AN: So while this took longer than I wanted, I am at least pleased to say it wasn't nearly as long a gap as the last, and that I have written more this year so far than all of the last!
Deep within the rot-scarred Forest of the Emerald Dream...
The Otherworld rumbled with the collective stamps of tens of thousands of feet, hooves, claws, grasping feelers and still wilder variations, to say nothing of the endless variety of roars, howls, screeches and more that formed the cacophony. The Wild Gods had come, the Lord of the Forest was here, and together they had brought the wrath of nature upon their foes.
Dashing Stags along with sprinting wolves and fearsome bears stood prominent amongst the Primeval Press- the most numerous predators and prey of Val'sharah. They pranced together as one pack, divisions between predator and prey forgotten, the fear and hunger of individuals overwritten by the will of the Whole.
However, they were far from alone for not only was every creature recognizable to a denizen of that land was present- ephemeral unicorns, sleeking panthers etc. but so much more. The Emerald Dream was not just a vision of Val'sharah as it was, but what it had been. Here, in this time and space distorted realm, no creature ever truly became extinct. From amidst the stampede rushed hellish Daedons, hulking ground sloths, spike-tailed armadillos and Paraceras that towered even over the mammoths of Northrend.
From the midst of the Neverborn mass, the very center of it, the Pox Mother did not have the benefit of the sky view but didn't need it to see how surrounded her force was. Moreover, though she had no time to seek an astral view, she could still see far more than any mortal, even if it was strange and diluted in this weird place.
By her nature the daemon's aethyric eyes drew to souls the way a man's gaze drew to diamonds amidst stone, making lesser souls appear translucent or even transparent before her gaze .
In the thick of beasts, she saw elves wearing their skins, the strange shaded glass of their souls shining brighter, strange hovering creatures that looked like an abominable cross between stunted dragons and nurglings, and more of the Adhorrents, though now the female kindred were joined by their other half. However most worrying of all were that the tiniest strands hung above every non-elf beast- prey and predator, cords of some obscene connection that led outwards to that which the Pox Mother could not see.
Her force may have lacked the diversity of shapes of the other one, but the Pox Mother felt a parent's pride of it all the same, for in her legions were the full variance of life. Here, the distended stomach of one daemon writhed with a dozen different species of warpish maggots- there, another's lungs were filled to the brim with a veritable milky swamp of diseases, each drone spewing a bubbling concoction all over the earth. And every one of them chanted continuously, mechanically pointing out the poxes and plagues that festered upon them or even within the fleshy frames of their foes.
Occasionally one or two of the cyclops would pause and cock their head at the oncoming mass, trying to identify some new aliment that caught their eye.
Her own beasties- those few that remained who had endured the cruel spurning of the adhorrents- rushed forward in excitement their tongues and various appendages wagging in delight. Any ire the Pox Mother felt for the creatures acting without her consideration dissipated at the infectious joy of the adorable hounds, their unfailing love for even the most undeserving, their boundless optimism. She felt an acidic tear roll down her twisted visage.
Which then evaporated, as the few score beasties were trampled beneath the stampede, with only a few of their friendly foes collapsing in return to mark their demise.
Okay, if her enemy wanted to forgo love and decency...
She beckoned to Poxatharmus, the cursed Clinkerspawn the Pox Mother had recruited into her service. The construct- an unholy mixture of centaur and beetle, with daemonic skin grafted upon it – stepped forward and nodded slightly, his soulless gaze affixed upon the enemy.
Originally Poxatharmus was a Daemon Prince who had upset the Grandfather himself at his disastrous performance at the Clash of the Carnal Carronade and as a consequence had opted for service in the Forge of Souls to reclaim his corporeal form and standing. The Great Unclean One snorted, the gesture filling the air with oxidized acid.
Another fool who thought too much of themselves and too little of the Forgemaster's bargaining. He had failed to meet the terms of his contract again and again, each time being forced to negotiate away more and more of his own soul until nothing now remained but the machine husk within...
Which was why the Pox Mother had chosen him, and bartered good souls for his service. The new ones tended to be more unruly and independent, focused more on soul hunting to get out of their contract than truly servicing their owners. The older models were….duller, but considerably more reliable.
With a barked command, the Soul Grinder mechanically used its left claw arm to reach into its socked fourth leg, pulling out a sickly green ball of raw plague out with a yank that also tore away some of the daemon's own remaining aethyric form, which it appeared not to notice. This was then loaded into its right, which by now had been transformed into a single giant tube. With unblinking eyes the thing angled his fire with the onrushing creatures (not a hard task, given the size of their horde) and fired.
The Plegmatic Bombardment burst right in the middle of a stampede of wolves and faun, unnaturally running together. The projectile made no distinction and, at the epicenter of its glaucous blast all were melted down to slush. Those farther out were even less fortunate- some collapsed retching up their own lungs, others endured grasping tentacles erupting from their backs and chests that reached out to strangle allies or sometimes even their own hosts. Some had both, with their tentacles leaking sickly ichor and pus. A handful collapsed into spawndom, falling upon their former allies in mind broken madness, while a stranger few- even one druid fairly close to the epicenter- had nothing happen to them at all.
In a learned imitation of mortals one of her eyebrows rose and her frown turned all the more severe- At some point, the Daemon Prince had managed to upgrade his hand-cannon in a deeply disgusting manner.
The blessings of Nurgle were not meant to be combined with the curses of Tzeentch.
However, the vile woodland creatures and their allies were not without artillery of their own and within moments several dozen boulders of various shapes and sizes crashed all around her precocious nurglites. A few fell short, but all too many hit, crushing many dozens within moments, either through the initial impact or by ground-shaking roles that the Tallymen were too slow to evade. She squinted and glanced, seeing many enormous moving trees and animated giants of stone at the rear of the enemy ranks.
She bellowed as loud as she could, determined to reach as many of her children as possible over that primal racket.
"Oh how spectacular of them to bring so many delightful vectors to us, my children, for the Grandfather's gifts spread so much better in crowds! Oh don't we love them for it! Bless them my Plague children, spread our kind's love and joy to all, add more to your tallies! This land has never seen the life we can bring and will thank us for it, the way all creatures eventually do."
The Plaguebringers visibly braced, their rotted knees crouching lower but without any appearance of fear or apprehension. Indeed, the only real change that came over them was a frenzied hurry of tone, a quickening of their eternal chant. It was the chant of one who believed they would be interrupted soon and was trying to get through their counting as fast as possible.
She snorted; but not contemptuously. As if those adorable cyclops *could* ever finish such a task anyway.
Looking at them the Unclean One felt a mother's pride- loyal, obedient, unquestioning, dedicated, and willing to sacrifice for her life and very comfort! These were her model children, so unlike that wretched boy! She practically purred in affection, a gesture amplified by her aethyric aura and sent waves of pride and pleasure to her children. Their chanting rose a little higher, a little more determined and confident and the Pox Mother just felt her joy increase, creating a self-fulfilling effect.
The sensation was such it temporarily dissipated the rage. In a mix of happiness and guilt she called out "Oh Wayward son, I forgive you! Oh I see my failing child, for it is I who abandoned you first! I left you alone to your own devices when I should have held you to me, like I do with all my other children "
Idly she reached beneath one of the folds underneath her bosom, clutching gently one of the suckling Nurglings. Or, gently as she imagined it- in reality the babe daemon was pulped like a squeezed lemon.
On the Azerothian Plane
"Cowards and curs! Honorless Fae! By the honor of whatever etiolated deity you venerate, come meet my lance in open battle!"
It didn't work. It hadn't worked and Bartholomew knew it would probably never work. Didn't stop him from cursing and swearing vengeance to his patron, for the anger that was rolling off his shoulders was palpable as arrows emerged from nowhere to take a man here, a man there.
He had been away from the front during the march, helping rally peasant stragglers left behind (and often with violent persuasion) but even in the gaps between marching and organizing his peasants, he had overheard the idle chatter of what occurred in his lord's segment. Of visecting blades that emerged suddenly from plain sight, of arrows that flew without warning from even leafless branches that could provide no logical cover. They ran when Tamurkhan had deployed his sorcery but-of course- (and the knight glanced backwards for a second with bitterness) he didn't have any of that.
Already this enemy had a name among camp - Ulguan, the Unseen. And of course, these arrow-totting, unchivalrous, honorless, mewling, filth-drinking, magical cowards just had to grace him with their presence.
"Shields up, swain! Press forward, ignore their petty quarrels. If they must use such weakling tools then they are far more afraid of you than you should be of them!"
To their credit, the sons of the North at least knew what a shield wall was...something he conceded the peasants of his own homeland might not understand (he had once seen a man fatally stab himself trying to put his own sword away in his scabbard, so peasant stupidity could not be underestimated). That and an...occasionally admirably battle zeal were the two things the peasants of the north really had going for them.
Interlocking plates of wood and rusted iron created giant turtles that meandered across the forest floor. Arrows by the handful dug harmlessly into the wood and from that, the Beetle knight guessed that there were not that many of the fiends, certainly not more than a handful compared to his own legion.
And yet the Ulguan were irritably, magically invisible and the northmen couldn't react to threats in every possible direction without warning. When his warriors held their shields aloft, they aimed for the sides, sometimes even the feet if they couldn't shoot through the gaps. When soldiers made the sides as sturdy as mammoth hide they went for the rear, somehow making their way around despite the forest floor a seething mass of humanity
Of course, Bartholomew thought hatefully as he looked up, those numbers didn't matter when the elves were just running along tree branches like some odd Southland creature.
The result was a series of shuffling tortoises crawling along the forest, appropriate in speed and well as form, separated by innumerable dots of lone men either too foolhardy or ignorant to get in formation and were wandering paranoid, shields weaving side to side and receiving their share of arrows in return.
The Beetle Knight roared at these fellow only to at last draw the attention of the unseen snipers. Two arrows-invisible in their wielder's hands- suddenly manifested from branches above, veering straight for his many eyes. Bartholomew simply gave the beetle equivalent of a sneer as he watched them rapidly rust and then disintegrate into ash roughly a meter from their target.
As if any true Brettonian would fall to such cowardly things...and the various augments the Chaos Dwarfs had forged into said armor, paid for by a whole tithe of his former countrymen in slaves, certainly didn't hurt either.
However, a third arrow emerged once more from nowhere, and this time some instinct made the knight duck just a hair before the blue-tinted arrow sailed where his head formerly was and impacted a marauder's shield, spreading like spilt water over it then hardening in an instant into a block of ice.
The man's cries indicated it might have affected more than the shield.
