State of the World
Desolation's Path
Cauldron of Souls, Realm of Chaos
—
To an outsider, the scene was surreal. The bear of godly stature, bound in place, struggling weakly, a rumbling occasionally vibrating the air as the ursine growled lowly, aged eyes affixed upon a shadow. A closer inspection would reveal that the struggling was waning, as though the bear were weakening as time passed.
In truth, the bear was more than just a bear of colossal proportion. Bound and held captive, this was a god. Held against his will for seven years, until recent events had shifted events beyond mere captivity. The unthinkable was happening.
Ursun was dying. A bullet fuelled by faith renounced, machinations a near decade in the making, now coming to fruition. His life was slowly seeping from him, a feat that should have nought been possible.
The shadow laughed mockingly, watched as the life slowly faded from aged wisdom-filled eyes. As the seconds passed, the shadow became less a shadow, started to look instead more like an entity lurking within shadows. Then the shadows faded, to gradually reveal the form that had once been stripped away from it, the punishment for ambition unfettered.
Ambition that never faded in spite of such punishment. If anything, the fate forced upon that shadow redirected the ambitions, gave a new focus. It did not matter how many humiliations the gods heaped upon the First Prince. How each to be granted the title of "Everchosen" was crowned by that cursed prince, not through choice but through force. Each indignity heaped upon the First Prince was more kindling to the fire that was his ever burning hatred for everything. Gods. Mortals. Those in between.
He was Ba'lakor—the First Prince. And though the Gods that once granted him power had discarded him, chucked him aside as a child would a toy they had bored with, he was still there, still hungry for the power denied him.
And so he stood, a shadow among shadows, watching as the life slowly drained from the colossal god-bear. Watched as his ambitions slowly stirred to life.
He laughed, low and mocking.
And Ursun was powerless to do more than roar.
#
Underdark Cavern, Southern Chaos Wastes
—
This was his-his time to shine. The Council of Thirteen would have to acknowledge-praise the contributions of Skrril Warpflare in the plan to bring the Horned Rat to his rightful place in the world. Maybe even grant Skrril Warpflare a position-rank of importance.
Maybe Skrril could become the first of a new clan.
Skrril took a moment to daydream-fantasise. Only a moment. Even with notions of his due reward for his soon-to-come deeds, he knew this was important. Had to pay attention.
A bell tolled in the background—its ringing a siren call.
The dark cavern buzzed with a cacophony of clattering machinery and the high-pitched chittering of skaven engineers. Sparks flew from overworked forges, and the air was thick with the acrid scent of burning warpstone. In the centre of the vast, hollowed-out chamber stood the "Skyburster," a grotesque amalgamation of steel plates, rivets, and glowing green warpstone conduits.
The bell continued to sound. Skrril let out his breath and gazed upon the skyburster. This was his moment.
Skrril Warpflare, his fur matted and eyes gleaming with manic energy, scurried toward the base of the Skyburster, his long, tattered robes trailing behind him. A group of lesser skaven scurried out of his way, squeaking in fear as they avoided his path. None would dare to interfere, not now-here. Not with a Grey Seer watching.
Skrril reached the ladder leading up to the cockpit, his teeth bared in a feral grin. He scrambled up the rungs with the agility of a cornered rat, muttering to himself in rapid, excited bursts.
"Yes-yes! Soon-soon, the sky belongs to me-me! Warpflare, master of the skies, the stars, yes-yes!"
He reached the top and flung open the hatch, squeezing his wiry frame into the cramped cockpit. The interior was a chaotic mess of rusted levers, cracked dials, and flickering, unstable warpstone gauges. Skrril's eyes gleamed as he took in the sight, his paws moving instinctively to the controls.
He slammed his paw down on a large, warpstone-encrusted lever, and the entire Skyburster shuddered as the engines roared to life. The cavern filled with the deafening sound of churning gears.
The farsqueaker crackled, and the voice of the warlock engineer that the Grey Seers had "recruited" from Clan Skrye could be heard.
'Skrril Warpflare is ready, yes-yes? Warpstone fuel ready.'
