I hope you find peace in death, unlike me."
Harkon's blurry figure left the shrine, and with him, his armies shook the ground with their departure. Kratos gasped on the earth for a moment before dragging himself to the Altar, where the shattered statue of Khaine also lay. He sat up against the stone altar and watched as his mortal body bled onto the floor. The stone of the sarcophagus absorbed his blood and began to glow a strange colour of purple and blue. Suddenly, the stone burst into blue flame, and from the flame emerged a Lord of Change, a greater daemon of Tzeentch, wielding a staff of blue flame and wearing a great white cloak with gold and jewel embellishments. The massive bird-shaped daemon stepped down from the stone and stooped down to sniff the gasping Kratos.
"The Lost God lies bleeding," The Lord of Change hissed, "And he doesn't call for aid. Instead, we must offer it willingly."
"I do not ask for it." Kratos groaned. "I failed."
"Mmmmm. Perhaps." The Daemon pondered. "Though, in order to fail, you must fail, and you have not failed. Your son remains mortal, strangely. Malekith wastes time with ritual. There is still time."
"I'm spent, daemon!" Kratos croaked. "Tell your master to send his armies."
"My master's armies are stalled by Archaon's pride and hubris!" The Daemon snapped. "Only you are free to advance upon the Druchii's plans. You need not die. You are still the God of Vengeance, all you need do is take up your weapons of old."
"I will never rejoin the Great Game." Kratos mumbled, his mouth dripping blood. "I am a God no more. I will not touch those weapons."
"Then your son will die, either possessed by Khaine, killed by the vampire pest, or crushed by Archaon's rage. You will bleed here, and the world will fall into doom."
The daemon leaned in and slithered its tongue across its massive beak. "I can bring your blades to you. I can return your powers to you. I can remind you of what you truly are. You know it's the only way."
"I know what you do, slave creature." Kratos grunted before looking away.
Kratos's mind turned to hallucination as death shrouded his eyes. He saw Faye, the Ice Witch of Kislev who took him as her partner. He saw her eyes, her determined face, that face that had kept him in check for so many years. He saw her beauty and her fierce warrior's eyes.
"You remember what you told me when Atreus was born?" Faye asked.
"I do." Kratos replied. "I told you he was safe, as long as I drew breath. I would do everything to keep him safe."
"And you draw breath still." Faye scolded. "And you sit and pout like a child. I always knew what you were, and I loved you anyways. I will love you no less for accepting yourself. Ask yourself; have you done everything you can to keep him safe?"
"I suppose not."
"You know there is still one thing you have not done."
"I promised you I would never become that creature again."
Faye bent down and placed a hand on Kratos' cheek. "In a monstrous world, the only victory can be found in the monstrous. Become a monster. Save our son."
Faye held out her hand, upon which a single Blade of Chaos materialized. Its handle was black iron forged in the deepest pits of the Warp. The blades were cracked and plain, without decoration or flourish. Attached to the handle was a rusty chain that lead off into the dark, empty distance. The dark distance that Kratos never wanted to retreat into ever again. With moments before his boy succumbed to its wounds, and with a heavy sigh, Kratos grabbed the blade, and instantly, Faye faded, revealing the sneering Lord of Change in her place.
Kratos felt the chains wrap around his arms and take their place where the scars had long since healed over. They seared into his flesh, and as Kratos roared in pain, he felt his chest wounds seal. He felt the poison escape his body from his mouth, and he felt his mind alter, change back to what it was so many centuries before. As his body changed, so did the blades. Gone were the cracks and rust from before, replaced with brilliant, sharp edges and golden handguards. Kratos felt the godly power fill his mortal body, and though his physical form remained, he could feel the pull of the Realm of Chaos on his soul. He felt rage in its purest form. He felt a need for vengeance.
He was vengeance.
Had he forgotten? It felt so whole, so complete now, how could he have fought this for so long? He stood from the altar and stared into the smirking daemon face before him.
"The vision." Kratos sighed. "It wasn't her."
"You needed encouragement." The daemon grunted. "Her face was the only one you trust. Now you are able to save your son and the Realm of Chaos, just as planned."
"Just as your master planned…"
"Wonderful." The Lord of Change Sneered. "I will tell my master that-"
Kratos slashed the Lord of Change's neck with the flaming blades. The daemon recoiled, but was unable to cast any spells before Kratos wrapped the chains around the creature's long neck. Kratos jumped onto its back. Its wings flapped and its arms reached for him, its beak opened to caw and scream, but nothing came out. One good tightening of those flaming chains, and the daemon's head was squeezed from its body. The daemon's eyes followed Kratos as he paced around the Lord of Change's body.
"You will tell your master that once I'm done with Khaine, I'm coming for him." Kratos muttered, his eyes red with flame and his blades warping the very air with their heat. "I am not a part of his plans."
Kratos slammed his foot down on the daemon's head, and with a puff of blue flame and a cloud of smoke, the daemon vanished. Kratos turned towards the beached Black Ark and pushed it back into the sea. The ground beneath his feet ruptured and the island split as he pushed, but with his rediscovered God strength, soon enough, the Ark was floating on the water, idle and quiet in the stormy wind of the Blighted Isle.
Kratos raised the Blades to the ship, and a great portal opened up, ripping the fabric of nature asunder with its very presence. From the portal came daemons obedient to the Ghost of Norsca himself; Massive Centaurs, gnashing Chimeras, rabid Cerberus', slithering Gorgons, rampaging Minotaurs, athletic Satyrs, Sirens, Harpies, Cyclopses, and faceless wraiths. They all emerged from the Realm of Chaos, filling the lands until there was nothing but the writhing, gnashing arms and teeth of monsters. Kratos pointed the blade at the Ark, and without hesitation, his daemon army boarded the craft.
If the Ruinous Powers want death, they will get it, and they will know it themselves before the end.