Interlude - State of the World

The Frozen Summer

The Dark Lands – Zorn Uzkul – Year 2517 IC

Anten had dedicated his existence to a purpose. It was what some would argue to be a fruitless endeavour—he was a solitary skink fighting a one-skink war. Those were typically ventures destined to failure. But he thought he was doing a reasonable job of it.

His name was Anten–actually, his name was a mouthful even for his fellow Children of the Gods, so even before leaving Madrigal his name was shortened to Anten by his cohorts, because really, who wanted to have a name with eleven syllables?–and he was one of those that his fellows within the Legion called an "Irregular". Roughly translated, that meant that he was one of those brave individuals who operated independently of the Legion, a solo agent working to unearth any knowledge for the Legion as a whole, to learn of events outside of wherever the Legion was romping around at a given time. And while at it, the Irregulars could do what they felt they needed to assist.

Sometimes, an army wasn't needed to help people. And sometimes, the Great Plan only needed a delicate touch to protect.

There were only ever a small number of Irregulars at a time, and all spread across the four corners of Môrdl–Lustria exempted; there was no need to step on the toes of their Lustrian cousins. Anten had dedicated himself to the Bad Lands and the Dark Lands, those inhospitable lands east of the World's Edge. He was aware of four of his fellow Irregulars who had chosen to station themselves within Bretonnia, though whether that was to spite the Lady Botherers or a sacrifice to spare the majority of the Legion from passing into those lands as much as possible, Anten couldn't say. There was also one who had, last he'd been seen, declared that he was going to try and fill in the Legion's missing knowledge about Nippon and boarded a merchant vessel headed in that direction. Anten didn't know if he'd made it to his desired destination, or even if he still lived. Irregulars didn't communicate with each other, they barely communicated with the Legion outside missives with whatever they'd learnt that were sent to Colonel Iycan. They might get a missive from the Legion with a sepcific task from time to time, but that was about the extent of communications between them.

Anten's self-imposed task had been to learn about the Chaos Dwarfs. While he was at it, he had also given himself the challenge of being a nuisance to their efforts. It was a task that was made easier by the vertically challenged mutants' fondness for slaves, and even greater fondness for mistreating those slaves.

Many a slave riot had happened after Anten had dedicated himself to being a perpetual thorn in the side of the Dawi-Zhaar.

Of course, there were other threats within those barren lands. There were the savage greenskin tribes, the black orcs, there was the occasional visit from the Hobgoblin Kharnate, usually in response to the Kharnate getting annoyed at the Dawi-Zhaar taking some of their own for slaves, and then there were semi-regular appearances from Skaven, who caused problems for everybody and then some, for no real reason other than the oversized rodents being spiteful little shit-bags. So Anten wasn't at a loss for ways to hurt the Chaos Dwarfs, it was typically a case of directing the other threats to his desired targets though underhanded methods. That such riots and attacks from everybody that the Dawi-Zhaar had upset–meaning everybody and everything–meant that their attention was focused away from Anten's actual targets at a given moment was just a nice bonus on top of everything else.

But despite his efforts, he was aware that he was only permitted to do what he did so long as he wasn't given a specific task from the Legion. It had been a while since he had been given a specific task.

Which was why when he woke up that morning, he was not really that surprised to see a large bird perched nearby, preening itself. Attached to the leg of the bird was a message.

It took a while longer than it should have to actually reach the bird–he vaguely recognised it as being Solin's messenger bird, what did he call it? Moya, that was it–because he still ached and was tired from having spent most of the previous day coaxing a tribe of greenskins into attacking a camp of Dawi-Zhaar, and using the confusion and chaos that came about from that to kill a particularly cruel slave-master. He had then been privy to witnessing the resultant rush of orcs and goblins form their own miniature Waaargh and start marching onward, still flush from victory of the "pointy-stunty gits". The littlest Waaargh had then marched south, in the general direction of another Dawi-Zhaar position, a problem for the cloven dwarfs to worry about instead of scouring the lands for Anten, something they would no doubt prefer to be doing.