Skrril grinned, his whiskers twitching as he initiated the launch sequence. From the farsqueaker, the warlock engineer's voice was echoed outside the Skybuster, crackling over the crude system of farsqueakers lining the caverns in what the warlock engineer had called an "intercom" system. The warlock engineer's voice echoed through the cavern to the skaven below the Skyburster, who were frantically running about, trying to avoid getting crushed by the shuddering monstrosity above them.
'All skaven ready, yes-yes! Count-count,' Skrril answered impatiently, urging the warlock engineer to hurry up.
The warlock engineer uttered something in Queekish that didn't manage to make itself properly heard through the crackling and popping quality of the farsqueaker. But after a moment, his voice was heard properly again, making a special effort to speak clearly enough to be heard through the farsqueaker.
'Ten-ten.'
Skrril rolled his eyes. 'Quick-quick, scurry-scurry.'
There was a pause. 'Nine-nine.' And then another dragged-out pause. 'Eight-eight.'
'You petty-irritable fool-fool! Faster-faster!'
There was a moment where another voice was heard in the farsqueaker, though faint and distant enough that Skrril got the sense that it was somebody further away from the farsqueaker that the warlock engineer was using. There was another pause, and then the warlock engineer, voice irritated but with a sense of resignation that implied he was being made to do something by somebody he wasn't able to argue against.
The countdown was still too slow for Skrril's tastes, but at least now it didn't feel like it was being dragged out deliberately.
'One-one,' the warlock engineer finally reached. 'Now-now, Skyburster Go-go'.
With a final, triumphant yank of the lever, Skrril cackled as the Skyburster's engines screamed to full power. The entire rocket trembled violently, bolts and rivets rattling loose, as it began to rise from its platform. The force of the launch sent a shockwave through the cavern, causing rocks and debris to fall from the ceiling, but Skrril paid no heed.
'Fly-fly, Skyburster! To the sky-stars!' He cheered, laughing maniacally as he saw his triumph come to fruition at last.
The Skyburster shot upward, wobbling dangerously as it ascended through the jagged hole in the cavern roof. The skaven below squealed in both terror and awe as their crude creation defied gravity, streaking toward the heavens, all the while leaving a trail of green, toxic smoke in its wake.
Inside the cockpit, Skrril's maniacal laughter echoed as he was pressed back into his seat by the force of the launch. His eyes were wide with madness and triumph, the thrill of impending success—or spectacular failure—pushing him to the edge of sanity.
'Yes-yes! Warpflare, ruler of the stars! All will know-praise me-me!'
As the Skyburster broke through the surface and into the night sky, the pilot's laughter was drowned out by the roar of the engines and the crackling energy of warpstone. Whether it would reach the stars or come crashing down in a fiery explosion, only time would tell. But for now, Skrril Warpflare was king of the skies, if only in his own delusional mind.
Below, the Grey Seer watched as the Skyburster vanished skyward, and huffed out a satisfied breath. This was one more step on the path to bringing forth the Horned Rat, assuming that the crazy clanrat who he had chosen for the venture didn't manage to bungle-foul up the plan with his delusions of ruling the stars.
#
Northern Middenland, The Empire
—
Commander Morgan Bernhardt knew the moment that the fight against the Chaos warhost had started, despite his not being there to see the event. It was difficult for anybody to miss, the cannons firing in such numbers was a sound that was echoing loud enough that he would not be surprised if it could be heard from as far as as three leagues.
For a moment he felt a stirring of regret. He wished he could have been a part of that battle. But the beastmen emerging had been an issue that needed sorting, lest they charge to that very battle and contribute to the favour of Chaos. The Grudgebringers would have only been a small part of the army, their absence wouldn't be missed, not in the grand scheme of things. Not when by taking on this lesser threat they were contributing to the battle more meaningfully than by being just another set of troops among the masses.
His thoughts were forced to return to the present, away from those booming but distant cannons and to the immediate threat that was a group of bestigors (at least, he believed them to be, but beastmen weren't his regular foe in battle, he was putting vague descriptions to the mutants in his sight) charging toward Shepke and the infantry. Even as he watched, Shepke managed to call for the infantry to brace, shields raised. The beastmen slammed into the shields, were held back, weren't able to overrun the men. But these beasts were larger than a man, with bodies rippling with muscles and holding crude but still no doubt lethal axes in hand.
