C7: Subjugation
Badlands
The runt gasped and scurried his way forward. The goblin's face made an expression of relief as he saw the incoming riders of his tribe.
He felt exhausted, but he could not afford the luxury to stop, for he knew what would happen if The Farmer realized the runt had escaped.
That being's crystalized gaze had burnt into his very soul, the terrible echoing laughter was still heard, as all his other tribe mates were skinned, and planted, as if they were crops to be sowed.
Usually, humies are fun to mess with, and while death was a possibility, it was seen as a good trade off for a bit of fun and scrap. But not this. No greenskin deserved to be farmed like a crop, not like this.
Even their mortal enemies, the Blue Faced Orcs don't deserve this fate.
He resolved his heart. He was NOT going back to that place. At least, not alone anyway.
Goblins can be spiteful creatures, after all. Maybe he and the boyz could go back with a shaman, for some payback.
Soon enough, a couple of fellow gobbos mounted on wolves made their way to him. The one in the front wore crude leather armor with scraps of iron covering his torso and hands. A primitive mockery of what the humies call "greaves" were also present.
He wore a spiked, horned helmet which seemed to be unique to him alone, as the other riders were helmet-less.
"Oi ya git, where haz you been? We been looking fer ya." Snisz, the leader of the riders, spoke.
"He took me and the rest of the boyz. The farmer." The git in question replied between gasps of exhaustion.
The lead rider gave a loud laugh. "Ha! I thought so. Whateva, hop on or we're gonna leave ya behind." The Farmer was starting to be somewhat of a renowned figure. Zigruk and his boyz were not the first to be abducted, and at this rate, certainly not the last.
The runaway goblin breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps he should go tell the boss once he gets back home? Maybe, with the rest of the horde, they could take that smug git's skull as a trophy!
And so, the riders made their way to their territory, known as the Blackclaw lair. The flatness of the Badlands, feeling quite right for the wolves of the Scabby Eye tribe.
Their regiments of wolf riders and chariots were infamous among the Greenskin tribes, particularly the Blue Faced Orcs. Indeed, any orc was at a high risk of getting "krumped" when wandering near the Scabby Eye's turf.
The source of this animosity could be traced many years ago, when they were still allied. The goblins had assisted the orcs with their infamous Orcmada, but after the initial phase, not in the way they had quite intended. After sailing in circles for three months, the orcs returned having eaten all but three of their goblin allies.
While goblins are a weak and cowardly lot, they shared two dangerous qualities found in their stunty and verminous rivals: vindictiveness and cunning. Since the incident, they have banded together with the neighboring Howlaz and conducted numerous raids on the Blue Faced Orcs, their superior strength meaning nothing against the skirmishing acumen of the goblins.
So much so that they now have a fearsome reputation among orc-kind. Any orc would think twice before deciding to travel all the way here.
Eventually they reached a fortified camp near the coast of the Black Gulf, protected by crude wooden spiked barriers and goblins armed with spears. Inside, there were tents and sounds of activity. The air was filled with the stench of dung, which originated from many heaps scattered throughout the hold.
Snisz barked orders to the other riders, one of which Zigruk heard was to inform the boss about everything he babbled on the way here.
'Good, by Mork's will, I'll be there to krump that smug grin off of his face.' A devious grin was formed by Zigruk's lips. He knew warboss Skor ain't gonna put up with a new player like him.
In the meantime though, Zigruk believed he deserves some rest. He hopped down from Snizs's wolf and walked towards the center of the camp, where a large bonfire lay.
There he spotted several goblins, most dressed in rags, tending to the fire and cooking meat over it.
"Ya git yerself a drink?" One of them asked.
"Aye, please," said Zigruk. "I'm parched after all that running!"
The goblin took out a bottle from a leather sack and handed it to him. "Careful wit' that, there's naught but water inside."
Zigruk took the bottle, and drank deeply. The liquid tasted foul, and he spat it out immediately.
"Da hell is this?! It tastes like piss!" He didn't realize how thirsty he was until now.
They laughed. "That's because it is. Want a taste?"
One of the goblins offered him a small chunk of dried meat, then took a bite himself.
"Tastes like shite! Hey, ya git. You ain't gonna eat that, are ya?"
The goblin shook his head. "Nah, I'll pass."
"Aye, well that's fine by us. Eat that shite, we're done with it."
With that, Zigruk was left with no choice but to consume the rancid meat. He grimaced as he chewed on the gristly piece of flesh, and threw the rest of the meat away. The other goblins laughed again.
Such was what passed for camaraderie among gobbos.
Zigruk frowned, it seemed some things never change.
Suddenly, he felt a rather obvious rise in heat, and there was a certain brightness that caught the attention of the other goblins, judging by their upward gazes.
He stood up and followed their gazes, much to his regret.
A shimmering light blinded him momentarily. After his eyes recovered, he was able to glimpse at the giant rock that crashed on the ground a noticeable distance in front of him.
The resultant crash created a massive explosion that flattened the ground it touched, utterly pulverizing whoever and whatever that was unlucky to bear near it. Fortunate enough to not be caught in the explosion but not enough to be in the right enough distance, deafened by sound and blinded by dust, before Zigruk could have any meaningful reaction, the goblin found itself weightlessly struggling in mid-air, effortlessly carried away in high speed by a seemingly unstoppable scorching gust of hot air and dust, leaving behind on its track nothing but a prolonged high-pitch scream..
Before the goblin could feel his back on the relatively soft surface of the ground, his head felt as if it had crashed against something harder than even rocks, and his vision immediately faded to complete darkness.
Time passed, and the goblin slowly felt consciousness return. He opened his eyes, looked around and what he found was ruination.
The hold was covered with strange black flames and the skies continued to rain smaller rocks of the same thing. On the ground, littered everywhere were the corpses of his brethren, their wolves and the remains of destroyed structures and chariots.
Flabbergasted but familiar at the same time, the goblin's gaze instinctually followed the rising smoke to the night sky above, where he noticed a humanoid figure. The smoke and darkness obscured everything about it, except the distinct pair of gleaming round glass eyes that were quite hard to look away from for they were unfortunately far too familiar.
As the smoke slowly cleared, Zigruk's heart sank and the tendrils of despair grasped his simple mind, the goblin's instinct and conscience was swallowed whole by the fear of absolute certainty, of something cruel that one knew but could not possibly avoid. Illuminated by bright Mannslieb's light, the figure was far too visible. The hauntingly slender and tall appearance. The same strange red stripe garb that held perfectly fit to a firm lithe physique. And as the pale, glistening white gaze stared at him with great interest, a spiked tail was playfully swirling around from behind the being, one that bore semblance to that of a scorpion. And while the face was covered by the shadow of the light, the goblin knew the being above was bearing a smile. A silent, soul piercing, sadistic smile, one that he could never forget.