His eyes read over the words inscribed on the parchment, felt a weight of concern lodging itself within his chest. In the grand scheme of things, Anten wasn't that far away from the realm of Kislev, but this was still news to him. The realm had been enduring a multi-year winter, which was... interesting and concerning in equal measure. It didn't surprise him that he hadn't learnt of this beforehand, it wasn't like the denizens of the Dark Lands were prone to gossiping about their neighbours.

The good colonel wanted Anten to investigate this prolonged winter. Well... drat.

#

It took roughly a month of non-stop riding for Anten to reach Kislev, the realm not the city. It didn't take long at all for the skink to learn that no, the notion of winter not yet having passed into spring, never mind summer, was not an exaggeration. For the time of year it was, there should not be snow this thick, maybe further north than even Kislev, but not within Kislev's borders.

Anten was quick to find a collection of furs with which he could wrap himself, his usual black shirt and breaches very much not suited for the cold climate. He even swallowed his pride and put his old artisanal talents to use and worked some leather into some rudimentary gaiters so that he wasn't walking barefoot upon the snow-covered surface. It wasn't pleasant, for all that the Legion and its Irregulars had taken to wearing clothing footwear was just one of those things that had never taken. Even spatterdashes and gaiters felt irritating to them.

Now draped in about three layers of heavy hides and a heavy cloak, hood pulled over his face, Anten began asking around. Quickly got the lay of the land, worked out where to ask for answers that weren't just zealous spiel from those within the Great Orthodoxy, which was a fairly new institution as far as Anten was aware–but then he would be the first to admit that Kislev had a bit of a gap in his contemporary knowledge. Further out from the Orthodoxy's lips, he began to learn the political climate of Kislev. Two weeks of keeping an ear open and talking to the right people, often over a drink of vodka, and Anten wasn't sure which was colder, the Long Winter as the people were calling it, or the tensions between the Great Orthodoxy and the Ice Court of the currently reigning Tzarina.

He was quick to write down the political details in his report. It might not have been the reason he was in Kislev at that moment, but it was an important update to the state of the world in a region usually avoided by the Legion.

Of more importance to his task was learning of the reason for the Long Winter. At first he assumed that the claims that Ursun hadn't shown up for the past few years were just rumours and the people of Kislev trying to find a cause for their suffering. But the more he heard it, the more he came to believe that they believed it, that it might well be truth.

Ursun not appearing for his annual roar was unprecedented. Multiple winters in a row? Opinions were split as to why it had happened, or hadn't happened as the case may be. There were those who seemed to believe that Ursun was punishing the people of Kislev, which was then further divided to those who blamed Tzarina Katarin and the Ice Court.

'It is a heresy that the Tzarina is an ice witch! Ursan is clearly waiting for us to replace her with somebody better suited!'

Others blamed the general peoples without really explaining what these peoples were supposedly doing to warrant punishment.

'Ursun has judged us and found us wanting. We have failed to live up to his expectations, and now he punishes us for our misdemeanours by making us endure the cold winter until we have been washed away of our sin.'

Then there were those who were claiming that Ursun was testing their faith, or had a plan that would be revealed in due time, or had just overslept and would be yawning away the winter soon.

'Year afta' year, coming to roar away the winter. Who wouldn't get bored and tired? I'd sleep in from time to time if I were in his place.'

Admittedly that last one came from a fellow deep into his vodka.

Another two weeks, these ones now in Kislev–the city–in the hopes of hearing word from those with an ear within the Ice Court. He was rewarded with learning that Prince Yuri had been dispatched by Tzarina Katarin to the north in a quest to find their lost god.

Another week was then spent deliberating about whether he should follow after the expedition north. Arguably, he had learnt enough that his report to the Legion would be interesting reading that Iycan would no doubt be overjoyed to dig into and dissect. But the expedition could learn more, and while Anten had dedicated himself to being a thorn in the cloven feet of the Dawi-Zhaar, he was still an Irregular of the Legion, learning and uncovering details was his passion.