Good training or not, that was an unwinnable position for Shepke. Sooner rather than later, the beasts would overcome the resistance. It was better than it could have been though, the street was narrow enough that the Grudgebringer infantry were able to block the street from wall to wall even in their tight formation. The beasts had no choice but to push forward, no circling around and striking at the flanks.
The position of these bestigor didn't afford them the same luxury.
With a muttered oath to Sigmar, Bernhardt urged his stallion into a gallop, felt more than heard the way that the rest of his cavalry followed his lead. Grip tightening around the blade for which his company was named, pointed that same sword forward, toward the mutants. Five seconds before the Grudgebringer cavalry smashed into the bestigors, they were preceded by a wave of fire that washed over the mutants. There were bleated warbles of pain, those not immediately incinerated reeling from the blistering heat that washed over them.
However, their troubles with burns were the least of the beasts' concerns, for Bernhardt and his cavalry slammed into their weakened flank mere moments later, blades swinging. And those that weren't struck by sword were victim to the trampling hooves of the destriers. There was nowhere for the beasts to turn, they had been pushing against the anvil that was the swordsmen of the Grudsdgebringers—who now relieved the pressure were swinging back—and now they were struck by the cavalry hammer.
Bernhardt didn't linger long, he had struck hard and fast, but getting into a drawn-out melee wasn't where he wanted to be. Backed his mount away, nodded at Shepke when the lieutenant met his eyes, and then galloped away, eyes wide open for opportunities to strike where it would cause the most damage, even if it meant turning and charging into the same band of bestigors.
His eyes focused on the retinue of halberdiers, holding their ground against a number of centigor, polearms working wonders at forcing the beasts at a distance. He briefly considered having the cavalry charge into the beastmen parody of a cavalry unit, but the choice was rendered moot a moment later when a glowing spear made of amber flew through the air and carved its way through a line of centigors, puncturing through flesh with an ease that could only come from a weapon made of magic made manifest.
The centigors panicked at the unexpected blow to their numbers, and in their panic, they lowered their defences enough that the halberdiers could exploit the opening, cutting down the beasts.
Bernhardt followed the path that the glowing spear had taken, caught sight of the Amber Wizard called Allor. His was a familiar face, this wasn't the first time that he had joined the Grudgebringers, had been attached to their numbers during the affair some years back when they had been campaigning against the skaven Grey Seer Thanquol.
Allor's joining the Grudgebringers was just confirmation of Morgan's thoughts some months back, that something big was coming. Allor didn't join a band of mercenaries for money—he was convenient in that way, convenient for the coffers—but because he felt it the place he was best able to assist the peoples of the Old World.
When Matthias had found Bernhardt a week prior and told him of the beastman threat, Allor had accepted Bernhardt's immediate decision to cull the mutants rather than join the offensive against the Chaos invaders. It was reassuring, in its own way. Allor's certainty that they were making the right move by cutting away at the smaller issues while letting others handle the bigger threats.
And if history continued to repeat itself, Morgan would find himself embroiled in a campaign against some larger threat behind the scenes.
He rallied his cavalry to him, eyes already scouting for the next threat that needed his attention.
#
Northern Oblast, Kislev
—
Frigid winter winds blew down from mountains to the north. Even for Kislev, the chill those winds brought with them was unnaturally cold for the time of year. Even with the summer's transition to fall, this was still a wind better suited for the peak of winter. Seven years the winter had lasted.
Katarin's breath turned to mist before her, curling and vanishing into the freezing air. Seven years of winter. The thought gnawed at her, though she would never show it. Her people looked to her for strength, and strength she would give them—even as her heart clenched with the weight of Yuri's disappearance.
At least now, there was hope that the spring would finally return. A goal had been set, a task, a crusade. Find where Ursun was held captive. Rescue Ursun.
She was Katarin Bokha. Tsarina. Ice Queen.
Despite that last title, the wind's chill still had her briefly tighten her cloak about her body. Contrary to common belief, she could feel the cold. It bothered her just as it did her subjects during the seven years without reprieve. It was only the ice of her own making that never bothered her. For how could she feel discomfort from what was an extension of her very being?