…Yes, there's no mistake.
Upon a closer look, the Farmer's "eyes" were not entirely staring at him, but almost through him.
As if it was a silent command, a seemingly forceful and dreadful curiosity suddenly got the better of the goblin. Turning back, a small tailed red skinned creature with bat-like wings greeted his sight, filling his petty soul once more with undeniable despair.
It appeared that Zigruk was going back after all.
….
The air above the coast smelled of the sea, its salty essence blending well with the fumes of napalm and fire, the tantalizing aroma pleasing the Creator of the Blazing Inferno. He casted his clear crystal gaze down at the ground, reflecting upon his elegant glasses was a scene far too dear as he watched the flames spread wildly across the plains, consuming the inhabitants below.
'It sure feels good to let loose like this. Certainly feels…therapeutic.' The Arch Devil mused as he rained [Sodom and Brimstone] again across another part of the goblin territory. From nowhere and everywhere, another barrage of hellfire boulders was unleashed, collapsing a tunnel structure that no doubt housed a lot of the sentient mushrooms. Complex schemes and plans were challenging enough to be entertaining, yet sometimes a straightforward purge is just as satisfying, especially after the recent incident.
The bait worked as intended, the "escaped" sentient mushroom led Demiurge straight to the two massive goblin tribes that were located far east of the Tomb and near the north-west coast of the Badlands, bordering the sea with the name "The Black Gulf". True, someone like Nigredo would have found this place anyway, without resorting to such techniques, but her intelligence gathering skills were to be best used elsewhere.
The bait will be rewarded of course, with the opportunity to be one of the many mushrooms of the new farm. An imp was sent to pick the goblin to be sent back to its "new home".
'Ah, the new farm. While the bipedal sheep had their charms, the sentient shrooms seem to have the potential to be much more efficient. The fact that they would be able to produce much more scrolls because of their reproduction would put their reliability heaps over humans. Is this what Blue Planet-sama meant by this…"Green Energy Alternatives"? Perhaps. Truly, the wisdom of a Supreme Being knows no bounds.' The internal musings continued all the while the goblins below were pulverized or vaporized by the hellfire and meteors. Their screams were drowned by the sounds of rocks falling, explosions and burning flesh, stone and wood.
Indeed, they were like a great piece of nostalgic music to his ears, reminding him dearly of a more relatively idyllic time in the previous world, of the good old days of blazing and bountiful operations to progress his own lord's great plans and vision. From E-Rantel, to the so-called Re-Estize Plains, to the Holy Kingdom, where the denizen's devotion is now to a more worthy higher being. And finally, the judgment of the Slane theocracy.
How could he simply not remember that cursed place which used to be the Slane Theocracy? Such sin those insects had committed to Shalltear, to Nazarick, and most dire of all, to their Lord… How could such a thing simply be forgiven, much less forgotten.
For the first time ever, he had found himself to be no less than what they would have called "an avenging angel" - one that sent upon sinners the judgment of the one above all. Unleashed upon them were the cruel but loving and righteous wrath of a being higher than gods in the form of fire and brimstone. Each slicing of limbs and shredding of their bodies were nothing more than acts of love for one another and of duty for a family member, for a being above all else. Thinking about it even now, he could still feel his hands tingling with sensation. But perhaps, in his mind was a different target.
Yet, despite how generally weak the previous world was, the denizens there had some unique value.
Truly, it was such a place of opportunity and fascinating creatures. While it is true that most of them were weak, weaker than even the most dispensable Nazarick unit that could spawn with not even a sliver of cost, their value was mostly on something else completely. Less restricted were their capabilities and unique were the power within them, despite being generally weaker than a Death Knight, they were a flexible bunch and capable of many things.
That included things they themselves had not yet been able to do or have. Something he believed no doubt would be dealt with eventually in His plan.
Beyond that, they were also beneficial in another sense that he had observed.
Renner had been quite a helpful subordinate and was someone Albedo could have a conversation with. Despite his differences in many things with the Iron Butler, the development in the relationship between Sebas and Tsuare had been quite a charming sight to see. And how could he forget that girl - Neia, the first human to see glimpses of the great being their Lord truly was, and had been utmost helpful in the spreading of His name, and of course, a cute companion to dear Shizu no less.
Still, despite all their worths, it was a pity to know that one value of them was simply too… substandard and no less of a great hindrance to His great, eternal plan. Something he found that could theoretically be helped with using a somewhat widespread sort of flora or fauna in this world.
'However, only the black ones managed to produce scrolls of the 4th and 5th tiers. But for some reason, they produced far less functional "black" spores as their "cousins". Hmm, maybe if I find out how they were so artificially engineered, a more…submissive batch might be synthesized.' The guardian added this hypothesis to a rather growing mental list of theories.
'And who knows? Maybe one could provide a gate strong enough to take us back.' Their lord made it quite clear that their main objective is to find a way back, the conquests and alliances here are only supposed to be a way to facilitate that, nothing more. It would be quite problematic if they got entangled in a conflict with a strong foe, however unlikely it may be. Although dealing with powerful foes isnt a new thing for Ainz-sama and the rest of Nazarick, for that matter, it would definitely be a sink of effort and time.
'Well, if that doesn't work, there are still other avenues that would hold the answer we seek.' His thoughts continued, recalling the contents within the minds of Shalltear's prey as well as the fire mage from last month's "skirmish". 'The college within this…. Empire of Man sounds like a good lead, I might have the perfect scheme for that, hopefully He would approve..' From the memories of the latest victims as well as correspondence with the dwarf folk, this Empire was surprisingly impressive, even if one considered the bias from both sources.
The trespassers that the vampire apprehended had interesting things to say, especially the mage. But alas, he succumbed to exhaustion in their first session, confirming that obsidian truly was the bane of magic here.
Their documents were written in a strange language that needed magic glasses, the possession of which he deemed, must be allowed by the last Supreme Being. Before he requested his lord for one, it was fortunately brought to his attention that there was one entity in Nazarick who had no need for such an item.
'Pandora-san was very helpful deciphering that language, truly our Lord's foresight is limitless! No one else would have predicted a need for mastery over some obscure human language.' Pride swelled within the guardian as he recalled his master's acumen for contingencies. He was taken aback when the doppelganger read the letters fluently as if he were a native who was born and raised in these lands. One could even say, he was created for such a task in mind!
'But for now, I must finish up. There is plenty more purging to be done.'