Here and there other such mystical bolts were unleashed. One quiver of unnatural strength penetrated a whole three ranks, shields and all, before stopping at the fourth. Another seemed to scream as it sailed through the air, and when it hit a shield the man behind it- as well as four more besides- gave cries of their own and broke formation to run.
Instinctively, Bartholomew bade Barnaby forward and drew his lance, running down the milksops with either tip or chitinous bulk or mandibles. Oh, he certainly recognized that it was some magical effect that caused them to flee but cowards were afforded no excuses and in truth, he was eager to take out his anger on something.
Speaking of...just where was his co-commander?
It didn't take Bartholomew long to find him, the so-called Medicine Man surrounded by a hundred strong group. The knight stared at him for a moment before blinking. With all his eyes.
All of them.
Because the strange monk and his compatriots, who hovered around him with a sort of strange awe that reminded him of a Relique's desperate throng and with all the order of such. They were not in shield wall formation- they were not bunched up tight in defense. They were just milling about, a sort of glazed yet relaxed look on their faces yet were entirely unaccosted.
A handful of arrows landed near the strange champion certainly, but none of these hit the man or even his surrounding cadre. Indeed, every single projectile cast by the enemy seemed to land haphazardly in the dirt or embed themselves in true trunks even though everywhere else the archers had proven incredibly accurate.
It was as if the elves didn't actually want to hit them.
The other chaos champion noticed the knight's gaze and met it with his own, wide smile. He waved, and Bartholomew felt the fatigue from earlier begin to return.
Then the Medicine Man pointed to something at the Knight's far left, beyond the beetle's peripheral vision.
He hadn't fully turned when there was a flash of red light, and a sudden burst of heat. Trees suddenly turned to kindling as magic poured from some hunched, muscular figure's - no, not hands. Eye. Singular, a cyclopean gaze that immolated and cooked all before it. Wood cracked and popped, deep voices screamed hoarsely as no less than a dozen northmen were caught in the spell's path...joined by the shriller tones of the elf women who collapsed from their trees.
It was...a Fimir. A people shrouded in myth and legend amongst the north as much as his own homeland. A race of cyclops, who were said to have been old in the days when the world was young. Washed-up chew toys of the Gods, abandoned the way an unchivalrous Empire knight would a tavern wrench when another, more attractive one walked by.
How was it able to cast magic? Why was it here?
Whatever the answer, the creature was apparently enjoying itself. Its long tail wagged upside down like a dog, leaving idents from its club-end in the dirt as some abominable cacophony arose from its reptilian throat, a mixture that sounded like a cross between grinding rocks and the sound an animal made as it was slaughtered.
Bartholomew couldn't tell exactly whether IT was laughing at the suffering Northmen or elves.
Regardless...
"You there" he bellowed at the nearest Northmen "Guard the Fimir with your shields and lives. " When the warriors showed uncertainty, he gestured with his lance "Do it or take quarrel with me. He's doing a far better job than any of you lot."
The wretched Fimir accepted the protection without acknowledgment or gratitude, merely lowering its head behind an offered shield in one move, before suddenly grabbing the wielder of the shield and thrusting him in front of the one-eyed beast that was immediately followed by a spray of blood. Bartholomew wasn't sure exactly what hit the unwilling human defense, but whatever it was it blew a hole in the man's chest the size of an Empire cannonball.
He snorted- apparently cyclopean eyes were all the fashion if they could both shoot fire and see into the future.
Yet the fimir was not the only such creature with ocular gifts in the horde, even if his was the most prominent. The gods favored the north with their gifts, that much was true, and it was said that those who were truly blessed, truly favored, would be able to see the world in a way no one else could. This blessing, Wytchsight it was called among the northern-kin and granted to a rare few, could allow a mortal to see the world as it truly was, free of mortal preconceptions. A great and terrible sea where concepts and ideas were as colors apron the canvas of creation. Where what was and wasn't, what could be and might be and never should all flowed together in the way only the mind of gods could truly comprehend.
And so it was that oft those with the boon were used as intermediaries of the divine, for however long they lasted. For to see as gods do was a power never meant for the mortal mind, and madness and damnation all too often followed. But for now it was a gift, and one to be wielded to the forest fae's downfall!
Not long after the Fimir immolated the first of the shadow elves, another man with mismatched, faintly aetheric eyes began pointing upwards at a nearby branch of a tree. It only took a little prompting for nearby men to shower it with rocks, extra axes and other detritus, and though movement on a nearby limb betrayed the elf's escape, at least it wasn't shooting.
At the direction of Aethyrc gazers, others began to hurl projectiles with some direction, or else attempt hack down trees to get at those who used its canopies.
One was lucky, a northman who apparently was blessed with a fantastic arm as well as sight. An impossibly quick pelt from an axe caught one of the Ulguan in the chest, knocking her from her high perch into the waiting arms of those who she had scorned below.
The elf was unlucky enough to survive the fall.
Privately the Beetle Knight fumed, his mandibles clicking furiously. Sure, he had a much larger field of vision than any man and could see perfectly in the darkness to boot. With those already generous gifts, why couldn't Aethryc sight be thrown into the package!? The prospect of madness and damnation meant little to one already experiencing both!
To add his bad mood, the enemy reacted as every other Fae had when the tide had turned- they ran, their movements now visible on the branch line, bounding from tree to tree as if there weren't meters separating them, their forms- lithe yet laden with bow and arrow and doubtless other materials, apparently not burdening the branches at all. Certainly, the most they did was creak, even as the elves periodically turned and fired at the chasing northmen.
The Beetle Knight's mandibles clicked together with a very rapid fury- the elf's ploy was so obvious, how could these morons not see it?
"Hold, hold you troll-brained idiots! They are leading you on, ignore them. I say I command you to ignore them!"
Many listened, no doubt now aware the consequences of disobeying his orders and fell back. Others didn't and once more the chitinous lord's mouth clicked together furiously.
He looked around, found who he was looking for, and gestured.
"Fimir, Incinerate them."
No response. The men were still running, bellowing taunts to the elves ahead and, no doubt, him behind.
The Knight slowly arched his head to gaze full onto the Fimir, who was returning the stare, its stance one of readiness.
He repeated the order -slowly, taking care to enunciate each word. After all, the stories had all said the Fimir were a dull race compared to man-and most men weren't particularly endowed in that category anyway. Though he suspected it was spite that was the true answer as those same tales said the Cyclopeans despised the race of man above all others, and of that they hated and resented the adherents of ruin the most.
He snorted- let that resentment smolder and burn their souls- humanity had the gods now
"Creature- incinerate those miscreants now. That is an order. Disobey me and die."
Even if the creature somehow couldn't understand him, he felt the gesture of his lance was obvious(sn) enough. Some things could transcend languages.
Again, the Fimir made no gesture to move, but it did tighten its stance, its club-ended tail growing taut. A red glow began to form in its eye and the warriors he had assigned to protect the ungrateful beast began to back away slowly in wariness of what was to come.
Bartholomew stretched and then cracked his neck, he flexed his arms. Though he would not admit it even to himself, in truth he was not particularly enthused about the prospect of dueling the cyclopean. In his own mind, his skill was sublime, greatest amongst the entire Maggot Host, but skill could be cheated by magic and gunfire. Real magic, not the diluted collop the Tzeentchian had threatened him with.
The iris began to turn sanguine, and subtly Bartholomew began to tap Barnaby's spurs. He wasn't totally confident in his armor's ability to ward off the spellwork, but he would rather die than let a challenge to his authority go unanswered.
Better to be burned alive as a noble than be cast down and live under the rule of peasants.
The Fimir raised his hand- and then pointed it in the other direction. Fire sprung from his fingertips and in a flash had tagged the howling deserters. However, even to Bartholomew's eyes, ignorant as he was to the specifics of spell craft, this one seemed different, for it left no fire on the outside but invoked something clearly painful, as the Northmen collapsed, wide-mouthed and screaming, in utter agony.
The Beetle Knight squinted and through his augmented sight he thought he might be seeing some form of...bubbles arise and pop-under their flesh. A boiling spell? Yes, he was pretty sure it was. He had had peasants executed in such brutal fashions in the past when he wanted to send a message.
Throughout it, the Fimir did not stop staring at him, its message clear even without vocalization. Bartholomew, knowing that his mandible-given sneer might not be as readily understood, deliberately turned his back on the creature-a gesture as equal parts foolish as contemptuous. He would be dead and damned, however, before he allowed the dredges of the chaos realm to govern its nobility by fear.
Still, as he called out orders to the Northmen, bidding them on, he was surprised- for all its boons, the one thing Chaos lacked was recognition amongst the weak of their place. After an appropriate amount of time had passed- enough that no one would dare think of him anxiously looking back- he did indeed look back. And frowned.
The odious monk was there once more, as he always seemed to be, and was speaking in what seemed to be genial tones to the creature, even punctuating a word here and there with a laugh. By contrast, the cyclopean was even more on edge than he had been minutes early, having backed up several steps from the monk and was waiving some massive club in his hand. However, it seemed to be doing so...sluggishly, and Bartholomew was not sure whether that was just how Fimir were, whether the beast was intimidated by the suspiciously loyal horde at medicine man's back, or the malaise presence of the latter was affecting even him.
The man in question caught his eye, waved and winked. Once more the Knight felt the creeping and unfamiliar sensation of fatigue, once more his mind was involuntarily drawn to failures long put past him
With a snarl, he looked away and bade his host on.
On the Main Field of Battle
Envision a vast kennel, fortified in chain and bound in iron bars, through which the snouts of innumerable beasts stick out. No healthy pets are these, but ravenous, starved things, irrevocably maddened by upbringing and existence, snarling and slobbering at the sights outside, tearing into one another in frustration at their situational impotence. Now imagine a great brass gate from the outside, visibly straining at hinges, finally unable to contain the pressure anymore.
And so it was the first charge commenced- a vast, chaotic human tide that flowed without any further hesitation at Tamurkhan's command. Sprinting, rather than marching as any nation of man would. Howling and whooping, delusions of divine favor and eternal life on their minds, the most impetious of the Wave would brook no further delay on their path to glory, dragging the wiser along by force of their undertow.
Yet it would be a fool's thought to believe there was no planning behind the maneuver. Even the darkest scions of Chaos recognize the periodic need for fragments of Order, a fact reflected in the First Wave's composition. Like under a butcher's knife, the leaders of the Host had deliberately cut away all the prized cutlets and thrown the rest- the chaff- to the fronts. The weak, the dumb, the uncontrollable and overly ambitious were amongst the selected, choices Tamurkhan had left up to the individual chieftains.