She wasn't ignorant of those who had fled the country. Kislev pride and stubbornness lost out to one enemy that could not be out-stubborned: Nature. One couldn't swing a blade at cold weather. One couldn't fight frosted grounds into growing a harvest.
How much of her country's resources had she spent over the past seven years on importing produce just so her subjects would not starve? How many soldiers had she hired out like little more than glorified mercenaries, just to ease the financial strain that came from seven years of buying the very means her people needed to survive? How many of those soldiers died fighting battles that they had no business being involved in because Kislevite pride made fleeing the country for the Empire and its bountiful harvests a last resort?
In her own way, despite her mistrust of the man who called himself "the Adviser", and his cursed tome, Tsarina Katarin was thankful for his appearance. Because, even if his words ended up being false—she doubted that, he believed in his own words too much for them to be a falsehood—at least he had given them hope that had been lacking.
Especially since Prince Yuri Barkov's expedition vanished into the Chaos Wastes and was never heard from again.
Yuri… At the thought of Yuri, her heart clenched, a subtle pain she couldn't quite ignore. She had believed Yuri's expedition to be her last hope. His disappearance had been like the reservoir of that elusive feeling being gradually drained.
What would father have done, were he still alive? That was a common, yet secret, thought that often crossed her mind. A doubt that she refused to let rise to the surface, because her detractors would use any advantage they could against her. Feelings of doubt, of feeling like she wasn't living up to her father's legacy, that was ammunition she refused to give them. Refused to give the Supreme Patriarch of the Great Orthodoxy.
Would father have found Ursun already? Would he have managed to prevent Ursun from whatever wound is killing him? Kept him from whatever force holds him captive to begin with?
Swallowed down the questions, forced that uncertainty down into the proverbial bottle before it could be unleashed.
Rather than dwell on thoughts that threatened to crack the icy armour shielding her emotions, Katarin turned her attention outward, turned her gaze in the direction she knew the Chaos Wastes to lay.
Shortly after her departure from Kislev, gathering up fighting men and women for the inevitable battles to come, a threat had made itself known. A daemon lurking in Norsca, a prince. A threat with its eyes turned to Kislev with a desire to watch the bulwark of the Old World burn.
It was a distraction from her task, a duty that forced her to split her attention. Now she had to reinforce the border, fend off this threat, while still preparing for a task that was ambitious in its scale.
If the Adviser was correct, if she wanted to save Ursun, she would soon be leading an invasion of the very Realms of Chaos. Though maybe "invasion" was an optimistic choice of wording. Raiding would be more apt a word. Raids with a focus on hunting down specific daemon princes, to harvest their souls—or whatever passed for a soul with a daemon prince.
According to the Adviser, they would have their first opportunity soon.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the Adviser called out from her tent. Katarin inhaled softly, pulling at some well of patience within her. Resolving to focus on the tasks ahead, Katarin made her way to the command tent where her council awaited.
Though he never gave reason to doubt, she could not bring herself to trust the Adviser implicitly. He was self-serving, though honest about it in a way that was admittedly refreshing. His price of a drop of Ursun's blood so that he could free himself of the curse that bound him to that tome? Self-serving, but understandable. And if anything could purge him of a curse that was decidedly Chaos in nature, it would be a drop of Ursun's divine blood. Ursun would likely even give it freely if it meant foiling Chaos's schemes.
Her skin prickled whenever he was near, an instinctive distrust she couldn't shake.
And how did he come to possess a tome that, as far as Katarin knew, had been locked away in Middenheim's vault? It was in her nature to be suspicious. Based on what she knew, there was every reason to believe him a thief.
But the tome and its curse were known. Knowledge about anything and everything, but only ever able to be used in service of others. No wonder he was "the Adviser", it was all he would ever be able to do so long as that geas had its grips upon him.
Katarin entered her tent, the scent of pine replaced instead with the scent of incense marking the transition. Her eyes instantly moved first to the Adviser, and then to the Boyars who had joined her for her crusade to save Ursun. All were standing around the table upon which she had laid out the maps of the world. And behind the Boyars, Ice Witches of the court.
'Ah, Tsarina Katarin,' the Adviser greeted her, tone deferential, though with an element of wariness that had never left since she had nearly suffocated him in ice when he had first come before her with his claims of Ursun's fate.