As the bombardment gradually came to a halt, Demiurge breathed deep, the salty smell of the Black Gulf filling his nostrils. He satisfyingly looked down over the territory, admiring his handiwork.
A field of hellfire and brimstone was present where the greenskin hold was supposed to be.
'One down. A lot more to go.' He thought as flew forward, grinning maliciously.
Akendorf
Humble braziers hung from one side of each of the sixteen basalt columns lit up the entire throne hall and bathed it in an orange glow. The paintings of the founders and the more important of the previous princes on the bowed ceiling danced in the flickering light while statues look down upon the mahogany floor of this magnificent hall.
A silver rug split the entire room in half from the doors to the throne while rounded banners with embellishments crowned the walls. Between each banner stood a tall candle, some of them lit and in turn, illuminated the portraits of royalty long gone below them.
Thick, colored glass windows were framed by draperies colored the same silver as the banners. The curtains have been adorned with embellished borders and impressive needlework.
A great throne of mahogany sat in front of a giant painting of a black soaring eagle and is adjoined by six similar, but less ornate seats for esteemed guests.
The throne is covered in complicated motifs and fixed on each of the elegant armrests is a crystal lantern. The broad pillows are a light silver and these too have been adorned with ornate fringes.
On the throne, sat a black haired man in his late thirties. His warm eyes regarded the missive in his hands tensely.
A sigh escaped from the throne's occupant, Lord Oliver Eisenmenger, the new prince of Akendorf.
His facial hair was trimmed and his expression was grim, his black hair was neatly combed to the left. On his right cheek, he had a small scar which gave him a slightly fierce appearance. His attire consisted of a black robe with a high collar, his top was decorated with a blue sash. The sleeves were rolled up and a pair of elegant gloves was folded at his waist.
Caressed by the open neck of his robes, his face was handsome and sharp, chiseled with elegant details and frame fitting for a highborn.
It was only last month when the man was voted in. The election itself was not too much of a hurdle, if one ignored how close his nemesis Durant was to securing the majority from the elector nobles.
"We'll give our reply in five days. Until then, you may leave. I trust you can afford a tavern of some sort." The prince said, addressing the plain faced messenger clad in brigandine and mail. His violet tabard depicted a bizarre, complex scarlet emblem somewhat resembling a horned or winged entity being split by a sword.
"Lord Oliver? What does it say?" A voice addressed him after the messenger left the court. He was seated on a chair next to his throne, his aide, Mathias Geldmann.
Geldmann was a rather plain looking man in his thirties. His brown hair was combed neatly to the right, his beard was trimmed short and his clothing was simple. Upon him was a black cloak embroidered with golden thread, a gray tunic with a white shirt underneath, cream breeches and black leather boots. In his hands he held a stack of papers, they were various reports regarding the state of the nation.
"A declaration." Oliver replied with an annoyed grunt as he handed over the missive to Geldmann. "Seems like the new prince of Pontenne is next in line in trying to take over this place. But at least this one's polite."
Geldmann's eyes scanned over the letter. He raised an eyebrow, taking in the contents. "Surely, this is a jest?"
The prince snorted. "Evidently not. It is not uncommon for those in a winning streak to have such confidence." He replied as the letter got passed around to the other members of the court. "Really! Of all things, they let us choose the battlefield! As well as the date and time!"
"But still, one could also say that his request is honorable, even by the standard of those in Brettonia, one involving only technically willing combatants and not unarmed peasantries. People like him would be cheered upon by the common people and the pious…" One of the older electorate added with slightly widened eyes. His face was marked with a long deep scar and the ages, resting on his always present breastplate was a necklace that bore the symbol of the divine sisters Myrmidia and Shallyah. "But that is not how politics work here in this land."
"And what do you intend to do, Lord Oliver?" Came a query from one of the electors. He was a thin man of Oliver's age, his face gaunt, and nose up in the air. His eyes were half-lidded and regarded the monarch in a cool, supercilious gaze.
"I'll take up his offer, of course. Gaining that much territory in one battle would be most…fruitful." Oliver replied.
Rumbles of approval were heard among the people of the court, while some of the old noblemen sighed in disappointment. The gaunt faced elector's expression did not change, and he remained quiet, instead choosing to give a slow nod.
Lord Gregory Hagenbuch was always a hard man to read, but Oliver and the rest of the court knew better than to underestimate him.
Everyone found it strange that he never contested for the position, with his personal wealth and presumed dirt on the other members, he would have had a fighting chance.
"Would that truly be wise, my lord? He is, as you said, on a winning streak after all." He said, leaning forward in his seat, eyes squinting. "First Pontenne, and then Raachwald before ultimately winning over Esselhaffen too. The latter saw fit to surrender without a fight, mind you."
Grumbles and chatter filled the room as this announcement had the desired impact. And not without reason, if Akendorf falls, then this new upstart would have control of almost two-thirds of the northern Borderlands!
Before tensions rose further, everyone quietened down when Oliver not so subtly cleared his throat.
"I won't dispute that." He continued. "But we can dictate the time and place, and we have more than enough in our coffers to pay the dogs. Our trade agreement with Karak Hirn was quite profitable the last time I checked." He said, waving away the elector's concern.
"If you are sure of yourself, let us hear your plan." Gregory replied, a hint of a smirk appearing on his face.
Oliver shaked his head. "We will discuss that later at the end of the day. I believe it is best to get the more mundane reports out of the way first. Any objections?"
There was some grumbling but no one dared to object further.
Oliver flashed a disarming smile.
"Splendid. With that out of the way, how are our timber exports?"
….
"Mortars and cannons ready, general." One of the captains announced. He was atop his barded horse and was clad in plate armor. The visor of his helmet was down, and the darkness of the silt obscured the color of his eyes.
He looked down at his commander and general. He was of medium height, yet shorter than the captain. The general was stocky, firm with a balance ratio of fat and muscle for a man of his age. His nose shaped like that of a hawk, and on his sharp jawline, a beard with streaks of gray, somewhat well-kept for a seasoned man like him.
"Very good. " General Luther Frisch replied, eyeing away from the captain and on towards the field.
While he himself could not say that military officers of this place can be as rightfully revered and formally trained like those in places like the Empire or the more ardent followers of Myrmidia, they still knew the basics. That included the most fundamental lesson of utilizing the terrain.
And the land in front of him… It was simply a hellish hazard for any ordinary mortal army on the offense.
The soil looked eroded and unhealthy with scant signs of plant life.
It appeared even in the less…affected parts, the hills cannot escape its foul nature. The miasma of decay in the infamous Geistenmund Hills was still strong enough to be at least faintly felt by every man deployed here. Centuries of occupancy by the ancient necromancers that were exiled from Brettonia obviously has not been good to this place, and the dreary atmosphere had its effect on the more greener troops present.