Who of course took advantage of the scheme, and amongst the front ended up many who would not be there otherwise but for the grudge of their fellows or leaders. The Plague Lord's only dictate was that none of the Blessed- the Chaos Warriors- be amongst that group, not that most mortal chieftains could have hoped to command such individuals anyway.
Tamurkhan himself had attempted, of course, to ensure as many of the rivaling pantheons or non-aligned as possible were amongst this opening party and as before the ever-self-interested Sayl had opposed him at every turn. Bitter and hateful were these discussions, and more than once the Faithless was threatened with total annihilation if Sayl would not comply, to which Sayl, always with at least one Dolgan war mammoth and his spawn Nightmaw nearby, all but dared him too. For if it was a fight that Tamurkhan could not lose, it was a fight he could not win either, as an intercine conflict would only benefit the Night Elves, and who knows how the Dawi Zharr would react.
Of course, even in losing the clever Dolgan had managed to extract some measure of victory, for the tithe required was much less than Tamurkhan's and, moreover, he had the right to select how the tithe was applied to the tribes of his coalition. It did not escape any of his subordinates notice that the most openly resentful and restless of his war-chieftains were, likewise, the ones who ended up paying most of the Tithe.
Inwardly, Sayl sneered at the Plague Lord, viewing the surprisingly low tithe- what still amounted to a tenth of his non-blessed force- as a compromise, a sign of weakness. Oh, the elf-maggot may have the clarity and magical aptitude that the ogre-maggot lacked, but he was clearly missing its backbone. The clear evidence of divine intervention-particularly from someone with aesthetically attuned senses- worried him, but left him undeterred. For there was a saying amongst the peoples of the steppes that mortal audacity could stun even the gods, and the Plague Lord's direct involvement altered Sayl's schemes not at all. Alone of the gathered warlords Sayl had an inkling of Tamurkhan's plan, courtesy of his loathsome alien ally, and had plotted together in a manner that would not only eliminate the Nurglite but (unknown to the other being) Xavius as well.
From atop his mammoth howdah, surrounded by slaves and mind-shackled shamen, guarded by his soul-bound spawn Nightmaw, Sayl the Faithless possessed as much privacy as could be given surrounded by thousands. As such he cared little for those who could see him now, mumbling and cursing and bargaining and mocking and otherwise conversing with thin air.
The eyes of Sayl saw far more than they of course, even if it was not exactly what he wished to see. A faint overlay hung over the battlefield, giving him glimpses of some Other Place, one of a forest far more vibrant and lively than the already loathsomely green lands before her. Whereas in the physical place he watched hordes of men- chattel chosen for their willingness to die- begin their charge of the elves' position, the Other World had its own sights.
Though difficult for even his gifted sight to view clearly, there was the impression of movement in the outlines of this vague vision. Faint outlines of strange creatures of every size and shape, a few recognizable but most not. A handful were even taller than the mammoth he rode on.
More recognizable horrors were also present, in the form of Cyclopean figures and a handful of enormous, bloated flies.
Had he been alone (and Sayl's definition of 'alone' could fit in the presence of slaves, for they were as much his as his own clothes) he would have dearly enjoyed exploring this other space more. Oh the daemonic favors he could extract in exchange for this place- for though the neverborn despised him, they were creatures of greed just as much as mortals. If he could find way to open up this 'Emerald Dream' to more than Tamurkhan's bloated patron….
But alas he was not alone, and though Sayl requested this meeting, he still resented the fact. He wondered if he would ever be alone on this world again for as the creature himself would say…
'Daydreams are still dreams.' The corrupted elf in question smirked at him, his image translucent beside him. Moreover, it was nearly as monstrous as the Chaos Spawn too, for Xavius had stopped bothering with his 'fair visage' and allowed what the Nightmare Lord called his 'true form' to be shown through. A form of muscle, that was best described as some unholy mix of a gor's lower portions, an ogres upper and an elf's head that had been subject to spawndom. Eyes and veins glowed sanguine red in the night or day.
Sayl much preferred looking upon actual Chaos Spawn.
The Elf continued 'And I am the master of them. Rejoice, Faithless One, for you are as much a creature now of two realms as your maggot lord. "
Sayl kept his mind carefully blank, not wanting to ruminate on this topic more. So far, the elf's power to read his mind seemed limited to when one indulged in waking fantasies, not random thoughts. But he didn't want to test it just yet.
Sayl met the elf's smirk with his own sneer- he was good at that. "For now, elf, for now. Pox cares little for borders and none at all for your schemes. One day soon these vibrant lands of your will be no more. Bark with slather and the rotted husks of your forests will fall into the fetid, bubbling swamp of the Grandfather. The flesh of effeminate folk will be as hollowed out by maggots as any corpse. "His sneer grew gleeful, spiteful "You have doomed your whole world with your fool ambition. "
Xavius laughed heartily, waving his hand absently over the forest beyond. "You think I would mind that? Do you know the number of stolen dreams I would trade to never see a tree again? I admit, my preferred décor though does not exactly match what you describe, nor would I approve of the propagation of such worthless, filthy life, but I would see the forest undone all the same."
The elf peered into Sayl's eye, his own confident, mirthful.
"Not that I think that is much of a worry, anyway. In fact, I have not been so profoundly unimpressed by a creature as your so-called 'Great Unclean One' in millennia. Surely, she does live up to that dreadful name, I give you that, and I understand that that bloated tick of a creature might appear threatening on your world, just as thunder often causes the primitive Furbolg tribes to cower and quake in superstitious fear. But to one who has dined in the presence of the Destroyer of Worlds himself? " Xavius chuckled.
Sayl was having none of it. "I do not believe your bluster. The daemon you describe is a living embodiment of the decay of all things, one of the mightiest of the children of the gods. I have seen their ilk flood the plains in the viscera of those who they have slain, guide whole tribes to damnation and drive other sorcerers to gibbering madness. And compared to the Dark Gods themselves, those daemons may as well be barking hounds in a storm. My arrangement with you entailed ruining the ambitions of men and daemons, not drawing the wrath of an entity far beyond them both. For the sake of our souls, we need to abandon our plan."
The slightest tremor of fear in Sayl's voice was not feigned- it was very much real, even if his words were not entirely accurate. He cared not at all for Xavius' soul of course, and they both knew that. Nor was he willing to entirely put aside his ambition…just the path they walked would need to be….altered.
Again, he kept his mind carefully blank of anything concrete.
The elf rolled his eyes 'This 'embodiment of decay' you reference is currently being scrounged by what I infer you would consider 'embodiments of vitality'. Lithe little dryads are currently pricking this supposed mighty being to death, as she just whines- and I mean whines, incessantly- for her 'son' to lend her his power. Perhaps 'leach' is a more apt term than tick. As for your fear of this 'Grandfather'" The elf affected a melodramatic yawn " so he intervened directly- your point?"
For a second the human was speechless, utterly taken back. One of the True Gods had intervened directly on the mortal plain and the elf acted like it was nothing!?
He spoke, incredulously. "Not even the greatest of fools of the South would act so blasely around their own weak gods and dragon kings. I knew you to be conceited but are you so arrogant to imagine yourself the better of a god?"
The Elf was all the surety that Sayl had accused him of
"Yes."
Sayl was gobsmacked- completely, honestly so. There was conceit and then there was this. Xavius seemed to draw amusement from his expression as he explained
"This 'Grandfather' of yours is a warlock, Sayl. A leach of leaches who drains power from his own servants for his spells. Even as you mortals watched with pathetic awe as His hand came down to protect your Maggot Lord, I watched as in the Dream as a hundred- I guess 'Less Unclean Ones'- demons died. One hundred servants dead to block a single cannon. Pathetic." Xavius affected a yawn, despite not needing sleep. "I could do it far easier. Moreover, I know His limits now- the number of daemons he possesses to sacrifice for his magics. Given that, I know just how little this 'Plague God' can really accomplish."
The scale of the other's ignorance physically stunned him "You know nothing, you dumb abomination! Compared to us, the power of the gods is infinite. They are-
"-Beyond time, beyond mortal comprehension, we only exist as playthings to amuse them blah blah blah." Xavius was annoyed now, visibly "They are but patrons, Sayl. Azshara, Sargeras, N'Zoth, your dreaded Dark Gods all the same. Take their power, use it, honor your pacts if it's convenient and then find a new patron until you accumulate enough to where you are the patron others seek. But never worship them. For the moment you do, you have lost your ability to matter at all in the scheme of things. "
With Will Sayl forced himself past incredulity to see the opportunities within. The Elf's arrogance would prove fatal, to be sure but the human could see where it could be taken advantage of, first.
"The hubris of the Elder Races is truly without equal, it seems. That will not be my fate, however. If you wish my aid in the aftermath of your scheme, you must allow me to be there at the moment of Tamurkhan's undoing. The gods are creatures of unknowable power and vengeance, but also greed. Neirglen can be placated by the promise of sacrifice- of that Elf priestess that you so hate, to be sure. "
At once , Sayl felt a white hot sensation, and for a moment his world was changed as his visage showed a husk forest of dead branches and malicious eyes, floating over a pitch black depth with no end. It ended as suddenly as it came.
"Never" The elf said, furious "The High Priestess is mine alone to do what I wish, and I shall do everything I could possibly wish to her. With her husband as captive audience, of course. That claim would never be forfeited to any pretender god."
It took all his will not to glance around the mammoth by instinct, to try to avoid whatever malaise the Plague God sent at him. Such tales of Divine Wrath were more than just stories on the Wastes- Sayl had personally seen it happen at least once.
The Nightmare Lord was also furious, and though Sayl knew the elf's supposed power was miniscule compared to an actual god, it was unfortunately greater than Sayl's own. Thus, just like he was so often forced to do with the Ogre Tamurkhan, Sayl demurred a little.
"Then offer the Plague God the hallowed ground. There is nothing the gods like more than to see the desecration of what pretenders would be see as holy."
"The land?" Xavis rolled his eyes, but deflated a bit "if you think this blighted god would be appeased by meaningless temple, then by all means, offer it when we are done. I do not particularly care either way. Personally, the patron of plagues is not one I would ever lower myself to bargain with."
"Few do" Sayl agreed "the grandfather chooses them and offers a bargain that can't be refused all the same."
"Semantics. " Xavius shook off the warning " Your alteration of our arrangement has been agreed-upon simply by virtue that I care not at all about it. Now, if that is all, I have my role to prepare for."
Without giving the human time to reply, the Nightmare Lord's visage faded from view.
Sayl shook his head, more exasperated than expected as the elf turned out to be more delusional than he could have ever anticipated. Both in his almost certainly fatal estimation of the grandfather, and his surety of Sayl's own…. Alignments. For there were other gods in the game other than that of the rot and the 'deep god' Xavius considered his patron.