After that week, he sent a messenger bird back to the Legion with what he had learnt so far, and then hoped onto the horse which had carried him across the frozen lands of Kislev–it had been a horse and not one of the large raptors his kind usually favoured as a mount because a horse was less noticeable and better suited to his needs as an independent agent–and he followed after Prince Yuri's expedition. His curiosity was burning, he needed to learn what they found, even if it was a disappointing turnout where the Prince chose give up and turn around.

#

Anten pulled his furred cloak tighter about his body as he neared the large structure. He had lost track of the number of days which passed, food was scarce, it was getting increasingly frigid and the skink was seriously considering turning around and writing off the whole venture. Had he not seen the distant form of the artificial structure, he might very well have done so.

And so it was that Anten walked through the gates of Fort Dervingard.

His eyes instantly tracked the signs that gave evidence to recent occupation. Other details told him that the current vacancy was planned to be temporary, supplies and spare arms and wares were ordered and neatly placed. In these frigid northern wastes, there was no reason not to carry your food supplies with you unless you were leaving it at a place you believed to be a sanctuary to return to.

Though it was interesting to note that there was no sign of a garrison, one would think there would be a permanent garrison left behind to keep out any unwanted trespassers. Trespassers like Anten. The only reason that Anten could puzzle out that would have had the entirety of the fort's occupants leave without even a token guard was that they had a goal which required every available sword to assist with.

In the barracks, Anten found a stack of parchment, a quill nearby. Cursory glance revealed that they were letters of a personal nature, though with no way to have them sent off, they were serving more as a journal of sorts that could then be given to the intended recipient once the author of these letters returned south.

My Dearest Annika,

I miss you dearly, and can't help but think of you in every moment that I spend in these frozen lands. It is the memory of you which grants me the strength to continue marching in spite of the coldness which threatens to turn by very blood to ice.

My Dearest Annika,

The men are starting to doubt in Prince Yuri. Even his own brother has moments of questioning his leadership. He is desperate to find Ursun, to bring an end to the suffering. But he marches ever forward and yet we see no sign of the bear-god.

My Dearest Annika,

We have had our first sighting of hope in so long. Where the men and I all started to doubt, Prince Yuri's faith remained unwavering. He speaks now of hearing Ursun calling to him, of guiding him. And within days we finally found and reclaimed the lost fortress of Dervingard. From here, we have a sanctuary. From here we can now begin our search in earnest.

My Dearest Annika,

As time passes, this faith in Ursun, in the way that Prince Yuri claims to hear him... I start to doubt again. Some of the things that the prince has whispered. But then he goes and leads us to further accomplishments. I am confused, Annika. He makes claims of purifying the taint of Chaos, now holds a weapon previously held by one tainted by the foul forces. What am I to think? Is he right, is his devotion truly burning away the taint of Chaos? Or is he lying to himself.

My Dearest Annika,

Prince Yuri has us marching on Northmen, killing all between him and his destinations, be they man or Daemon. When we reached the Lucent Maze, a foul place that I would sooner forget, Prince Yuri spent a full two weeks within. When he exited, none of us knew what to make of our prince. He has become cold, bitter, and I fear that he took offence when we did not cheer his return.

Even his brother is not being heard when sharing our concerns with the Prince. I fear his heart has turned to ice.

My Dearest Annika,

Prince Yuri continues to fall into depravity. It is not my place to question the prince, but when you see what I have seen, questioning is all I find myself able to do.

The prince has had the savage Northmen gift him tributes, come offering friendship and alliances where before they would do all within their power to remove our presence from these lands. And worse still, Yuri accepts the tributes of the Northmen.

Yesterday, Prince Yuri had us march on the Howling Citadel. If Ursun is truly giving Yuri such commands, I do not know, but surely the Bear-God would not have our prince be blessed by the Ruinous God of Blood and Skull, to have Yuri summon a daemon to his bidding. I do not believe that he hears the voice of Ursun any longer. Maybe he never did.

My Dearest Annika,

Soon we might finally return home. Prince Yuri has assured us that our final challenge is before us. While I fear what depravity I might witness next, I find myself praying that this is indeed the end of our journey; that we turn and come home following this last conquest. Maybe Prince Yuri will turn back to his old self, but I fear that once the Grand Orthodoxy learns of what Prince Yuri has committed in this expedition, he will die.