'You are ready, then?' she answered with a question instead of a greeting, tone as cold as her ice.
The Adviser nodded a single nod, absently resting his tome on the table, opened, and he kept one hand on the open pages, though whether that was to keep it from closing itself, or because he was drawing power from the artefact, Katarin didn't know.
'Yes. With this ritual, I will be able to tell you where the rifts shall appear. It will allow you to better prepare.'
'One would think,' one of the Boyars remarked, 'that your precious book would just tell you.'
The Adviser cast a dour look at the Boyar who had spoken, an uncharacteristic annoyance crossing his face, though maybe that was normal for those who weren't in positions of power over him. As he was technically under the Tsarina's direct employ, he wasn't beholden to the Boyars. The Ice Witches also in the tent were given more of a cautious deference, but then it was commonly known that the witches of the Ice Court only ever acted with Tsarina Katarin's voice, acting as an extension of her will.
'As powerful as the Tome of Fates may be, some details need work to reveal. This is one such detail,' he spoke as if lecturing an infant on basic etiquette.
The Boyar opened his mouth to make a retort, but Katarin cut him off.
'Enough.' Her tone brooked no argument. Her attention affixed itself squarely upon the Adviser. 'Do it.'
The Adviser nodded, again only a single deferential nod, then focused on the map, muttering foreign words, while carefully placing five clay discs down. For two minutes, he continued to mutter those words. To the Tsarina, and the five witches in the tent, there was a static energy to the air, indicative of the Winds of Magic being utilised in a manner that was—for lack of a better word—neutral, not being fuelled by any specific lore. The book seemed to greedily drink in the Winds that were drawn into the tent, but it then expelled that same energy back into the Adviser through the hand he still rested on its pages.
As the third minute began, the Adviser slammed a hand on the tabletop, with force enough that those small clay discs lifted into the air. But it was clear that another force was at play because the way the discs landed again was unnatural. Not with the way that one of them launched itself across the map to land on the depicted lands of Grand Cathay. The moment the discs landed and weren't moving, the static energy to the air dissipated.
The palm slamming into the table made the Boyars all jump in startlement, a couple even reaching for the pistols at their hips. The Adviser looked at them blankly.
'Forgive me, but with the nature of our task, I believed it better to go for haste over propriety. Was I wrong?'
'No.' Katarin cut off any other comment that might be made. 'Haste is preferred.'
Her eyes looked to the map.
'So, I assume that the discs all landed where rifts shall form?' she asked, more to double-check herself than because she truly did not know.
'Yes, that is correct, Tsarina.' The Adviser's voice was distracted as he also looked upon the clay markers. 'These are the five rifts that will open closest to where we are right now.'
Aside from the one which had landed in Grand Cathay, one had landed near Troll Country, one in the Northern Chaos Wastes, one down south in the Empire—Katarin made a mental note to send a message to Emperor Franz, warn him about that—while the fifth had landed next to Erengrad. Next to where Supreme Patriarch Kostaltyn had taken residence when he had started the feud between the Ice Court and the Great Orthodoxy.
That's going to complicate matters, Katarin thought sourly. Kostaltyn is not going to make access to the rift easy, just out of spite.
'Maybe we can use this to our benefit,' one of the Boyars mused aloud, eyes lingering on the Erengrad.
'How so?' Katarin asked, recognising him as Boyar Viktor Kuznetsov.
Viktor looked to the Adviser. 'How likely is it that daemons are going to be coming out of the rifts?' he asked like he already knew the answer.
The Adviser's brows raised in faint amusement. 'I would imagine almost certain.'
The Boyar looked once again to Katarin. 'We tell the Supreme Patriarch, warn him that we have learnt of the rift, and the threat that it represents. And then we say that we plan to go through, to try to cull the threat from the inside, while the Grand Orthodoxy protects the lands from those who would slip past us.'
Katarin considered that for a moment. 'Make it look as if we are willing to work together for the defence of Kislev from the daemons of Chaos. Earn some goodwill from the people, looking as though we are the ones willing to compromise. Maybe even convince Kostaltyn to put his feud with me on hold for the time being.' Her head tilted, as she weighed those pros against any cons that might come to mind.