He took solace in the fact that their invader, or rather, challenger agreed to travel through these accursed hills to begin a "fair and honorable field battle". They would have to travel through hordes of greenskins first to even get to their side of the hills, to say nothing of the terrible creatures that still stalk this place in high numbers.
Of course, trickery is to be suspected, but what can they truly pull off here? Upon a far higher ground than them no less with artillery and far reaching weapons as back-up? The attackers should be at least softened up at the very least.
A few hundred paces ahead of him, a band of around 400 knights was formed into a thick line, their shields interlocked. These men were the Ring of Silver. Their horses were armored and they carried a variety of weapons, including halberds and lances. They were one of the more…expensive dogs of war in attendance, yet they were established veteran knights.
Their quantity was smaller than what Frisch would have liked, but their past history gave them an image of being reliable and elite in skill.
Besides them were the other elements of the army that were gathered in the clearing. There were the Blackhat Drakes whose use of handguns, grenadiers and artillery meant a very lucrative contract for them. This made sense, ofcourse. Gunpowder can cost a hand and a leg over in the Borderlands.
The frontline was made up by the pikemen who were interestingly not one of the dogs, but rather they were Akendorf natives trained by one from Tilea. It was the fifth elected-prince that was responsible for hiring the Alcatani Fellowship for training the citizenry in their craft many years ago.
Inspired by their instructors, they wore simple, some might say cheap, armor and yellow crested helmets of unfashionable design. Their clothing was simple, practical, and somewhat threadbare. They carried sturdy steel-tipped heavy pikes that were around 6 meters in length. Their flag bearer depicted the heraldry of Akendorf-a soaring black eagle with wings spread wide against a yellow field.
There were also saber-wielding corsairs from Tobaro that were placed to support the front. They were the cheapest of the hired bunch by a significant margin.
As everyone formed up into various formations and positions, nagging thoughts started to invade the contents of Frisch's mental landscape. 'Is this enough? All this preparation would likely mean nothing if those rumors aren't just made up stories.'
Indeed, it was said that "King" Gown is a powerful mage who commanded legions of indestructible golems. Oliver and most of the court wrote it away as hogwash propaganda, and so did he. But yet, it would explain such confidence to tread on such treacherous lands.
A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. The past days were very well planned, all of the electors pitched in and supported through their ideas and plans, as well as funds. Of course, they would not be participating in person, but the general did not hold that against them.
Elections are expensive after all.
Yet, anxiety was a feeling that he thought he should have grown out of. Evidently not.
'Bah, I should stop overthinking this, the odds for something like that happening to us are quite slim. At most, he might be a normal mage with troops who look as tough as the golems of myths, yes that must be it…' He thought, trying his best to keep his spirits up despite his apprehension.
"Sir?" The captain's gruff voice interrupted his chain of thought.
"Ah. Yes, Werner?" Frisch replied, seemingly relieved due to the distraction.
"Nothing sir, I was just saying it's been awhile since we dispatched the scouts, how long do you think we need to wait?"
"Considering what they have to deal with on the way here, I reckon it will take a bit more time for them to be spotted." Frisch replied, looking on as the black hat wearing gunners finished setting up their barricades and ramparts. Their black coats fluttered from the wind.
"I see."
Around a minute of silence passed between the two. Captain Werner was never a talkative man, and not particularly sociable. No better man to have around in a battle, though, this man can fight.
Or perhaps it is more correct to say he yearned for combat. Frisch noticed his minute signs of impatience but he did not let the man know of it.
Werner was a good soldier, and he knew his duty. It wasn't for nothing that he was promoted to captainship after all.
"How time flies, eh?" The general began, seemingly growing tired of the growing silence. "In a few weeks we would have spent another year in this blasted land. I hope to live to see the new year." Frisch said, seemingly wanting to pass the time.
"Yes sir. Any plans?" Werner replied, his flat tone not particularly conveying interest.
"No, it's still too early to decide. Maybe I'll just enjoy a glass of wine with friends on that night. What about you? Have any plans for Witching Night?" Frisch said, turning to the captain.
"I do not…no. Perhaps I shall drink myself senseless and forget the year that's gone by…" He said, a hint of bitterness seeping through.
Frisch nodded. "I understand…I suppose you will not be joining me then, captain?"
"I doubt it…I was never a crowd person."
That much was true enough. Werner was an introvert by nature and was uncomfortable in large gatherings of people. The man preferred to be alone and was happy doing things he enjoyed, like reading a book or just training his already impressive martial strength.
"I must ask, however." Werner began, surprisingly enough.
"Isn't that day supposed to be too solemn and dark for celebrations? Granted, I was never particularly religious so perhaps I'm mistaken."
"You're not wrong. But it's less about celebrating and more about passing the time until the horror is over. The best way just happens to involve alcohol and friends." Frisch said with a smile.
"Hm." Werner looked down to the ground. He knew exactly what kind of horror it was. From screaming banshees, to shambling abominable hordes and grizzly nightmares that made sleep a miserable affair.
"Perhaps I might take your offer after all, general." The captain said after pondering for some seconds.
"Good. The more th-"
Frisch did not get a chance to complete that sentence as he got thoroughly unhorsed as a loud crash was heard around 20 meters in front of him. Followed by another crash, another, and then many more in different directions.
As the general lay on the ground, his ankle reeling from the sudden fall, deafening sounds of clattering metal, war cries and death screams filled the air.The lines of gunfire and artillery made earthshaking roars, echoing throughout the clearing.
Frisch stood to one knee and looked ahead to the source of the nearest crash.
The cloud of dust cleared, revealing a thick and large humanoid figure made of brown stone. A group of mangled and crushed armored bodies laid around it. The golem's "eyes" were red and mean, as if the living construct was not in a good mood.
The hostile gaze was met straight by the general of Akendorf.
Before the living construct charged, Captain Werner leapt onto the general from out of nowhere, pushing him out of the way to the ground, as a black blur of a large round projectile whizz past their heads. It impacted straight onto the golem, knocking it backwards to the ground.
The pair looked to the source of the shot. The black hat wearing crew were frantically reloading the cannon, cold, nervous sweats drenched their clothes. As Werner helped Frisch get up, they saw all around, trying to comprehend the situation, and moreso finding a way to properly manage it.
All around them was the slow but steady descent to chaos. The sounds of increasingly panic and unsynchronised volleys of fire. The breaking of woods and the futile clashing of metals. The desperate warcry and the agonizing sounds of lives ceasing. It was cruelly evident that the rest of the men were not faring any better.