The Faithless rolled his eye at the arrogance of the elf- did Xavius think his line of 'treachery itself' was any bit clever? It had taken Sayl all of a second to determine the Changer of Ways was involved, and when the elf had left to reach out with his own sorcery to the South, observing the strange, vicious creatures that were goaded more than guided by the human champions of nine items towards the ghostly cities and dragon enclaves of that land. Even if it was still not as strong as back home, the winds were far more stabilized here, the result of the efforts of the Master of Magic …and the puppet-master of the mortals below.
They had met there, in the winds- he in his spirit self and the Other Being as a great Azure eagle whose malevolent eyes belied its true form. Even for someone who had dealt with Greater Daemons before, the meeting was harrowing, as the Lord of Change seemed unusually distracted and all the more dangerous for the fact. Nevertheless, new information had been gleamed and a bargain had been struck which of course neither party intended to honor.
Of course, it was ever the flaw of Sayl that despite his moniker, he held all too much faith within his own schemes, and paid none at all to anyone else, dismissing them all as mental inferiors.
The Chaos leader would have certainly been surprised to find that, when the Nightmare Lord faded from view, he didn't just disappear into another realm- he disappeared from existence itself. Like a dream that never was.
The actual Xavius was the equivalent of continents away in a blackened, sanguine landscape. A haunt of nightmares and madmen, where fears were plucked like apples from the orchard and baked into terrifying confections by his Nightmarish savants. A realm brought about, like so much else on Azeroth, by the arrogance of his kinsmen.
The Rift of Aln, the Nightmare's Origin.
The Nightmare Lord paused in his motions, his mutated form sweating unnaturally glowing sanguine bloodlets. Not his of course but taken from the dozen corpses that lay at his feet- madmen, mind-broken Cenarions, scheming opportunists and more, all mulch for his growing ambitions.
Xavius smiled with satisfaction at his work, for his creation was undoubtedly the most aesthetically pleasing magical craftsmanship that any high borne had conceived.
His own shade smiled back at him. This mirror image was far more powerful than the last. Fitting, for the instructions the original gave it would require far more skill than speaking with one of the most delusional humans he had ever encountered.
The Nightmare Lord had profited greatly from the old gods patronage- the very fact that he had not died at the end previous war was proof of this. They had bound his spirit to the Rift of Aln through and as a result, he had ascended beyond mortality itself.
But it came at a cost, for though his spirit would never know the Realm of Death, he could not immediately manifest back into the Realm of Life, either. Not outside this little brackish zone, this place neither part of the Realm of Life nor that of Shadow. He still didn't fully understand it all, but he was under impression the rule was true for all ascended beings, whether demon or light or voidspawn.
And so, the Shades. They possessed not his fully power- indeed, even if he was capable of such a thing, Xavius knew himself too well to ever trust a clone of himself with that. But simultaneously, they were not bound to this place either.
Even a reflection that possessed over half of his power would be enough, the Nightmare Lord reckoned. After all, Xavius believed himself on par with the gods - if not beyond them. Certainly, he had driven mad at least one loa and corrupted multiple Wild Gods and dragons with far less effort than what he put in the shade. He had no doubt his marvelous copy could handle any of this 'Plague God's' protests.
Said Shade gave a charming bow, his smile and brilliant as the Rift, before opening a tear in the nightmare network, teleporting elsewhere.
Satisfied, the True Xavius stepped from the rune circle, waving aside his feverish supplicants/sacrifice stock, and dismissing them with the same gesture. For as his Shade had said to Sayl they didn't matter really, just being steppingstones to true power rather than having any real agency of their own. Pawns to be played, pawns to be moved, pawns to be sacrificed at whim. There were a few who impressed him, with their dark ambitions and desires that he could grow and mold, but the ordinary cultist did not possess the initiative required.
In his more honest moments Xavius would concede that he himself had once fallen under those definitions, with his lustful fawning over the queen or his gob smacked worship of the titan's majesty. But that afforded the cultists no sympathy, for thinking of such times only served to darken his mood.
There was one voice, however, who Xavius could not so easily dismiss. His was a whisper that left no sound yet reverberated as loud as thunder in the mind.
*Thin is the veil between dream and nightmare. Upon which side do your aspirations lie?*
Xavius smiled, forcibly, as around him those supplicants now pathetically prostrated themselves. N'zoth visits were unwelcome and thankfully rare, but when they occurred, he had to put aside everything else.
He sketched a bow to the air- a perfunctory motion still ingrained on him from the days at court.
Greetings, my patron. Our plans proceed smoothly. These otherworlders are so dreadfully predictable. Whether by seed or bridge, we will have our pathway soon.
The voice reverberated in their minds with pleasure. At this, several ecstatic cultists began to cry, literally tear up, in overcome emotions. Xavius felt it was more than ridiculous- from his own experience, such vague prophetic pronouncements were just how the Old Gods and their creatures spoke by default.
*You have done so well, my chosen. Through your deeds, new paths have been opened, new truths have been gleamed. Our invitation has been answered and by letting them in our home, so shall we enter theirs. *
A second mental whisper, this one 'quieter'- he knew this was for Xavius alone.
*But beware! As with the Light, the visitors cling to their singular truths, viewing their fractal paths as exclusive. They hold piecemeal portions of the Seven Headed God's outlook, without His greater understanding. In their madness, they will resist the gifts we offer them. *
The old Xavius would have stuttered at the inanity of it all- the new one understood, somewhat, the logic of the Elder One. But not entirely.
Around him, the feral cultists were tearing at their own flesh, carving symbols into their bodies and howling their appreciation, their infinite gratitude, towards their hidden lord. A few ran off in random directions, looking more determined and pleased than he had ever seen them. Each was mumbling something different- a praise here, a desperate apology there, and a tearful confession in between. Irritated, Xavius barked a dismissal, but did not miss on the significance of the gesture.
The Nightmare Lord knew he was not the only one having a private conversation with the Old God.
It made Xavius all the more wary of his adopted patron, who for all his affability was perhaps more dangerous than his original sponsor, the so-called 'God of Death' Yogg Saron. Less ego too, for the other Old One actually seemed to credit itself for the 'concept' of death.
That Old One had been hateful and sadistic beyond measure, loving nothing more than to use fear and paranoia to break mortal minds even- no especially(Xavius grimaced from the memories)- of his mortal followers. No doubt, such a desire had been behind the creation of the Emerald Nightmare. Which suited Xavius, as ego and hatred were old friends to the night elf. True, he had been wary of the Old God's wrath, but he also knew how to endure it and, ultimately, plan around it.
N'zoth was the opposite of his brother god. Whereas the God of Death personally orchestrated great schemes that altered the world, the God of the Deep seemed happy to take the backseat to his mortal cat paws and delight in twisting the aspirations of these individuals. Whereas Yogg Saron made evident that it cared nothing at all for its followers, N'zoth was all too interested- in everyone, from Xavius himself to the lowest cultist.
Xavius cared not at all for the delusions of fools-but it made things tricky on how to ultimately proceed when so many underlings believed themselves to be the 'N'zoth personal harbinger'.
That 'singular' truth that these invaders hold so dearly is one of weakening themselves- and everyone else- through the spreading of filth and the most unworthy forms of life. I am sure they would in time defeat themselves. Worry more about the South. From what I have gleamed, Azshara is struggling far more than I.
It was a fishing statement to be sure, for Xavius was curious and left out that he had far less sources then he liked in the province. For his power was tied to Life, even as Aszuna was tied to Death and speak not of the Naga, who were a personality cult disguised as a species
Nevertheless, what he had learned was pleasing, if perplexing. Chaos and ruin had been unleashed on sanctimonious Farondis' domain, and the fact that Azshara's catspaws had been drawn in just added to his glee, for there was no love lost between the queen and her former chancellor. Even still, there was so much that was confusing to him, too many moving parts. At least one report had the invaders falling upon each other, ignoring the ghosts and their Dalarani allies..
The voice was amused
Yes, my Queen remains true to her nature-I know what she seeks to do. Grandiose in her designs, she tries to orchestrate an ambition as old as time. Bold. Brilliant. Banal. Already the Ninth has her measure, just as I do. Her struggles serve our cause more than they do the Interloper- whose victory would just further our own.
Xavius was curious You seem remarkably blithe over her struggles. I confess I too would enjoy whatever fit she throws in response, but then you are well aware of our…animosity. However, I presume your plans would be…setback, in that case. Indeed, the creature seemed to delight in their rivalry in the past, and Xavius would too if he were in the Old God's position. The shrewd chancellor inside recognized the benefit of continually pitting ambitious underlings against each other even as Xavius simply hated Azshara too much to care.
Possibilities matter more than the certainties provided by petty victories. The New Ones know this well. Consider: Azshara's greatest acts came not from her triumphs, but from her failures. The First, brought her to the waiting grasp of the Mad Titan. The Second, brought her into my embrace. What wonders would a Third bring?
Surprised, Xavius asked You want her to fail?
*No said one reply at the same moment another said yes. I want the futures her failure would bring, just as I want those enabled by her triumph. All futures turn towards their inevitable conclusion. *
Xavius considered. It was keeping with some strange quick of the Old God that made it different from its brothers. N'zoth had always reacted to defeat with joy, even when victory would have been total. Xavius knew this firsthand- dreading the entity's rage at his previous failure to win the Nightmare War, fearing punishment like what Sargeras had once inflicted upon him. Instead, his return had been met with joy, with reward- he had been elevated with more power than he had ever wielded before.
*Possibilities matter more than the certainties provided by petty victories. The New Ones know this well. Consider: Azshara's greatest acts came not from her triumphs, but from her failures. The First, brought her to the waiting grasp of the Mad Titan. The Second, brought her into my embrace. What wonders would a Third bring?*
Ahh the thousandfold path again. N'zoth and his ilk saw possibilities as certainties and imagined them all to their benefit. Still, that didn't mean there wasn't some worth to the madness, some cleverness in undermining the victory of their foes and twisting it to one's own desire.
N'zoth was pleased
*Yes, you understand better than she does, but not fully. When your task is done, when your shade is done, come to me and I will show you the glories provided by the future.*
In the Forests
As The Beetle Knight marched his force through the forests that would lead to the Kaldorei's left flank, guided on by his loathsome monkish handler, he set a pace that reflected every bit the fallen Brettonian's impatience and resentment for his station. He wanted to be done with this forest and was completely uncaring of what was snagged and left behind in the underbrush as he advanced.