The prince has ordered that the entirety of the expedition is to march on Screaming Chasm. While I am concerned that we are leaving our sanctuary unprotected, I find myself not caring; I simply want this to end. I wish to return to you, Dearest Annika, to return to your warm embrace which never failed to chase away the chill of the Long Winter.

But, as I write this letter, hopefully the last before I can hand them all to you, I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the cold and snow and the ice. I feel a dread, and I know I am not alone in this. I hear the other men talking, the way they keep looking around them as if trying to find somebody spying on them. There is a constant sense that eyes are upon us, watching us and waiting. I am... scared, that I will not get to see you again, Annika, that Prince Yuri is leading us our deaths. But, I have faith. Maybe no longer in Yuri, but in his brother, who still remains with his sanity intact and never afraid to question Yuri.

We begin our march within the hour.

Your Faithful Husband

Dalmir Gosparad

Anten lowered the last letter, looked upon the crude map of the region which had been pained upon one wall. He trailed a finger along the various marked out landmarks, tried to find this so-called Screaming Chasm. It was quite the journey away, especially when marching in number.

An idea of the journey he needed to take, the skink turned to a nearby window, looked out in the direction of the Chaos Wastes. It looked increasingly cold and miserable, and Anten was not looking forward to the trek.

Any thought of his oncoming journey was put on hold when the sky chose that moment to explode. It was the sound that hit first, the roar of a creature in untold angony, and a sorrow that almost made Anten fall to the ground his aching pains to his own heart. In the distance, the sky bright as pillars of light burst forth from the ground and stretched skyward until something seemed to explode and a ring of raw Winds of Magic suddenly visible to the naked eye of even those not-born with witch-sight rippled and stretched across the sky, leaving behind it a tempest of writhing energy as the Winds were disturbed and unable to settle in the aftermath.

Anten turned his head and covered his eyes as the energy came close and passed over him, the light and mishmash of colours, some of which weren't supposed to be seen by mortal eyes, had his own eyes burning. Because of his protective reaction, he missed the orb of light that was separate from the stretching energy, which crashed down somewhere to the west.

#

Down in the Reik Basin, Skaros paused from his watch over his warriors while they worked to dig through the remains of the destroyed keep. When the sky writhed and the Winds of Magic became visible in the wake of a ring of energy expanding outward from some distant origin, he looked upward, helmet tilted in momentary confusion.

Half a minute later, the exalted warlord dismissed the event as irrelevant and turned back to his warriors. He had his own agenda, what happened up north had no bearing on his own actions. Further down the line, maybe he would have cause for concern, but so long as whatever machinations were at play stayed away from his own agendas, he had no cause for concern.

Miles away from the warhost, the battered remnants of those of the Legion who had escaped Skaros's warhost likewise paused in their trek to reunite with the remainder of the Legion. Iycan and Boney both retched as the maelstrom of energy washed over them, unable to explain to those not gifted with the ability to harness the Winds as to why they felt a deep sense of loss and pain aching in their chests.

#

Down in Reikland, in the city of Altdorf, Emperor Karl Franz was taking a short break from affairs of the state, had chosen to step out onto one of the balconies of the Imperial Palace of Altdorf. Though even if he was trying to take a short break, there was really no such thing, it was just a switch to a different, less formal duty.

In this instance, he was in conversation with Volkmar the Grim. The topic was one of those that he almost went through automatically, details were minor enough that really, Volkmar was just updating the emperor on ventures that didn't truly need his attention but was he interested in knowing of.

What was supposed to be a simple breather from affairs of court turned into something more when a maelstrom of energy washed over the skies above the city before then fading before it could pass outside of the Reik Basin. Franz stared in silent bafflement, for how often does the sky explode and leave the Winds of Magic visible in its wake? He turned to Volkmar, took in the Grand Theogonist's pained expression and hand pressed to his temple. The other man quickly recovered, though his flesh was slightly paler than was normal for him.