Ahead and slowly surrounding him, he could see numerous other golems in the field, some made of stone and others metal, all unemotional and unwavering. Such was their brutal toughness, the pikes were thrown off or splattered by the brutes, and unfortunately, the gunners and some of the artillery men experienced the same fate.
Here and there showers of lightning and fire rained onto the other sections of the ordinance support, confirming every last one of Frisch's fears. The mortar teams were the first to fall, as a giant black ball surrounded by lightning landed on them like a meteor.
Gone were their brief invulnerability of range, further back, one of the cannons was finally silenced, followed by another as a cloaked figure in the sky kept hurling boulder-sized fireballs. The air filled with the bloodcurdling cries of sizzled men.
Bullets and crossbow bolts bounced off harmlessly as the golems rampaged across the battlefield, paving a bloody path as they set about butchering unit after unit.
It would seem that every last one of Frisch's fears were confirmed as more and more mercenaries met their untimely undead.
As the captain helped Frisch make way to the cannon crew that saved them, he grabbed Werner's shoulder.
At this point saving one man would be a small victory.
Before he could speak an airborne boulder crashed into the cannon as soon as it was reloaded, crushing some of the crew.
Curiosity got the better of them, almost like an instinctive action, they hesitantly turned to the direction of the source.
In front of them was a golem, its gaze menacing, and on its torso, was a large but shallow spherical dent. Petrified and lost in thought, its charging broad shoulder was the last thing he saw before Frisch's vision went to black.
Daunea Sanctum
"Get up, beast. I expected one of Vorag's whelps to provide a better challenge than this." The pale faced crimson armored knight taunted atop his barded skeletal horse. He sneered towards the downed prince, his tone etched with contempt and arrogance.
He wore crimson armor that was encrusted with images of death and slaughter. Its metallic surface shimmered from the pale moonlight. Carved meticulously in the middle of the torso was the imagery of a rising red dragon - the crest of the infamous Blood Keep. On his head, an ornate winged helmet, mimicking the head of a dragon, one that could be considered as a status symbol among his dark peers and a way of honoring the great ancestor who began his great bloodline.
Clawed hands clutched the dirt on the ground as the sounds of fighting intensified. All around, the field was filled with the battle cries and death screams of men and monsters, of clashing steel, of tearing flesh and bone.
A group of ghouls fell to a lance charge while four monstrous beasts with bony growths and protrusions engaged with dismounted warriors belonging to the Blood Keep. They were called Crypt Horrors and were much larger and stronger than their normal ghoulish brethren, and wielded large bone clubs that would fell orcs with one swing.
But Blood Knights are a much harder prey. Treating their heavy armor like silk, they evaded swiftly between each swing, and countered with deadly precise strikes, taxing the constitution of the hulking beasts to the utmost limits. Growls of pain were heard, signaling the monster's gradual downfall to oblivion.
"Pitiful. To see a scion of the great Strygos empire that my Ancestor said to have once served brought down so low. Truly, your blood father would be turning in his unmarked grave if he were to see this."
The prince's eyes hardened into a glare, and he gradually gave himself to his more…beastial instincts. Before he did so, he saw fit to employ what he would call a "cheeky little trick."
In a practiced slow whisper, he called forth the Dark Wind, and weaved it using the required formulaic words and carrying with it, the name of the necromantic spell.
{Call of Vanhel}
He leapt forward with his right arm raised and his sharp claws glistened from the moonlight, his previously hidden speed catching the knight unawares.
However, martial instinct and unholy reflexes, honed by decades worth of battles proved sufficient. He slammed his greatsword down faster than what mortal eyes could follow.
Yet, the prince was far from mortal. At the last second, the other clawed hand swiped the weapon, redirecting it away. The raised claw clutched the blood knight's face, and the momentum of the charge threw the knight to the ground, with the prince on top of him. The prince's claws clutched the knight's helm, threatening to crush the head with his sheer force.
A dagger sprang forth, burying deeply into the prince's long forearm, eliciting a growl. The weapon was dragged along a straight line as tendons and veins were ripped, causing pain excruciating and distracting enough for an armored foot to kick the prince's monstrous form off of the downed warrior.
The prince clutched the wounded forearm in an attempt to control the dripping blood. He intoned a common incantation among his kind. The dread syllables attracted the surrounding Dhar to him.
{Invocation of Nehek}
His wounds quickly closed, removing all traces of the dagger. He felt some bit of vigor returning to him, yet the pang of pain was still very much there.
"Much better. Perhaps this hunt will be interesting after all." The Blood Dragon said, quickly getting up. His now dented winged scarlet helmet was on the ground, seemingly thrown away like useless scrap. He grinned, sheathing his dagger and drew his greatsword up and to the side. To a person of normal height, the point would have been said to be aimed at their face or throat, but for the prince, it might as well be his heart.
The knight's white hair was of medium length, and his face devoid of beard and stache. Glistening red eyes watched high within their sockets, scanned the prince thoroughly, like a wolf stalking its prey.
The blade had a large, straight cross-guard, an intricate drake head on each side. The pommel was decorated with a glowing singular ruby, shining with hints of a magical enchantment. The blade itself was engraved. Seemingly inscribed with dark runes, chased with precious metals and fashioned in the likeness of evil beasts.
Like his ornate set of armor, another clear sign of this weapon belongs to a champion of a Bloodline. A Kastellan among the Ordo Draconis no less.
Almost like a beast similar to the rest of his kind, the prince bared his fangs and charged at the invader, who advanced forward with measured steps.
A pair of legs spurred, and the tip of the blood knight's greatsword sprang forward, looking to breach the prince's heart.
As the blade shone clearly with the image of the prince up close but not yet meeting his Dhar enhanced flesh, in an inhumane beastial speed not meant for ordinary mortals, he knelt down, his shoulder forward. A sharp shriek of pierced metal rang out, the wicked blade had cut into his thick pauldron but completely missed its goal while his claws already prepared to affirmatively strike the hated foe in reach.
Before he could stand up and make his move, a crimson gauntleted fist ruthlessly found its way to the prince's solar plexus, knocking him back with the unholy strength that could instantly kill a Thrall.
"Good move beast, I didn't think your kind had that in you anymore." The Kastellan laughed, genuinely surprised. "But alas, the night is near its end, and as a favor for giving me this knowledge, you shall be remembered on a wall."
Pain coursed through his undead senses, but clear was his sight and undistracted was his focus, glimpses of his enemy's determined next move raced through his mind as he saw his enemy arrogantly throwing himself at him, firmly holding the blade upward with both hands.