Those left behind made delicious pickings for the Shal'serrar, the Kaldorei's answer to the specialist organizations of their allies and foes alike. There was no stratagem of predator native to Azeroth or Draenor that was not known to them, studied obsessively by them and then applied in the Shal'serrar's own strategies. Just as lions and raptors preyed upon the stragglers of the great Kodo herds of the plains, so too had the Shal'serrar assigned a full quarter of their operatives- and over two dozen contracted hunters and rogues- to do so with those chaos men left behind.
And amongst these otherwise dispassionate operatives was one whose predatory zeal marked her above her fellows. As both an agent and a possible cause of concern.
When the so-called 'Shadow of Pain' had first overheard, in a Kaldorei inn, of the invasion of Val'shara, she had been thrilled. Humans with the savagery and barbarity of orcs? Count her in. Sohelia had precious few opportunities to stalk that race, after all, given her species at times perplexing alliance with them and the fact that most humans she had been commissioned to kill tended to be the void-maddened idiots of the Twilight Cult who were too brain addled to offer much of a challenge. One of her best hunts ever, however, had been a SI:7 turncoat compromised by the Dreadstalkers, which left a bit of a high bar for these new men to follow.
They didn't quite reach it.
Oh, how hope and excitement had led to disappointment- these were not the prey that was promised. They were just more of the same. Hell, the strange otherworldly humans were even less a challenge than the Twilight Cult, who at least knew how to craft something more sophisticated than a barbed throwing stick, who counted magic users of every creed and race among their ranks, who could summon forth legions of elementals and cultists from across both the Alliance and Horde.
In her frustration she had ignored first two straggler groups she found, not caring if some lesser hunter or Shal'serrar stalked them or not. Instead her pickiness drove her to seek out a third, whose differentiating feature was that it was not led by a grizzled and scarred old human or a bellowing youth armed with a desire to prove and little else. Instead, the leader figure's features were entirely obscured within the all-encompassing, featureless armor he wore.
From a tree's shadow, the Kaldorei cloaked herself in Elune's gift, then expertly lined up her crossbow and fired. The trajectory of the barbed bolt was such that in a graze it tore out the throat of the first human before embedding itself into the ear of the second. Panicking and bleeding out, the first man's eyes grew frantic as he tried for naught to close his wound.
One of his 'comrades' screamed what were almost certainly vile insults, shook or then hurled an axe at the trees, both lacking the wit to determine by angle of the bolt that their stalker was on the same level as them and bothering the one shadowmelded Shal'serrar that she could see in the tree branches not at all. Others- the wiser and more cautious- grouped together, covering their flanks and heads with their shields- a pattern of fresh and rooted wood marked by the solid black spot of the leaders' metallic instrument. She was somewhat pleased to see the shieldbearers now far more outnumbered the former, a reverse of how it was in the beginning. They were learning, becoming slowly more formidable. As a slipshod group, they moved like a tortoise through the underbrush, falling even further behind their main host.
If they were the turtle what would she be? Would she be the crow, aiming her arrows like a dexterous beak through the numerous cracks in the shell or a badger, her claws swinging back and force with unparalleled ferocity? As she mulled, she was the panther, stalking her prey through the underbrush, switching from Elune's Gift to True Shadow when need be. The latter of which would allow her to stand unseen even in the sun's oppressive gaze.
She had a feeling that if she chose to meet the enemy in melee, as the badger would have, she would probably appreciate the foes' skill a bit more.. And she would, if the circumstances came to it, and exalt in the opportunity to be made stronger from it. But Sohelia wouldn't do the humans' work for them. She was predator and they the prey- the onus was on them to figure out her hunting methods and an intelligent counter beyond 'screaming, waving a sword and charging her'.
A few moments later and she had decided against being the crow, too, instead opting to be the hydra. She would not fire into the gaps of the shell- instead she would melt it entirely like acid. She reached into her quiver, enchanted to hold far more than it should have otherwise, until she pressed her hand around a bolt that left a mystic tingle down her spine- likewise enchanted. Though her people's history with the arcane was notoriously fraught, Sohela held no prejudice-all tools of the hunt were justified to her.
Crafted from creation itself, her Arcane bolt held the marauders' s wooden shields in just as much disdain as its mistress, carving through two interlocked ones as they were leaves rather than shells to penetrate soft flesh underneath. Three individuals howled before its mystical momentum halted, and another fell silently. The shell cracked open and viscera-men- poured out. One fell immediately- the Shal'serrar in the branches taking advantage to fill in her own arrow- while the other five, led by their ironskinned leader, advanced towards her position, guessing it from the trajectory of her own glowing arrow. Several were bleeding now, and curiously the blood of one seemed to steam as it met the forest floor.
Iron leader shouted at several others and, with a little hesitation, three of them obliged, two of them veering off to the leader's right, one to the left. Clever boy. Any child of the forests would recognize it as a huntress's cordon when they saw them.
Smoky blood made to join the one on the left but was stopped by a gesture of Metalskin. Sohelia noted that unlike the argumentative surliness the invading marauders showed with one another, they seemed to obey the commands of the metal man without question and, if she read their faces right, a little bit of fear.
This close, and not even Shadowmeld would hide her completely- well-trained eyes would pick up her silhouette if she moved from the tree's shadow. She could climb up in a moment and may well evade the men below- but, if she was wrong and the humans were fast enough, they would drive a spear through her unprotected back. Doubtlessly the leader expected her to break out by taking the man on his left rather than the two on her right.
Her heart, calm and steady, began to beat in excitement as the humans came closer to encircling her position. The Kaldorei loaded her crossbow with one of her rarest arrows, before attaching it to her hip, drawing a set of minglaives She gave a grim, concealed smile that quickly turned into a scowl when another arrow embedded itself into the forehead of one of the pair of humans. Meddlesome Shal'Serrar did not understand the sanctity of this moment- she couldn't become the fittest if she wasn't tested.
Her hand flicked, and a miniglaive flew embedding itself in the other man's throat. Alerted by his cohort, the second, more wary marauder approached, shield obscuring everything from the eyes down to the groin. An acceptable if bland adaption to an opponent with ranged weapons….and one she had counter for. The question was, had he adapted to agility and dexterity her race had consistently showed over the last few months, had he formulated a plan for her sweeping out his legs with her razor-laden greaves and then driving another miniglaive threw his sternum?
She answered her own question moments later- no, no he had not. To be fair, the maneuver almost certainly wouldn't have worked if she was an ordinary human woman- only an elf had the agility necessary.
The remaining barechested man made to rush her, only to be seized with one hand around the throat by the Iron man. There was a heartbeat, and the other hand tore the throat open- not by sword but sheer gauntlet, spraying blood like a geyser.
Momentarily surprised, she did not duck in time to dodge the spray and could do nothing more than cover the face by reflex with her right arm.
Another moment later she cursed in pain, as the human's odd blood burned and scorched the skin beneath her armor. Her conscious mind forced the pain aside as she just narrowly dodged the dying humans body- thrown with the ease one would a javelin rather than a person.
Contemptuously, the armored giant brought his rectangular shield up and, instead of taking it head on, angled it so the arrowpoint skimmed across and embedded itself into lower portion of a tree trunk behind him. The shieldblow sent her flying but, at the last moment, she adjusted her body so that she hit the ground rolling, twisting her body until her feet were placed on the ground, using the momentum to leap just before the barbarians sword strike kicked up dirt behind him.
Beep
The Human's head snapped to the bolt behind him, its arrowhead flickering.
Beep
The Barbarian may have been ignorant, but Sohelia was not. She bounded for another tree like her life depended on it -at the last moment the barbarian picking up on the act. He turned towards the bolt...
BEEEEEEPPPPPP
The Goblin arrow, which had cost her a fortune, did the one thing goblin creations could always be counted on doing- it exploded. The tree trunk burst in an explosion of shrapnel that tore out the heart of it- above the Shal'Serrar, who had been perched on the tree, was forced to run and jump between branches to escape the collapse.
The Iron Man was thrown forward by the blast and proliferated by minute shards of metal and of wood.
Even as she leapt behind the tree Sohelia yelped herself, for she was not unscathed either, gritting her teeth as two fragments tore through her leather greaves. The Kaldorei breathed deep, closed her eyes for a moments, and Sohelia glanced down before forcing herself to be calm- the wound was enough to hurt but not enough to debilitate.
Her eyes closed- then ripped open wide, as instinct demanded she move- now. Sohelia ducked, and the swordblow came within an inch of where her head had been, the blade digging all the way into the tree's heartwood before stopping.
The creature before her had dozens of dents in his armor- and at least a half dozen openings through which blood poured from like holes in a dwarfen keg. One of his arms hung limply at his side, and she noted that it was his swordarm, his blade now clasped in the hand that once held that metallic shield. Vigor undiminished, the men before her was clearly out for her blood more than survival.
The Kaldorei felt a slow smile tug the corners of her mouth. Finally, an actual challenge to be found!
Even as she fiddled another bolt into her crossbow- no time to see exactly what type it was- the man withdrew his sword and rushed her. The Kaldorei dodged the forward slash, but only barely, surprised by the human reacting far faster than he should have. He used the momentum of the first to swing the second for her face, the blade coming so close as to slice off strands of hair and leaving a singing feeling in her scalp that left no doubt the blade was magical.
There was a distant thump- unknown to her, the Shal'Serrar had gotten back into the fight, though her arrow did not pierce the man's armor nor did it bother the man much at all.
She jumped several feet back and fired, pointblank, from the hip. Yet rather than freeze or attempt to dodge the man simply bowled towards her, throwing off her aim to his heart and resulting in the bolt impacting at the outer edge of the breast in a splash of red and yellow liquid. Her dispassionate mind had time to note that she had drawn a poison bolt, and one of the more debilitating, rather than fast-acting, ones at that. Would it take affect in time-
The swordblow knocked the crossbow from her hand, followed by thick iron boots stomping it into the dirt. Sohelia gave a wordless scream of fury at seeing her oldest companion desecrated so and with her now disarmed hand drew her blade- a Rangari short sword from recent time in that other world. The other clasped another bolt from her quiver. She stabbed for his neck, trusting there would be an opening there. The barbarian's blade met her halfways there, redirecting it towards his should before, with a flick equal part lazy and condescending, ripping that from her hand too.
She would repay the human for his arrogance, tenfold, as she drove her other hand clutching the bolt into one of the open holes of his armor. The broadhead drove deep, the taste of flesh activating its enchantment in a burst of teal blue. The unnatural ice of the northern continent spread like cracks across the man's plate and Sohelia smiled as she heard the man's grunt through his grim helm.