'What was that?' Franz asked.

Volkmar shook his head. 'A portent, a sign of dark times coming.' He breathed in a deep breath and straightened his posture, let any weakness of the moment wash away from his frame and made himself the image of devout strength, despite the clear evidence that he had been affected by whatever it was that had happened.

When aren't dark times coming? Franz secretly thought to himself, mind unconsciously bringing up the countless instances he'd endured listening to doomsayers and their claims of the "End Times are coming". He was more inclined to believe Volkmar's words over those many others, but it still felt as if his entire life had been underscored with an ominous approach of grim times and news of constant ill tidings from both within the Empire, and beyond its borders.

Karl Franz, Emperor of the Provinces and Prince of Reikland, considered the event which had just passed, took in the turbulent skies and recalled everything that he knew of current affairs within the Empire and its neighbouring realms. With a sigh, he turned to a nearby page, whose flesh had turned pallid. He was frantically performing the sign of the comet while whispering near silent prayers. Probably wasn't going to be in the right frame of mind to be of much assistance, so he turned back to Volkmar.

'Summon the Elector Counts.'

Maybe this would be a blessing in disguise, something he could unify the Elector Counts over. Unfortunately, a part of his mind was quick to dash any optimism with more reminders about the history of his own peoples.

Somebody had once commented within Karl Franz's earshot that being the emperor looked more akin to herding cats than being a leader to men of intelligence. It was hard to disagree, but that wouldn't stop him from trying.

#

It took some time, but Anten tracked down the origin of the explosion of magic. It had not surprised him to learn that it had originated at the very place that Gosparad's final letter made mention that the expedition was marching toward.

The sky continued to writhe though as time passed, the Winds of Magic were fading back to their default state of invisibility to those not so magically inclined.

When the skink arrived, he arrived to a mass grave. He hadn't passed any Kislevites travelling in the opposite direction, and a small portion of his mind had logged that detail and wondered as to what had happened to the men of Kislev who had come this far north. Now, it appeared that he had found the answer. It looked like Dearest Annika wasn't going to be getting any of her husband's letters, or even her husband back.

Even wrapped in the furs, the cold was only barely that side of tolerable. Anten would stick around only long enough to learn exactly what had happened and then he would leave back to habitats less inclined to kill him with naught but temperature.

A battle had been fought in that cold, distant waste. Kislevite bodies joined with Norscan in death, littering that barren land, now equal in the way that death made all; be they noble or peasant, prince or pauper.

A voice attracted Anten's attention, calling out, beseeching spirits. A necromancer, or something else? Anten advanced, hand rested upon the hilt of his rapier, ready to draw it should the owner of the voice prove hostile. His thoughts trailed back to those letters he had read, the suspicions that Prince Yuri had been listening to a voice that was not benevolent in design.

Stood amongst more of the dead was a robed and hooded figure, attention fixed firmly upon a thick tome that levitated before him, its pages flicking back and forth without any input from the human. From the bodies, ethereal spectres flickered; souls still bound to their remains, whispering in chorus an answer to the man's questioning.

As Anten watched, the souls flickered and faded from view, and the man's attention, firmly placed upon the tome, was momentarily started as a shadowing form seemed to reach from the pages for him. The man's reaction was to snap shut the tome, dispelled the shadowed form, dark vapours now dissipated to the chilled air, leaving behind a different kind of chill. The man looked up at nothing, expression troubled.

Anten chose that moment to make himself known to the man, though his right hand was still firmly wrapped around the hilt of his trusted rapier, whilst the other now reached for the length of braided leather coiled about his hip.

The man noticed Anten quickly, eyes momentarily widened in surprise, then narrowed into a speculative gleam as he examined the skink.

'What brings a skink of Lustria to the Chaos Wastes?'

Anten suppressed the annoyed grunt at the misidentification of his ethnicity. He wasn't as sensitive as his fellows in the Legion to the mistake, but he was aware that that was mainly due to rarely having to experience the mistake in person, one of those little quirks of working independently in the Bad Lands most of the time, where typically he was addressed more often as the 'scaly bastard' by the Dawi-Zhaar, or as a 'scaly runt' by the greenskins. Still, just because he wasn't so sensitive to it didn't mean he didn't find it annoying being referred to as one of those who tended to look down upon his kin as mavericks.