With the level of calculative finesse presumably lost to his once proud Bloodline, he leaned back just in time, dodging a diagonal slash from the aggressive grinning Kastellan while one of his claws immediately and meticulously caught the blade at its lowest, firmly dragged it to his side, and held it in place. Pulled and wide open to lethal vulnerability, before he came to realization, the cruel smile on the vampire knight's face ceased away as he felt a monstrous hand trying to crush his neck and its beastial talons drew blood from his vein.. Slowly standing up tall with his back straight as best as it could and his enemy struggling in his hold, a triumphant roar escaped his mouth as he introduced his opponent's face to the hard ground with monstrous force, cracking the surface, reducing his head to a wet pound of flesh.
Easing his grip, he let go of the limp body and scanned his surroundings.
The ghouls were lesser in number, and there was only a single crypt horror. Wallach's cronies and their shambling hordes, although suffering significant casualties, still possessed a numerical advantage.
An advantage that wouldn't last long.
The prince looked up and bellowed an abhorrent, guttural scream that echoed throughout the land. Within moments, it was answered by a tide of howls and screeches from the night's denizens.
The master has called, his subjects must obey.
….
"Sire?"
A calm, familiar raspy voice spoke out, heavy with a foreign mix of Strygany - Imperial accent, stirring Gashnag away from his reminiscence.
Another day, another hallucination.
Even for one as lucid and sharp as he, such vivid thoughts tend to be…invasive. For that was the curse of his once proud bloodline, depending on the perspective, he was either simply an exceptionally lucky or unlucky one among his kindreds. The prince's gaze instinctually went to that day's loot that was placed on the wall in front of him.
The ruby on the pommel never lost its enchanting glitter, and the dark runes etched on the blade still seemed to radiate with unholy power.
The interior of the top floor of his tower of residence was dark, moody and devoid of any heraldry. The only source of light was from the speaker's fire torch.
His face turned to regard his aide and confidante. One of the few mortals that knows of his true self. He was a man in his early sixties, with a gray beard and hair that seemed to have been cared for. For his age, he was in tremendous shape, one can still claim that he was built like an ox.
The fire luminated his expression, which regarded the black prince worryingly.
"What is it, Mikhail?" Gashnag replied, the raspiness in his voice failed to hide the tone of familiarity and closeness. His malformed face was hard to read, but those who knew the prince would know subtle agitation from apathy well enough.
"I don't mean to disturb you, my lord. It's just that I have news that requires your attention. But, you seem troubled. Is everything alright? Your last…good meal was quite some time ago." The old man spoke in a steady voice.
"Has it been that long? Hmm." Gashnag muttered and mused for several seconds, his clawed fingers placed on his abnormally pointy chin.
"Wasn't it last week when I received sweet Eleanor?" He suddenly continued, his raspy voice carried a tone of surprise and a hint of guilt.
"Sire, that was five years ago." Mikhail replied after a moment of silence.
"Haah, that explains it. I suppose, the time really has come for another living soul to pay the price for my continued sanity, hasn't it?"
"I'm afraid so."
The prince dropped his head down as a response. While corpse blood is sufficient to stave off the thirst, it is not without harm for one's mental state. Especially for his kind.
Eleanor was the first that answered his call for a "bride". He wouldn't have had to resort to this, for a soul like that, for someone so willingly to answer his "calling" despite all the obvious risks, she deserved better. Ascended to his existence maybe? Or even, being by his side, as lovers in blood perhaps?
But alas, it did not matter anymore, the situation was dire and he was a survivor first and foremost. And the fate of one from the Strigoi Bloodline could not be as fortunate as that of the Traitors.
The lack of clean, mortal invaders and dissidents meant for a much more…indirect and dishonorable source of living blood. Traveling through the Borderlands is always a risky undertaking, even with an armed escort. Especially considering the proximity of numerous greenskin and ogre tribes.
Explaining away her disappearance was the easy part.
To live with the act, however, was another matter entirely.
"Please don't despair, my prince. No sacrifice is too great a price to advance your vision. Besides, the news I bring may solve our current…issue. At least, for now."
"Truly? Very well, proceed." Gashnag commanded, his head no longer downcast, and a minute tone of curiosity can be felt.
"The dire packs have found camps a few miles from our town's outskirts. Mercenaries most likely, even found some ogres among them too. From what I could hear from their idle chatter, it seems their employer has conquest on his mind." Mikhai replied calmly.
"They would do fine, and should last quite some time also." Gashnag said, nodding his head. "Did you learn anything about this..employer?" He asked after some thought.
"My apprentice has eyes on them. We will know more soon." Mikhail said without hesitation, seemingly ready for his master's query.
"Good, track and monitor them as you see fit. With any luck we could capture most of them." The raspy voice of the Strigoi Ghoul King uttered. "In the meantime, I shall ride forward, prepare a most..fitting welcome." He continued, a toothy grin appearing on his ghoulish face.
Gashnag rose from his chair, and proceeded to walk towards the hanger that mounted the two handed weapon. His clawed hand clutched its handle, and traced the dark runes etched on it with a finger. Unintelligible soft voices greeted his ears, it seemed the name "Echo of Damnation" was well earned.
After sheathing the sword into his leather harness strapped to his back, he exited his chamber, closely followed by Mikhail.
The steps lead down to an elevator that was located just below the prince's personal chamber. With a clank, a metallic lever was pulled to the extreme end by the old man and with a steady pace, the elevator descended.
The soaring black tower of Gashnag was an extremely long structure within the dark citadel, it would have taken days to reach the top were it not for this contraption. The late engineers were well worth their price.
Gashnag took the time to use his cloak to cover most of his body, his face well hidden in the shadows of its hood. By the time his inhumanely sharp talons fit right into the gauntlets Mikhail handed him, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, from which one had to use the stairs to reach the ground.
The stairwells were well lit, and there was no danger of being trapped in the dark. For the more…ordinary staff here of course.
The main hall was on the first floor, while the second floor housed the library and laboratories. Many other rooms existed, including the wine cellar, the training hall and of course, the dungeon.
The prince and the necromancer passed by many armed guards, who bowed in respect before continuing on their patrols. Finally, he stepped outside from the entrance of his tower, which was flanked by two heavily armored halberdiers on each side.
Gashnag surveyed his domain. Despite many trials and tribulations, he was pleased with his work over the years.
The castle was made up of several towers, connected by arched bridges. The largest and tallest tower stood alone, and was the original structure. A huge double-door entrance stood on the western wall, flanked by two statues of gargoyles, one on either side. The walls themselves and the towers attached would be intimidating from the outside, if one judged the common threats in this part of the world.