Then the human's limp arm folded inward, trapping her own across his plated chest and causing that same painful freeze to spread up her arm. In alarm, she kicked at the man's sternum but neither that nor another thud on his back bothered the barbarian at all. Her free hand reached for her quiver, pulling out another broadhead bolt
The sword's pommel came crashing down onto her forehead with all the force of a falling log. Her skull snapped back, straining her neck until she felt something begin to crack. The Iron Man oriented his blade, driving it down.
There was a large *thunk* as the Shal'Serrar, realizing her arrows were doing little, took out her glaive and hurled it bodily at the man. While its points did not penetrate the thick armor, it did knock the human off balance and, with desperation driving her reflexes, Sohelia used the moment to drive her makeshift bolt-blade up. The invader reacted in an instant, driving his own hand to meet hers but slowed by frost, weakened by poison he could no longer match her speed.
She shoved the bolt deep through the helmet's eye socket, twisting it violently to make sure. The human twitched, and to her horror it looked like the blade in his outstretched arm would come down regardless, whether in a final act or as if the blade had its own will.
Then the moment passed as the human swayed and toppled, dragging a still stuck Sohelia down with her. She grunted as she pulled her arm free, gritting her teeth as some skin was caught by the ice
'Sloppy, adventurer." A voice whispered from distant shadows, perfectly audible to her ears. "Shadows should stick to the darkness, not battle while bathed in the light."
Sohelia didn't spare her savior a glance as she gathered up the pieces of her smashed crossbow and what bolts could be recovered
"The Predator need not fear the prey in light or darkness, agent. If the enemy sees me, then they see their doom."
The voice was amused, but slightly more distant, giving the impression that the speaker was moving. Sohelia had no idea if that were true or not- she knew some of the Nightblades who could throw their voice far and close to fool targets.
"If not for me, you would have met your doom today, Sohelia. As it was….you were prey."
Sohelia frowned, internally acknowledging that she had gotten sloppy this hunt but not wanting to say it aloud. Besides, she was confident that the human was hers with or without the Shal'Serrar's ineffectual intervention.
"I had it….Nightblade. "She had never bothered to learn their names "Frost and poison were already slowing the big brute down. Another moment and I would have achieved the same result without your intervention."
The chuckle was nearly faded now, but still audible
'Just remember this; all the greatest predators, in this world or the other, evolved to hunt in the pack, rather than alone."
The Kaldorei rogue scowled as she reached into her pouch for a potion, popped the cap, and chugged it. Within a minute her open wounds had sealed, the ache in her head dulled and some of the skin around her arm even regrew.
A decent stopgap but nevertheless she would need a real healer before she fully recovered. Plus there were bolts to replace, a prized crossbow to repair. Her hunt would need to be paused.
With a sigh she reached deep into her pouch until she felt the smooth surface of the hearthstone. A few seconds later and she was gone.
From atop the barbette he and his squad were stationed on, Uynul Nightmight gazed with not a little apprehension at the scene before him. By Elune, there was just so many of them! Is this what the elders had seen in the War of the Ancients- or, more recently, those Sentinels at Hyjall? He felt as if he was on top of a rock perched at the edge of the seashore, watching a Tsunami rolling in.
He told himself he was not afraid, reminded himself that he was part of an army with over a half dozen races present, led by the legend who saved the world. Moreover, mixed with the anxiety was excitement over his role as the spearhead of the channeling circle. Already eight of his ten compatriots stood aligned in an octagonal shape, one for each cardinal and ordinal direction, looking on as the ninth who stood outside the circle, his teacher Illaydeus Moongaze, beckoned him forwards.
Uynul knew he was not the most experienced member here- that was obviously Illaydeus, and he supposed (though it bit at him to admit) one or two of the others might be better at focus or utility. Key word: might. For what wasn't contested was that Uynul was the strongest of his class when it came to pure power- his mana missiles could blow the target mannequins apart whereas those of his compatriots could only glass out portions of it. And on a battlefield against primitives that couldn't put together sticks in the right way to form bows, whose feeble magics made even those of the willfully primitive furbolgs look potent, there was less a worry about defense.
So might mattered most.
As he assumed his position in the center of the circle, the others raised their hands towards him, chanelling their own stores of mana into his form. At once, Uynul felt a surge of energy that electrified every nerve of his body and sent him gasping. Arcane poured into his veins, making his eyes glow violet, making spiderswebs of the same color spread across his purple skin, emanating a brilliant shade. It threw his head back and arched his spine, before Uynul exerted enough control to hover off the ground, above his fellows.
By the goddess, this must be what Azshara felt! To feel the stuff of creation itself, the very magic that had formed all of physical reality, and the knowledge that he could bend that to his will-
"Uynul" spoke a soft voice, warningly. He glanced down at his teacher who was looking up at him impatiently. Right, they had talked about this reaction.
The student shrugged; he had barbarians to destroy anyhow.
Uynul looked to his side, across barbettes at the gnome and his team. He grinned. A few minutes ago he had been impressed like the rest at the engineer's device, its range and its power. But compared to the arcane? It may as well be tying sticks together in a slightly more intricate way.
He'd show the gnome why, in Azshara's day, the name of the Moonguard has brought terror to the hearts of the Trolls, Vyrkul and all who had attempted to stand in the way of the Kaldorei's glorious destiny. As it would be, again.
Caryle Gearstronk had never been to the ocean, but he had seen screen captures and viewings of it, taken when the first gnomish explorers had traveled to the very limits of Dun Murough and seen the waves. Even now, nearly a century later, he could still remember being in the communal creche, trying to calculate the precise amount of time it would take for the waves to batter down twenty-seven and a half feet's worth of rock.
The number he came up with was without a doubt an astronomical amount higher than the timeframe between frontline impact and overrun. And this human tidal wave was fast approaching, five hundred meters and closing.
All around him dozens of cannons, their maximum range met at last, opened up, showering the enemy with a half dozen types of ammunition. Internally the gnome sighed ('cogs and gears those other races' )as some of the Stormwind cannon fired antique roundshot, intermixed with incendiary and the 'precision' rounds favored by his own people along with a handful of experimental designs.
Some fell short but for those that hit the enemy ranks, a terrible tally of blood was recorded. A few explosions erupted like sanguine fountains of limbs and shrapnels, though far more were the men who collapsed screaming, bereft of an arm or leg, or else sucking in more air then they were ever meant, through torn holes in their chests. And then there were the strange rounds that his people had successfully convinced (re: 'browbeat' in many cases) their allies into using. Gearstronk watched with mirth as here as molecular bonds broke reducing one squad into goo, while there another was shrunk and crushed.
He laughed aloud- any opportunity to reduce the tall ones was a good one!
Hundreds fell in those first few moments and, for a moment, the enemy slowed as the knowledge that they were being sent in first to die crashed with their natural zeal. Yet, in this case, zeal prevailed and they continued forward.
However not before picking up the bodies of the injured and dying. It was perplexing to the Gnome, for they weren't carrying them to the rear, where they could be presumably buried or otherwise attended to, but forward.
Calculations ran faster through the Gnome's head than sweat from his brow as he ran range and ammunition , mental simulations of how long it would taike the enemy at current pace to reach Alliance lines.
The charging horde was in full sprint now, which he supposed was logical from the sense of one who wanted to exit the killzone as fast as possible, but would doubtless leave them winded by the time of confrontation (unless the Gnome was vastly underestimating their stamina, an admitted possibility). At their rate of run and reload times for the cannons he expected only one more shot from the mainstay, and perhaps four to five from the maybe dozen or so breachloaders, which had reduced range so they hadn't opened fire yet. The full auto-loaders wouldn't, under explicit orders from the very top to hold their ammo for the expected charge of the beasts.
None barring the accurate gnomish devices were allowed to fire at a foe within 100 meters of the front lines barring orders from Jarod himself, for the Kaldorei distrusted their accuracy(which wasn't entirely unreasonable, the Gnome admitted, even if the concern was overstated). And of those Gnomish devices the full auto-loaders wouldn't, on this wave, under Jarrod's explicit orders hold their ammo for the expected charge of the beasts.
There was another flash, another blink and suddenly a straight path from the front to the the middle opened up into which a broken segment of dominos toppled. Again, the angle of fire and terrain foiled the full potency of the blow- the gnome supposed there were some weaknesses to exact positioning within his shots.
Once more, this time without any quibble, the crew began to reload though the Gnome knew his contribution was spent. The boy was tired and from his calculations not even an ogre would be able to charge it fast enough for another shot to be spent before impact.
His eyes turned back to the battle- and immediately turned away again, as a series of exceptionally bright purple bursts tore apart the enemy frontlines. These bursts were as large as howitzer explosions and yet more lethal to those caught in the immediate vicinity as it turned bodies into lifelike statues of crusted violet ash that quickly dissipated away from the movement around them.
To the Gnome's analyzing eyes, it seemed like the explosions lacked the capacity for shrapnel debries Gnomish ordinance had but it was undeniably effective, for the enemy broke and turned tail, dropping the bodies (living or otherwise) that they had been dragging forward for some obscure purpose.
Gearstronk actually felt vaguely insulted - apparently magic was far scarier to them than the very fundamental forces of reality!? Comon, even by the mundane standards of simple causality inducement the other cannons, much less his own, had inflicted far more deaths and injuries than the strange magical blasts.
Speaking of which-
The Gnome rapidly ran from side to side of the barbette, looking for their source. It surprisingly wasn't hard to find them, even if he didn't quite understand what he was looking at first.
Right behind the final ranks of Kaldorei archers were a handful of lesser raised barbettes, none as prominent as the cannon batteries (or, he supposed, the glaive thrower ones interspersed amongst said archers) but none of the less notable. Atop each stood squads of strangely robed Kaldorei standing in specific patterns- pentagrams, hexagrams, even a decagram- with a single, floating individual prised at the middle of every formation. This Kaldorei visibly writhed with arcane energies, their eyes glowing blight purple outward at the enemy as every other member of the formation poured magic into them.
Gearstronk was actually impressed in spite of himself. But then he smothered it, as one of the squad heads- an arrogant youth as far as elves were concerned, he guessed- turned to him with a smug expression.
Fuming, Gnome felt a furious sort of energy. He turned to the now visibly exhausted human "My boy...Colin" He broke in, before the human could object once again to his cognitively accurate designation. "You've done great. Truly Great. But now my brilliance will shine! Find me a Draenei Shaman, please. "
Irritated by the spectacle, the Chaos Warlord waved his hand, dread flesh-forged trumpets blowing just a moment later. With thousands of collective battle cries the next wave- this one composed of the most ambitious and glory-seeking rather than the unreliable dregs of the first- charged in.