'Not quite Lustrian,' he simply said while he tilted his head and paid close attention to the tome held protectively in the human's arms. 'Investigating.' He added the last word as an answer to the question directed at him.

The human made a sound of understanding. 'Yes, the tide of arcane energy was quite noticeable. But to be here so soon after means that you were already near. Were you warned ahead of time?'

Anten shook his head. 'I was investigating the Long Winter that Kislev has been suffering. I heard of Prince Yuri's investigation, and was interested in seeing what was happening on that front when the explosion of energy happened. What's your excuse for being here so soon?'

The man hugged the tome closer to his chest. 'The Tome of Fates reveals secrets and events of past, present and future. It guided me here, so that somebody might profit from what I have learnt, though who that might be is yet in question.'

'Not yourself?' Anten asked incredulously.

'That is the curse upon the tome: it can only be used in service to others.' The man gave a rueful grin that was quick to fade, and he opened the tome, which immediately flicked through its pages without any further input, stopped seemingly at random and allowed the man to read the page revealed. 'Ah, the Outland Legion? I have heard tales of your kind. Maybe you would be the one's looking to profit from the secrets revealed?'

Anten shook his head, still didn't relax, body was still tense for the possibility of violence and conflict. Maybe the offer was honest, but the tome itself and the description given gave Anten a bad feeling. Felt like something a particular Chaos entity would have a hand in, which made him very reluctant to get involved.

'Just looking to learn of the reason for the winter's length. Nothing more.'

The man didn't look overly upset at his offer being declined. Quite the opposite, he actually looked understanding. 'The God-Bear Ursun has been wounded, through a machination of Ba'lakor. A bullet fuelled by renounced faith. The God-Bear is dying.'

Anten let out a soft grunt at the name. He knew of Be'lakor, of course he did. The Daemon Prince, the first. He was a figure of myth, so far before Anten's time that the idea of Be'lakor almost didn't feel like reality. Not a problem that Anten was equipped to deal with, especially not if the Daemon Prince had already accomplished his ends. Tricking somebody into renouncing and wounding a god? That was quite the feat…

'Prince Yuri?' Anten asked. 'He's the one who shot him, isn't he?'

The man's brow lifted ever so slightly. 'Indeed. How did you know?'

Anten huffed in bemusement. 'His men noticed that he was changing. He claimed to hear Ursun but performed acts of a questionable nature. He started to carry a Chaos tainted blade, and there was something about summoning a daemon.' The skink nodded his head at the tome in the man's hands. 'Not everything requires a cursed tome to learn of. Sometimes, you just have to look around.'

An amused huff left the man's lips. 'And if the tome might offer a way to save the God-Bear?'

Anten hesitated for a moment, seriously took the moment to reconsider whether or not he was too hasty in his choice to turn down the offer of the knowledge within man's tome, knowledge beyond what had already been learnt. Eventually, he shook his head.

At best, Anten could send a missive to Iycan and Ingwel informing them of the situation and they could in turn forward that missive to Madrigal to see if they could get insight from the star mages or astromancers back home. That way they wouldn't need to worry about the catch that came from getting their knowledge of the situation from a tome with Tzeentch's stench all over it.

'My advice,' Anten spoke after a lengthy pause, 'is to go speak to Kislev and offer the tzarina your service. It is their god, even if the Ice Court were to hold no loyalty to Ursun, it would be politically prudent for her to act on the knowledge regardless, considering the Great Orthodoxy is questioning Katarin's legitimacy and tearing the realm in two. It would be quite the feat for her to sally forth and find their God-Bear.'

The man hummed in thought and nodded a single shallow nod, as if less outright agreeing but more adding to a list of possibilities in his mind.

Anten stepped back, removed his hand from the whip and rubbed at his arm, tried to warm up the limb. 'I shall be taking my leave. I have learnt all I needed.'