Yet, the walls haven't seen much defiance for a long time. Would-be invaders are dealt with in a much more…subtle and pre-emptive fashion than just breaking sieges.
The township, villages and farmlands also prospered under his domain, with predators of various varieties having been dealt by the dark and numerous creatures of the night.
A lean hooded man wearing brown acolyte robes stood in front of him. One of his hands held the reins to a big black barded stallion.
"My prince, master." He said, bowing.
"Did you find anything out?" Mikhail said to his apprentice.
"I couldn't get a name, unfortunately. Yet, I was able to discern that he knows magic. He was able to dispel my sight before I had the chance to get a glimpse." The young man said with a hint of nervousness.
"I see. Do not despair, you're still learning." Mikhail encouraged with a faint smile. "But still, it is concerning that he did it so quickly. Be careful if you encounter him, my lord." He continued, turning to Gashnag who took the reins from the young man's hands.
"If need be, perhaps I should come personally to the field. What orders, Sire?" The old necromancer said, looking up to the towering form of the ghoul king.
The prince mounted the horse with practiced ease. "Ride out and provide support from distance as usual."
"Yes, Sire." The old man replied and gave a curt nod, understanding the intent of his liege.
Gashnag looked to the east. The sun was already below the horizon, casting a dark shadow across the land.
'That's another day gone', he thought, sighing.
The horse reared, and then with a spur, its hooves broke into a sprint. The halberdiers saluted Gashnag as he passed by.
….
The forest was littered with suits, blood and bodies. Red, black and khaki are the new colors of what was once harmonious, rich forest, which has now become the stage of a devious ambush.
The air which would normally be delicate and quiet is now merely a canvas for the stench of death and the cries of the dying, something no survivor will ever forget.
'Oof, that's gotta leave a mark.' The invisible figure above thought as his mercenaries fell right into the trap in question.
A spear found purchase on the face of a dire wolf, for all the good it did to the spearmen. Another member of the pack leapt on him from the side, knocking the man to the ground with the hound on top. A pair of jaws enclosed his throat and ripped it away, sending him to Morr's realm. The group of spears lasted two minutes as the packs tore them apart, and helped themselves to tender, human meat.
A swarm of the night's flying rodents swallowed a group of crossbowmen. They screamed as an eye popped there, a face ripped off here, from a distance, only a cluster of black wings could be seen, with nary a hint of the humans.
Stooping creatures with filthy, sallow skin descended upon another group. Their eyes were bestial and insane, and their snarling lips revealed sharp-pointed teeth in slavering mouths, which gorged on live meat. Grave-filth encrusted claws slashed at the soldiers of fortune. Some were saved by their modest armor, while others were not so lucky.
The large muscular and fat ogres fared better against the bigger and stronger variants of the ghoulish creatures. The large gluttons clashed brutally with their oversized weapons against the monstrosities.
A battle ax cleared the head off a giant ghoul, its lifeless body collapsed to the ground, oozing with putrid black blood.
The ogre responsible roared boisterously, his armored form inspiring the rest of his brethren to fight harder, threatening to turn the tide of battle.
One of the ogres fell to a giant ghoul, which grasped the creature's jaw and tore it open. Another ogre swung his ax around to take the leg off a ghoul. It fell to the ground screaming, its leg severed from its body.
The group of ogres struck down another ghoul with the adaptive instincts of veterans. The arcs of large hammers and axes earned many a painful scream from the ghouls.
One of the beasts had its head blown off with a bang, and the pistol gave off a smokey residue from its muzzle. The ogre responsible wore a floppy hat and brown overcoat in addition to the "gut-plates" the other ogres had.
The grinning glutton then laughed maniacally as he kept blasting with the other spare pistols he had holstered earlier. It seemed he followed his own advice of "you can never carry too many guns" after all.
'Hoh. Perhaps I misjudged the Maneaters.' The figure mused as the more feral of the monsters were being beaten back, yet not without suffering casualties themselves, albeit comparatively minimal to the damage they have dealt.
Indeed, compared to the ones in the previous world, at least the ones he had seen, these so-called ogres were a whole nother breed by itself. The ones of the prior were strong, compared to the vast majority of their surroundings, but like how their kind was depicted in multiple stories, slow and intellectually inclined. These, however, were an overall upgraded version of them, the relatively perfect blend of speed, strength and intelligence… at least for combat situations. He might not be able to say the same for more civilized circumstances, especially when it was said that their bellies were technically without a depth and their loyalty lay in the satisfaction of their appetite.
In a way, they were perhaps the most perfect definition of what mercenaries are.
'Perhaps I should also "save" them for later occasions.'
[Mass Greater Teleportation]
The gluttonous forms vanished before a ghoul's bone club found a mark. The ghoulish blank gaze stared in confusion for a second before running off to find more prey.
The caster was visible for a moment, before he was once again hidden by a silent intonement.
The invisible mage moved along unhindered, observing the creatures that were feasting on the mercenaries.
The air filled with screeches of beasts and the screams of men. Some cursed the monstrosities while others cried out for their mothers.
Near a wagon containing a large chest made of iron and bronze, a brigandine clad man and his bodyguards stood, faced by a large hooded figure mounted on a black stallion. The figure calmly dismounted and walked towards them.
The burly bodyguards moved forward, their hands gripped their weapons tightly. Their employer and the company's paymaster unsheathed his rapier, his intent obvious.
The man's face was plain but by no means soft. His stubble gave him the impression of a typical back alley thug. Grim determination was written in his face, while the bodyguards looked somewhat…dull and uninterested. As if situations like these were an everyday affair and they had long grimly accepted the reality around them.
'Surprised they haven't run off already. Seems like the paymaster wasn't all talk.' The person in charge of the financial duties of the mercenary band seemed to have a lot of authority, only second to the actual leader and founder, whom Ainz saw being devoured by a pack of smaller ghouls five minutes ago.
The figure put away his hood revealing a heavily disfigured face which bore fangs, a horn and an abnormally pointy chin. His lips curled up to a smile before he brandished his claws and leapt towards the party.
….
The ghoul king was a blur in the wind as the mace missed its mark. Clawed hands clutched the legs of the bodyguard as he was swept off of his feat.
His senses picked up footsteps to his left. The prince's gauntleted closed fist sent the axe flying from the hands of the bodyguard. Before he could react, the monstrous form pounced down on him and his fangs bit down the human's neck with a crunch. The ghoul king then received his much awaited sustenance as he sucked in deeply for a few seconds while a dozen fell bats descended on the rest of the meals.