Privately, he admitted the cabal sorcery display was a bit of a surprise, but not an insurmountable one. The Changer so loved his magiks after all, and in his lifetime he had sacked over a dozen such shifting fortresses, condemned a hundred deceitful sorcerers to serve as mulch in the eternal Garden.
Ultimately, it didn't matter, for just as everything that lived decayed so too did they die. In fact, he thought with a sly smile, he felt the druid that he was within would appreciate the philosophy behind his ritual, for at the end of the day the mightiest predator fed the plants as surely as the prey that it hunted fed upon that same foliage.
Unnoticed by the enemy just yet the roots Tamurkhan had been growing were doing just that, feeding into, digging into the fallen and using their compost to invigorate their own growth.
Review Response
Dragon King
Thank you! And yea, it is a common theme among all Chaos that everyone pretty much hates one another and relationships between chaos commanders are marked by that. Certainly they all technically have the same overall competing military objective in defeating the Kaldorei- for the followers of the Four it would bring divine favor (something even the unaligned Sayl would use to bargain for power, for the Chaos Dwarfs they could acquire slaves and (behind their disdainful façade) they have some interest in some magical loot and technology.
However, outside of that….
Not one of the Chaos leadership really wants Tamurkhan to achieve daemonhood- no, not even the khan's Nurgle lieutenants, who would rather achieve that state themselves. Drazhoath at his best was apathetic and has been nursing a gradually growing over his failures in campaign towards the Plague Lord. Obviously, Sayl's biggest goal is for Tamurkhan to crash and burn before letting his rival achieve immortality. Tamrukhan himself knows how treacherous his underlings are and wants to check them as much as possible, with the added benefit of the near-worship that exists among much of the rank and file (either sincere or 'grabbing onto your coattails affect).
SpartanCommander
As can be seen from this chapter, the Nightmare Lord is certainly going to be involved, though whether his arrogance and ignorance harms or helps him remains to be seen.
Undead
Thank you for your response and for your story! Happy to review your story anytime, and it is an inspiration to mine as well!
Looking strictly at historical analogues the answer of who has better between post Thirty Years War Not-Germany and 1400(?) Not….Generic Medieval Kingdom is easy to answer, as historically medieval kingdoms were limited in army size by their logistics and often seemed to function like locusts when it comes to stripping the land of food whereas best as I can tell, post Thirty Wars Germany made a point of trying to move beyond that and began to make heavier use of their river systems for transport, invented depots for ammunition, and generally put larger emphasis in making sure their armies don't have to constantly forage for supplies….which in the Empire is going to help a lot since I'd bet it has a larger portion of forest, and certainly 'hostile' (Beastmen/Orcsetc) forest then contemporary Europe- thus less farmland to draw from.
That said, I don't think the Azerothian can be fit into strictly 'medieval' terms- they are shown to have vast, intercontinental supply chains and quartermasters beyond medieval capability. Along with significant augmentation from magic and technology, not just from portals and air transport, but even basic magic techniques like speeding up crops (BFA) or harvesting them via golems, the frequent use of healing magic to help with medical supplies etc. Sure, Warhammer does have elements of that, but not as safe or, for reasons inherent to the setting (biological constraints on magic users, cultural views on magic etc)
My thoughts on Chaos are at the bottom.
Dullahan2021
Thank you, I am pretty good just life has been busy. Hope all is well with you too
I think as it stands you will see at least one Skaven next arc. If I can ever get there…
Ivan v Guest who responds to Ivan
My thoughts on Chaos and the different realms are below
Regant94
I try. To be truthful, I personally believe Warhammer is better written and interesting but Warcraft has better *potential* to be (even if the flaws in Blizzard methodology means it will never be realized) .
Yes, Chaos' true threat is not the immediate or military (I have seen tallies that suggest they lose more often than not in both Fantasy and Sci-Fi) but its moral decay- the rot that is inflicted upon the mortal races, slowing destroying them within. Regardless of whether the brothers succeed or fail, Azeroth will have to deal with that one day.
However, I can't ever see them condoning Witch Hunters and they'll probably invest in their own methods. These methods will almost certainly be more 'surgical' in nature, with both costs and benefits compared to the Empire's methods.
MadFrog2000
Thanks regarding the Chaos followers- regarding the two champions from earlier, their around.
Rawilliams
It helps that the majority of those super gung-ho and eager got themselves kited into ambushes in the preceding two months, resulting in a bit of natural selection where the majority of those left are more cautious and willing to follow orders.
JiggyliFAP
I am too. In anticipation I have already written the majority of background for the army, major characters and working on the overall plot outline now (something I didn't do for Tamurkhan until late)
Jayhawks
Oh yea, even the Chaos Gods on Mallus during the End Times cannot perform battlefield miracles willy-nilly. That intervention both cost the daemons and weakened what Tamurkhan is going to pull off soon.
Lol Vampyric and Sin'Dorei Blood Knights cannot be farther apart and yea, would hate each other. One is a predator seeking martial perfection, the other a defender of their people who has moved past sketchy origins. If I were a betting man I'd put money on the vampires in combat skill, though the rampant Holy Light use of the Sin'dorei has the potential to make the battle more even.
Arcoscephale
I think what just happened to Sohelia is a good indication of some of what is to come.
ScruffinMcguffin
An interesting idea to explore! I will say that Chaos is helped in that they are not the only power that wants a Warp-connection on Azeroth…..\
kukuhimanpr
Lol thank you hope I can continue to entertain you!
Chaos -Realm essay
On the Chaos commonality between realms… well first to provide a bit of background. The concept of the 'Warp is the same' has been around since the beginning of GW canon, though its manifestation has changed. At first, during the 80s and 90s Warhammer Fantasy and 40k were rather explicitly linked, with 40k style weapons able to be taken in Fantasy and the main WHF Chaos sourcebooks Realm of Chaos and Liber Chaotica featuring Empire characters writing about the Far Future. This was gradually toned down outside of easter eggs until recently, where GW went back and began more actively referencing the idea that Chaos is multiversal, and that all three fictions (AOS, WHF, and 40k) are fighting the same primordial enemy. Or, in GW being explicit in the "Ask the White Dwarf" section:
Q : Grombrindal – I have a question for you. There are four Chaos Gods in the Mortal Realms – Nurgle, Khorne, Tzeentch and Slaanesh. But wasn't Slaanesh created by the aeldari in Warhammer 40,000? How does that work? Any words of wisdom?
A : Eugh, a Chaos question! I really must sort out my contract so I don't have to answer them. Anywho… the Realm of Chaos is a mystical place that spans all of existence, stretching across dimensions and time – sometimes it's called the Realm of Chaos, sometimes the warp, Empyrean, Immaterium, Formless Wastes, Land of Lost Souls or simply the Abyss – it's all pretty much the same thing. In the Warhammer 40,000 universe it's said that Slaanesh was created by the aeldari. After his (or her) creation, Slaanesh was then free to journey across the Realm of Chaos, where he (or she) crafted a realm of pleasure and excess in which to dwell. From this point on, Slaanesh could send his (or her) minions – be they mortal or daemonic – across the Realm of Chaos, either into realspace, to the world-thatwas or now the Mortal Realms (and countless other places). Seeing as how similar the aelves are to the aeldari, it's no wonder that Slaanesh took such an interest in them!
This has been followed up by many other examples- a Warhammer 40k seer having a vision of the Fantasy World, the Greater Daemon Rotigus talking about conquering 'other realms' than 40k, the background for AOS having the Chaos Gods distracted during Sigmar's initial buildup by needing to conquer new realms etc.
Unfortunately, a lot of the arguments I see against the idea of 'Multiversal Chaos' is from an emotional standpoint (' tying 40k to AOS/WHF cheapens the others settings') which is based on the longstanding (probably correct) belief that Games Workshop has favored its sci-fi setting greatly over its fantasy ones. I find this attitude to be a bit kneejerk, and unhelpful to have as it spoils development for a fascinating mechanic.
However in addition there are a number of logical problems with the concept, questions brought up like "why does X exist in Y but not in Z" or "why is Slaanesh still active in 40k given what happened in AOS"? Some of these I think are answerable given what GW has put out, though a few need further development.
I have conducted a fair amount of research into this subject, as I wanted to see to which degree mechanics can cross over and how, from a crossover standpoint, might the Warp (and sorry WHF fans, but I like that term better than 'Aethyr' ) interact with a non-Warp setting or entities and 40k addressed the subject better, thanks to nulls and necrons. From that I have compiled my notes into a personal fanon concept.
Before going on- a disclaimer: Warhammer lore is a vast, forty year old thing. There will be discrepancies particularly since, as I mentioned, there were clear periods where GW went one way on the question then the other. Further, they are clearly developing their lore of all three settings and the Warp itself, so I expect alterations.
I want to emphasize again though that this fic is focused on Warhammer Fantasy and that is what it will remain on, with the slightest possibility of a daemonic character from the other verses appearing. This concept was developed to measure how Out-Of-Universe (i.E. the Warcraft Multiverse) might interact with the WHF/Warp, for the an intellectual exercise and the faintest inspiration to a plotline.
The Reflecting Pool:
The idea of the Warp being a reflection of mortal ideas, thoughts and emotions is long established in the lore for all universes, however I think the idea needs fine-tuning because we are no longer just talking about one universe, but multiple. The Warp can still remain the same vast, endlessly expansive pool but now we need to take into account that multiple different gestalts(mortals of the different universes) may be looking at the same thing but would see something unique looking back at them, much the way we all have different reflections in a mirror. The Mirror of the Mallus Gestalt would showcase an individual shimmering with martial might and sorcerous potential, while the Gestalt 40k would be a grim figure of forgotten science and faded glories.
Moreover, the 'size' of these reflections are not the same, with Mirror Mallus being comparatively small to Mirror 40k- who would be small comparable to a hypothetical Mirror Universal Setting. This comes into play later affecting power, later.
And yet beneath that, many of their fundamental sins are the same. Pride, Deceit, Despair and Hatred run deep across both, and perhaps all realms where mortals abide. This is what I think is key to the separation of the Chaos Gods and Other Gods- the entities of Chaos reflect the unconscious id of the mortals within, where the various other entities reflect the conscious beliefs and idealizations of them. Yes even Khaine, the God of Murder, has to be consciously conceived and worshipped to come about – he does not just come about from the base acts of bloodletting and rage, while Khorne does.
It is a commonly held belief that Chaos, by which we refer to the Big Four, is the literal reflection of mortal failings but, from what I found, this is not quite correct- they are the manifestation of mortal failings. This nuance is key as the belief by the Cabal(40k), Nagash, and Archaon that if you kill all sapient life Chaos would starve is proven entirely incorrect by both the private (non-lie) words of the daemons themselves and events like the End Times, where the Chaos Gods simply moved on elsewhere for a time. Perhaps hypothetically if you did if for all life for all realms the Warp is connected too, then maybe, but that is beyond the scope of anyone's ability.
