A/N - Sorry for this taking longer than usual. I've been on holiday up until Saturday and have only just got around to finishing it. Over 20,000 words now, which is great! I really didn't expect this story to last as long or have such positive feedback. Anyway, enjoy.
After some time of waiting, there was the distinctive sound that Sofie had been waiting for - the deep bellow of a horn. Sofie was stood on the second floor of a house, overlooking the encampment, and she peered over the bannister at the commotion that was ensuing.
Warriors of all sorts swarmed about like gnats, throwing down cups and plates of food and hurriedly gathering any weapon they could find. They were heading for the gate in a disorganised trickle; a far-cry from the discipline and order of the Imperial troops which she had seen before. There was the whine of a strained rope as the gate swung free, and the barbarians fanned out to find their aggressors.
Another cultist, clutching a horn tightly, came running behind the rest of the pack. They peered up at Sofie with eyes that leaked fog and winked. The Vampire nodded back, dropping off of the balcony and down to the ground even as they ran out of sight to further distract the garrison.
Sofie paused, scanning around. She hadn't managed to get a good look at the interior of the camp until this point. It looked to be an old courtyard; a young Oak sat between the three clusters of tents, abandoned and unsuitable against what the chaos worshippers had erected. One of the clusters let loose a trail of smoke, and no doubt the others had fires as well. She turned, darting into cover within one of these clusters and looking around the tent closest to her.
By itself, the tent was rather mundane. It held a mattress, damp with patches of sweat and ripped at the edges, as well as a small stool on which a bloodied knife sat. It had a symbol carved into the hilt, curved and pink. Sofie picked it up, tilting her head, and ran a finger over it. Immediately, it began to glow, sending streaks of ever-changing colour dancing around the sides of the tent. There shouldn't have been a way for something so small to produce so much light - so much that Sofie had to avert her eyes - but there was something supernatural about it.
Then she began to hear a dull humming, blending with the ambience as if it had always been there, and she just hadn't noticed it. It was coming from somewhere ahead of her, as if to guide her on, but to where she couldn't see. Drawing one of her swords, and clutching her contraband tightly, she began to follow it back into the outside, before stopping.
She recognised this symbol. The Sisterhood had a knowledge of Chaos which would draw the ire of any Witch Hunter; it helped with dealing with Chaos and it's followers, as well as healing those upon whom it had forced its afflictions. It was a symbol of Slaanesh - one of the Gods - and though Sofie did not know much about it, her superior Ventra had told her stories about what the Slaaneshis do to captives.
Good, she thought. If they insisted on torture, they would have to keep the captive alive for some time. The vampire sighed with relief and dropped into a crouch; she could hear the sliding of footsteps, even over the humming of the dagger. They were close; a grey shadow passed over the wall of the tent next to which she was hidden.
Sofie peaked around the corner. It looked to be one of the cultists, arms hanging like a bear's paws from tiredness. He hadn't responded to the summons of the watchman and was now hurriedly looking about for some weapon - no doubt to avoid the punishment of his superiors - and when he passed the tent, looking amongst a cluster of crates and muttering incoherently, he had a sword punched through his exposed abdomen where he stood. Another burst through his chest, cutting clean through the boiled leather holding his pauldron in place.
Sofie lay the body down gently. She struggled to explain why she had killed him, for he was far enough away that she could easily slip past. Nevertheless, something subconscious had driven her onwards. Perhaps a sense of guilt - a need to wash away the blood of good people she had spilt with that of the bad.
She shook her head. This was no time for such distractions. Then she focussed in on the humming again, and followed it across the courtyard.
Inside the warehouse, between rows of chairs used for torture - some still blood-stained and surrounded by torture devices - an old man sat. Sofie approached him with caution, pacing carefully so as to make no noise, and in an arch around the room so as to remain in the shadows where the room#s single chandelier couldn't extend it's gaze.
He looked to be an aging man, well-past his prime, but nonetheless he would have looked healthy if not for the scars that criss-crossed his exposed arms and the mould-green bruises that dotted the rest of him. He wore the remains of a garb which Sofie recognised well, and the memory of it stung. He looked like a missionary, a priest of the Sisterhood who led in worship of Sigmar before the comet hit. The robes were torn clean off at his shoulders, no doubt so that his captives could see the fruit of their cruel labour.
Overall, he looked vulnerable. The Vampire felt a compassion for this man, the likes of which she had not felt since her turning. She wanted to cradle him and felt something unconscious pushing her forwards into the light. She placed a gauntleted hand onto the man's shoulder and he did not move. Instead, he spoke:
"Move out of the light."
Something about this man made her obey, and she began to back towards the door, reaching for her weaponry, when the sound of something scraping against leather gave her pause. She turned in an eyeblink, loosing both swords from their sheathe and holding them tightly.
The Warrior of Chaos peered through his helmet, billowing smoke that rapidly changed colour and carried an odour strong enough for anyone in the room to smell it. It smelled pleasant, like a recently trimmed garden, and was strong enough to pacify most.
Unfortunately, his newest target was far from normal - and when he realised this, he shook his head in disapproval and drew a great two-headed axe from his back.