As he drank, the body of the burly bodyguard shrunk and became dry and disheveled to the point of being unrecognizable. And judging by the annoyed grunts and pained screams, the bats were troublesome enough to be distracting.
Having enough, he stood up to face the men just in time for the bats to be finally cut down. The paymaster and his men backed up a step after eyeing their now deceased companion. Their expressions were no longer uninterested, but they were calmer than expected. Eyes were affixed on the monster in front of them as he stood there, relaxed.
In the time it took for one of them to blink, the ghoul king had already descended on them. From there, he was a torrent of talons and fangs as weapons were flung away or bounced uselessly from his armored body parts. The men screamed in pain as they were subject to the prince's vicious assault.
Within three minutes, there was all but one mortal standing. His rapier was thrust in the middle of the monster's feeding frenzy. Good instinct, yet futile.
A talon tapped the tip of the blade away, and in the next microsecond, the paymaster found himself in a cruel embrace.
Fangs bit down the neck of the last remaining mortal as he struggled weakly against the prince's clawed clutches. The man's struggle gradually weakened to a halt as the black prince quenched his thirst, draining the lifeblood from the paymaster.
The shriveled corpses of the paymaster's bodyguards lay around them, filling the air with the stench of death. As the black prince let go of his latest victim, he felt a sense of relief wash over him.
His mind felt sharper and invigorated, as if a titanic burden had been lifted from the shoulders of his sanity. HIs lips curled up to a smile as he savored this feeling.
'Tonight's feast should last a long time.' Gashnag thought as he walked over to the giant bronze chest on the now vacant wagon.
A monetary tribute is always most welcome. After all, his realm always needed some upgrade once in a while, especially if he is to complete the goal he had set for himself eons ago.
He casually walked forward to grab the chest. Suddenly, he felt a force behind causing him to stagger forward. A scorching pain shot throughout the center of his back.
"Apologies, but I believe that does not belong to you." A voice called out to him. It was deep, and carried the practiced authority of a noble or monarch.
Gashnag turned around, the burning sensation still being present, and was greeted by a humanoid figure that was about as tall and built as himself. His crimson mask grinned mockingly at the Strigoi ghoul king. The mask's eyes seemed to reflect the prince's own hateful snarl.
Bats suddenly sped towards and swarmed the masked visitor, yet there was no sound of screaming.
[Shock wave] he heard him say, and the flying rodents were instantly crushed as they let out painful screeches. The very air around him seemed to distort.
Gashnag's primal instincts ramped up to new heights as his muscles tensed and his mind raced to find a plan. From the scabbard tied to his back, he unsheathed Echo of Damnation and held the point forward.
"Interesting." The figure muttered, as if some realization or confirmation had occurred to him. A small red glint seemed to appear in his eyes, analyzing, judging him even, without fear, disgust or anger.
"It seems they were telling the truth after all." He said while taking one step forward. An air of dread seemed to emanate from the mysterious figure which weighed heavily upon the prince's psyche. Lesser beings would have covered or groveled beneath such an oppressive aura. But he was one made for greater things.
"We have much to discuss."
-xxx-
AN:
Credits to the co-author as usual, Remembrancer of )/ Inquisitor of the Sorcerer King(Grand Library of Ashurbanipal discord server)/ Ainzooalgown412(on SpaceBattles) without whom this would have been a less smoother affair.
Thanks to The Usual Gang of Drunken Perverted Idiots from the Grand Library of Ashurbanipal discord server for the beta reading.
Well, that took awhile. Been busy with moving to Ireland for my masters. Which would coincidentally mean future updates would probably take longer than usual. But by no means do I plan to abandon this.
But life aside, I think we're finally moving towards the end of this arc. Which perhaps might be getting too…stompy? But it'll change I promise. With respect to Naz, Mallus has certain stompers, stompees, and strugglers/contenders. Interestingly, Nazarick also satisfies all three roles at different points.
Feedback response:
For the magic, I'm referring to the table top, novels and WFRP rather than the total war games.
Perhaps Shalltear could have handled that incident better, but she was still mostly in the right, considering there was no scope for diplomacy in the first place(might have been possible if Erhardt had come alone, but the presence of a zealous witch hunter, that too a likely Dieter-supporter makes it impossible). Besides, they were in essence, potential trespassers with one of them having the ability to bring a horde of daemons, from what little information she possesses about this world.
As for Ainz's human aspect, wait and see, we have plans for Suzuki.
(This section is for FFN reviewers) Remembrancer of Tales' Feedback response:
First of all, on Shalltear and the retinue, beyond what the dear main author - Dp has mentioned above, that retinue is NOT a governmental representative, if anything right, they are spec ops sort of people. And you think showing you - a Heteromorph off to a freakin Witch Hunter is a good idea!? Really!? So no, she is not that wrong. And she has already been given orders from Ainz to do something like that.
Secondly on magic, Tier magic is not weak or basic, they are in fact just very AP focused rather than spectacle like most magic shown in media and can be very wacky. Freakin hell, 1 spell literally calls upon SHARKNADO lol.
But anyway yeah, tier magic and WoM spells can be rather overlapping, many things WoM spells can do already have their own tier magic counterpart.
Sudden unconditional fear? Check, Ainz has it for PASSIVE ABILITY.
Flying golden rods? Why not? Just because it is not shown doesn't mean it doesn't exist. There is a spell that launches OBSIDIAN SWORDS (Mages will be sweating very nervously lol).
Magic eye to scout? Did you pay attention to Overlord?
Creating a new form of magic? M8, there is no newly created form of magic in Warhammer, just branches. Necromancy is still Dhar but has an emphasis on Shyish, WHF "Wild magic" is Dhar but has emphasis on Ghur, and each Chaos Gods are like sentient magic winds so it is from them than them creating a new thing.
But sadly, the only restricting thing about magic shown in Overlord is that… Maru just has to be lazy and rather unmotivated recently. Someone fetch the poor guy "Bury the Light" to give him some MOTIVATION please, thank you.
But yes, in a sense, WoM magic is a middle finger to tier magic, but in some aspects, tier magic is also a massive middle finger to WoM magic. You will see why in the future. And I believe you will be convinced why merging these 2 magic systems or seriously thinking that those 2 are the same is one of the most brain dead moves EVER! THEY ARE TOO DIFFERENT FUNDAMENTALLY! (of course, unless you want to be lazy and honestly just want to make things easy and simple for you to write things, but I and Dp don't like to do that here lol, we are too academic for that shit).
And yes, we have BIG plans for the story and dear old Suzuki Satoru… VERY BIG. Fuckin hell, the appearance of Nazarick and Ainz has some massive implication on… EVERYTHING. Like Dp told me, so many things to write, so little time…