So with that said, I have noticed some specific questions come up that I want to answer
Could certain 40k elements like psychic powers exist in Warhammer Fantasy?
Yes, absolutely, with canon examples, albeit on the fringes.
The concept of a 'Null'- a Warhammer individual who does not have a Warp presence- is introduced in the figure of Wilhelm von Vaulk in WFRP Old World Patrons Part 2. This individual is a battlemage who was burned out in battle with an orc, and who as a result lost his ability to not only use magic, but sense it too. His soul is specifically described as a 'Black Hole", the common description of Nulls in 40k and he has rules that make magic harder to cast around him, and has a chance of 'spreading' his nullism in prolonged contact. Now the scenario doesn't specifically describe what would happen if a daemon manifested around him, as it dealt with orcs/dwarfs, but one could imagine based on the fact the Neverborn are described as 'raw magic' they might not be feeling too hot.
Meanwhile psychic powers …well every daemon uses that, to whisper into the minds of their victims tempting lies and false promises. That's telepathy. But for mortals? Yes.
We encounter what appears to be a psychic creature In the Gotrek and Felix novel Orcslayer, in the form of a remnant insectoid Emperor called 'the Sleeper' from the time before the Old Ones. This creature successfully mind controls a population of dwarfs and orcs, is able to invade the dreams of the main characters and even wages a psychic assault against the main characters which not even Gotrek is able to fight off (he cheats it). While some magics in Warhammer do affect the mind, like Shadow magic or those of Chaos, there is no evidence of the presence of Uglu here (which typically affects the senses and which wouldn't really make sense anyway, since the Shadow Wind is part of the Old Ones crafted magic system the insects were opposed too) nor of the three Chaos gods, which typically are themed towards one of the god's emotional arrays (like Lust/Greed for Slaanesh).
Further Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay does introduce some careers that are clearly based on mind magic, rather than any specific wind, such as Psychometry, that are somewhat similar to 40k psychic fields 'divination' and which are not tied to any specific wind or god. It could perhaps be considered extremely underdeveloped form of psychic powers in humans.
Perhaps nullism and psychic powers emerge somewhat different in Warhammer Fantasy than 40ik- there are no Necrons (and no, Tomb Kings are not Fantasy Necrons in regards to magic) and no genetic engineering. But I have no doubt that such concepts could emerge, and emerge in a fashion that is vaguely recognizable to a 40k character….or, if you took Fabius Bile or a Necron Cryptek, put them into WFH and asked them to create a psychic/pariah that worked exactly like they do in 40k (albeit with powers scaled down due to lack of available aethyr compared to the Sci-fi setting), I am 100% positive they could do so.
Can Warhammer Fantasy concepts exist in 40k?
Sorcery, in the form of spoken incantations and rituals rather than simply using the mind to do something, does already exist, already generally for Chaos (Tzeentch). For non(explicitly)Chaos it is somewhat harder to find, but the Siege of Terra books recently introduced the lore that the 'Tower of Babel' was once a real thing, that the participants were (somehow) using a mysterious ancient magic known as Enuncia to create spells and that the Emperor felt threatened by it so he put a stop to it. Though the specific origin is unconfirmed, there is some fragmentary evidence to suggest it was the language of the Old Ones.
This is relevant as old Warhammer lore indicates that the color magic human uses and their magical language, is a bastardized form of the Elvish magical language, which is a bastardized form of an even older magical language until you get to the Old Ones.
But what about that time Slaanesh got captured in Age of Sigmar, why didn't he also disappear in Warhammer 40k?
First we have to remember that just because it is January on Holy Terra does not also mean it is January on Mallus. These are different universes, connected only indirectly by a third metaphysical, with their own systems of time. This makes it difficult to determine 'when' exactly the AOS/WHF and 40k universes are in relation to one another, even without accounting for a third party realm without a linear sense of time.
Stepping aside from that, if I throw a rock at my reflection in this vast pool, is it likely to affect yours on the other side? Since we have established that this pool reflects the 'inner appearance' of the beholder, my rock has done nothing to alter your sins. The fact that I have managed to temporarily contain my excess does not mean you have done so with yours.
There is also the fact that the codexes contain a half dozen quotes about the 'lack of causality' in the Warp, meaning what happens in regards to one universe doesn't affect another, but this appears to have at least one….loophole. Which is the 'Slaanesh appeared in 40k, then could appear elsewhere' implying some level of causality. My personal theory on the latter is that it successfully introduced a new 'trait' to the Warp, altering the waters rather than a reflection. Which could have….interesting implications later on.
Why does the Great Horned Rat, Sigmar, The God-Emperor etc not manifest in each others universes?
Because Sigmar and The God Emperor do not reflect the conscious manifestations of the humans of their non-native universes. Or, in other words, men of the Empire don't know who the God Emperor is and vice versa with the Imperium and 40k. Even if you told like the citizens of Talabheim about the Emperor, he still would not be able to manifest. Now if those citizens started worshipping the Emperor, then maybe, but even then it is likely to be different as gods can have different aspects and the Emperor as imagined by the Empire is likely to be substantially different from him as imagined by the Imperium (less xenocidal for one thing) to the point where one can question if they are indeed the same entity.
The question becomes more murkier in regards to the Elven/Orcish Gods however in this an in-universe answer is provided by Lilieath, who in the End Times peaks of cycles that the Eldar Pantheon goes through, and that the survivors of each preceding cycle becomes the gods of the next. Thus Khaine of Cycle 1 and Khaine of Cycle 2 are different entities, even if they share many of the same themes, allowing for the possibility of some conference (the new Khaine filling the role and ideals left behind by the old).
The Orcish gods, to my knowledge (and my AOS knowledge is limited) have never given a statement, but I would imagine a similar state.
The Chaos Gods seem to be more complicated, as while the gods above are formed from specific ideals, acts of worship, concepts of mortals etc, Chaos entities seem to form from 'unbound' concepts -ego vs id. Khorne exists as a result of mortal hatred and their drive for (violent) conquest, and they don't need formal worship to sustain themselves (though they would still benefit) – the very act of violence and rage benefits him. Ditto for the other three.
However, this *does not* seem to be the case for Chaos Gods other than the four, notably the Great Horned Rat and Hashut. Despite claiming a wide listing of emotions as their own, they are never shown to manifest in other settings or have the same influence within their own as the Chaos Gods. For example, you would think a God of Tyranny would run rife across a setting defined by it (40k) or even have great influence amongst the other lands of Mallus (Cathay, Brettonia) but there is no indication of either. The Great Horned Rat claims to be of 'starvation' but famine in the Imperium or hell even the Empire does not result in men turning into rat creatures. In fact, even on Mallus famine is more likely to benefit Nagash than GHR- as it inspires men to turn to cannibalism and thus ghouls.
My indication is to agree with Archaon in AOS and say that these are not 'true' chaos gods, though that is surely their ultimate goal, but racial constructs much like Sigmar and Asuryen. Only perhaps with an interesting twist in that amongst their races, the god in question (Hashut for Chaos Dwaves, Skaven for GHR) has near total influence amongst the species, resulting in other gods having next to no 'in' amongst those species (evidenced by the fact that the Skaven use chaos mutation warpstone without fear of corruption, ditto with Nurgle stuff) but also tying these gods to those races and thus in a setting without them present, cannot manifest.
To become a 'True Chaos God' is to automatically manifest in any Warp connected universe once the Warp/Aethyr levels allows for it, and once a certain emotional threshold is reached. Speaking very hypothetically, if the Warp was interacting with a universe where no one was capable of experiencing the emotion 'despair', then Nurgle could not manifest, but as despair is a key part of mortal experience that can be hard to imagine.
I think there is more than can be said about the different level of Chaos Gods but that is a ten thousand word essay I have already written
'This one Daemon in 40k destroyed entire planets with a handwave'. Doesn't that mean Warcraft is similarly screwed?
Well setting aside that I would like to know the context of that feat (in my experience as a vs. debator, usually feats start to unwind when you apply context to them), the idea that concepts may transfer between universes does not mean or imply that power levels should transfer between universes.
To use the reflecting pool analogy once more, a being's corruption can only be as large as the image before it- and that energy is further split between different types of corruptions, conceptualizations (gods) etc. This is illustrated in certain….rhyming elements, like with how in 40k Nurgle spends power smiting a heretical planet trying to cure all diseases and that a single instance of the ROT can doom a planet, while in Fantasy they have a similar incident with a Shallyan chapter in a town and again the Rot feat is played on the down level as well.
Further, the Chaos Gods struggle to actually manifest their power directly in areas not completely saturated by the winds, and even in the End Times there are limits. I will note of the battles where the gods directly intervened in that time, as in Khorne is hitting the battlefield with his sword direct, they only actually won the last (and that was due to Mannfred).
For that reason, IF Sargeras showed up in the Warhammer Fantasy solar system ( a scenario I have seen posited in other forums) I believe the most likely outcome is the world of Mallus being cut in half, regardless of the Chaos' Gods wishes. Since, limited to the corruption of one world to draw from, the Chaos God's could never draw enough power to counter a planetary level being of the physical universe who is shown to go up against other planet destroyers.
Even the Slann with Chaos' hinted assistance (when they needed it, they found their geomantic webs mysteriously filled to the brim with magic ) barely managed to hold off the debris of a moon at the cost of pretty much sacrificing themselves and Lustria. To do so against a planet sized monster casting spells back at you (and as a walking elemental of Fel-Arcane, he doesn't need to derive power from an arcane bereft universe).
That said, Sargeras' power unlike the gods has a hard limit, while the gods can grow larger as the reflection grows. What I have read of AOS suggests the size of the Mortal Realms is probably that of a solar system- if that system was filled to the brim with land rather than just space. And of course the Mad Titan would be screwed in 40k.
So…is this 'Warp is the Same' stuff relevant to the fic?
To an extent, yes as there are several metaphysical ideas in 40k (non-warp entities, Null etc) that do not appear in Warhammer Fantasy that can be transferred here. Like how daemons interact with non-Warp entities, their ability to play off their emotions etc. It is also possible that some daemonic characters might show up later from 40k or AOS….though initial research does indicate there might be some sort of canon limitation on Daemon Princes manifesting elsewhere, or at least there is a quote from the Plague Wars seems to indicate that. Certainly, the presence of Be'lakor in 40k indicates this limit can be surpassed, but several other important daemon princes from that setting has yet to be shown to manifest elsewhere.