'Either that,' one of the witches spoke up, 'or we still warn him, but also mention the rift in Troll Country, which is still close enough to be a threat to Kislev. And close enough to that daemon prince in Norsca that we don't want to chance the prince using it to gain strength against us. Put trust in the Supreme Patriarch to defend Kislev.'
'A valid concern.' Katarin acknowledged. 'And it also gives a message that we trust him enough not to intrude on "his" territory.'
She inhaled, now weighing that choice against the first.
'I shall give this matter due consideration. I will make my decision tonight. Until then, ready the troops to move out at dawn, regardless of what I decide.'
The council murmured their affirmations and then filed out of the tent, leaving only Tsarina Katarin and the Adviser. After a moment, she turned to the Adviser.
'Do you have any opinions?'
The Adviser shook his head. 'Both choices have their benefits and their risks. Go to Troll Country, Kostaltyn might try to spin that as you abandoning the people of Erengrad. Go to Erengrad, and it would be as your Ice Witch spoke: the daemon prince in Norsca might use that rift to further his own ambitions.'
Katarin hummed, brow creased in consideration.
'Leave me.'
The Adviser nodded and after one last look at the map, particularly at the marker that had landed upon Grand Cathay, he departed. Finally alone, Katarin let the chill seep in for a moment, allowing herself to feel the cold she'd so carefully pushed away. Seven years. Seven winters without reprieve. Yet there was no place for doubt—not now. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, her path was set. Tomorrow, they would march.
#
Hexoatl, Lustria
—
The stars were a crisp, clear canvas upon the night sky that warm and pleasantly humid evening. Morrslieb was nowhere to be seen that particular night, no hint of the foul, ominous glow. Not that any rational being would think to complain about that. Mannslieb, in contrast, was exactly where it should be, a vividly bright celestial body that rested above like a silent guardian of the night.
But that night, there was something different, something out of place.
Hanging in the night sky, a bright light that slowly swept from left to right. A celestial body that was not normally to be seen. But more importantly, the shape of this heavenly body—it split into two, trailing tails that dragged along behind it. This was an omen, a celestial message of the gods.
A comet with twin tails. Such a sight always preceded some significant event in the world, such as the birth of a man who would become a god.
'The forked tongue of Sotek hangs low in the sky.'
The thought was uttered aloud, sibilant hiss giving voice to thoughts more for his own benefit than any other. Though there was an audience, listening attentively.
'The slann have felt it. Now I see it, brighter, clearer.'
The skink who was thinking aloud stepped back from the telescope, unconsciously adjusting his headdress from where it had been disturbed by his leaning forward to gaze upon the stars.
'Its hiss disturbs the Winds of Magic.'
The skink turned around, eyes meeting the kroxigor who had been watching with rapt attention.
'Come, Tar-Grax. We need to look upon the sacred plaques.'
The skink took one last glance at the bright, heavenly body through the telescope. It was still there, its twin tails spreading faintly across the dark sky, a symbol of something far beyond his understanding. He let out a soft hiss.
'Sotek's tongue will bring change,' he muttered again, the words lingering in the cool night air. With a final adjustment to his headdress, he turned away. The kroxigor rumbled softly beside him, a low, patient noise.
Neither of them saw the slow dimming of the comet's light.
What had once been a brilliant, vivid omen now grew faint—its glow fading to a pale orange, like dying embers smothered by the sky. Where it once held sway over the night, now it wavered, retreating, drifting lower and lower until it was swallowed by the darkness.
But the two figures had already left the platform, their heavy footfalls echoing in the stillness as they moved toward the sacred plaques.
Overhead, where the comet had been, the night settled back into its usual pattern—a quiet, crisp canvas of stars. Nothing lingered to suggest that a spark had ever flickered, that something had shifted. The night appeared undisturbed.
AN:
Hope ya'll had a good Christmas (or whichever particular holiday is the one you call yours), and a had a good New Year.
Just a State of the World/omake for the time being. Writer's block hit me last month, and I felt that rather than wait, I'll give ya'll this to tide you over (original plan was to have this be posted after the current battle, as a breather between acts, but eh, it's here, I have it, and timing-wise, Bernhardt's part marks it as happening during the Legion's battle, even if the other parts could take place at any time during or after.
Hope to keep seeing you all.
Peace!