#

The man watched strange skink leave the shadow of the portal, a small corner of his mind cataloguing every detail he could discern. It was not often that one encountered something that seemed to defy expectation in such a way as that one skink had done. His limited dealings with Lustrians had taught him that they were very rigid in culture, so to see a member of that race dressed as a human would, carrying a rapier and a bullwhip of all weapons, and then to learn that it was but one of a number of such… He had never heard of this Outland Legion before the Tome of Fates had deigned fit to inform him what the strange lizardman was a part of, the reason it was different. After the skink had long since gone, he lowered his eyes to the Tome of Fates which was still levitating before him. It flicked a single page and his brows rose at what was revealed.

'Maybe it is a good thing that you not involve your Legion,' he murmured. It was so quietly uttered that it went unheard, wasn't meant for Anten to hear, only himself. His eyes fixed themselves upon the symbol that dominated one page, and the feeling of malice that leaked from the inscribed image. 'Your kind will be busy in the times to come.'

He had come to expect the moment when the Chaos sigil warped, and a daemonic visage appeared, glaring at him with utter loathing and disgust as it then tried to reach through time and space, to emerge from the page in an effort to grasp at him and bend him to its will. It was an unfortunate consequence of the nature of Chaos, those certain entities with power enough to sense when they were being observed or learnt of, when mortal eyes dared to look upon even their likeness, even through the pages of an artefact as powerful as the Tome of Fates. The Slaaneshi daemon N'Kari had been quite the wake-up call on that front, and the hardest to resist.

He snapped the thick tome shut before a clawed appendage could come near, dissipated the limb which turned to smoke and faded with the harsh winds of the wastes.

After a moment gathering his thoughts, the man took a breath and turned to find shelter. He would need to learn as much as he could through one of the few loopholes he knew of to the curse of the tome, learn of all who might benefit from his wisdom, and who he might also possibly benefit himself in the process.

-TBC

###

Author's Note:

I don't usually do the Author's Notes thing, I prefer to let the narrative do its thing and then directly answer any questions in the comments - assuming I can hold myself back from spoiling things :-P

However, in this instance I will interject to say that:

No, this interlude does not mean I am going to go into a retelling of Warhammer Total War 3, or any other of the series. Even the canon is not one-for-one with TW:W, but broad strokes so long as they don't contradict the official GW canon of the tabletop... even if that means that yes, the End Times are the canon of the setting I'm slicing into. Unfortunately, by the very nature of how this was originally started being written with Age of Sigmar as a future facet, and AoS is still one of the category tags even though it looks like the Mortal Realms won't themselves be making an appearance until the very end, yeah, whatever your feelings of the End Times, they're the canon I've gone with.

So, the point of the State of the World interlude, and any other I write, is purely to give a sense of what's happening elsewhere independently of the main story, and can also potentially explain background details that can still effect the Legion and their happenings. In this case, a god just got mortally wounded, and the resultant energy just had Karl Franz say the thing: which means Boris Todbringer isn't going to be in Middenheim to learn that he has a Chaos Warhost on his doorstep for a period of time. As far as the Graf of Middenheim is aware, there's only an undead problem that is in theory being dealt with already, poor sod is going to be a bit miffed when he gets home to learn that his problems have only gotten a touch more... more. So, regardless of whether I depict the Chaos rifts that were a nuisance in TW:W3, there are effects.

Also, future updates might be a touch slower, as unlike my original thoughts of having this be a anthology series of non-linear one-shots, it evolved into a singular narrative, and that means I want to actually make sure I tell it competently. Not that I wouldn't want to write an anthology competently but, you know, in an anthology I only have to worry about each one-shot as a singular entity. I'll stop digging now.

Also, I suppose since I'm already writing an AN: if you ever notice spelling or grammatical mistakes, feel free to point them out, I am always happy to edit corrections. I am one of those people guilty of self-bias, which makes double checking really annoying, as somehow I always miss at least one or two mistakes, which is baffling when spell-checkers exist, but somehow they just slip through the cracks and embarrass me later on.

Thank you for your time. Hope you all have a good one.

J. Logan