A/R:
100 Fires: Damn, thanks man I appreciate the vote of confidence! That being said I don't think my story is nearly big enough to constitute that kind of support. I feel honored by that statement, and honestly it WOULD be a dream come true, especially if you considered the mechanics that he could bring to the Barrow Legion. But, again that's just a pipe dream.
DarkWarrior41: You're right, it won't be Felhart. He'd honestly be overkill, plus the geographical location wouldn't make much sense in this case.
Haldir639: Lol, I have to admit, three arcs is a bit more realistic with how much more anarchy I'm unleashing on the realm of the Lady. But, I just can't help it. It's like Littlefinger said. Chaos is a ladder, and I wanna see how high these guys can get on it. As far as the sisters of Twighlight are concerned I would be tempted to go with the 6E version, except the problem for that is, I'm basing a lot of the fics that I write for Warhammer, particularly in terms of locations and whatnot on the Total War map and characters. Granted I've taken SOME liberties in this area, but I like to have the consistency across the board.
Aymen El Kadouri: Pretty much. And the worst part about is that with possibly the exception of Cathay, nobody really has anything quite like in Warhammer Fantasy except the Druchii themselves. It's why their acts of piracy are so effective and so devastating for their unfortunate targets.
women ruiz: Morathi would definitely want a cut of the slave trade pie happening over there now, to sate her unholy rituals…and mass orgies that you just know she's partaking in. And while I'm tempted to throw in the vampire coast, I think Bretonnia has enough of a mess as it is. And yes, invading Athel Loren is the equivalent of invading Vietnam on steroids. I'm not saying that Lyle couldn't win some battles, but actually making any long term success would be more trouble than it's worth.
Focus of the Future: Oh hell yeah it is.
zerkil: Not skinny jenes, but you're not too far off the mark. It's gonna boost morale alright. And I can assure there will be no holes being made, least not intentionally.
Immage: Not a bad guess, but not quite pantyhose either. You'll find out the real answer in the next chapter after this one. And believe me, it's not just the Lahmian fashion that'll get shaken up.
Cousin687: Not sure. Maybe if Lyle can somehow some way get on good with an Elector Count…or just steal one outright.
dadg12346: Reject the elven hussies. Dwarven maidens are where it's at. And no not quite spandex, but you're very close.
rc48177: Absolutely on point there. But look on the bright side! It could always be worse! It could be 40k.
Jajo Camello: I kind of wish I brought Krell in sooner on a more consistent basis for this exact reason. I feel like I've missed out on many great moments where Krell and Lyle could have played off on each other like this. Oh well. Better late than never.
RandomSovietFarmer: Lol, Simmire would probably fit right into the Barrow Legion. Lyle would feel some kind of way about her, especially the system she adopted that you'll see more of here, but his Inner Circle would probably convince him that she'd be a great help at the end of the day. And hold on now, it's not quite curtains for Jori and Ham. There may yet be hope for them still. And as for Napalm, well…if anyone deserved it's definitely those damned Knife-ears.
Uros Osium: Oh you can bet that vengeance will be visited upon the Fay Enchantress if anything happens to his buddies. The only thing that will hold him back is that he has so many other threats to deal with.
…
Evette tarried near the prone form of Rudy as he rested on the cot that he had been resting on for weeks now. His missing eye was a sharp contrast from the rest of his face, which seemed so smooth and at peace. Then again, she was sure that wasn't hard to accomplish given that he was in something of a coma. She was officially supposed to change his sheets, which she technically had already done, but again, she couldn't help but linger. After all, many of the rest of the girls couldn't help but wonder what would make a peasant boy like him so special that a necromancer would go above and beyond to save him.
And what a looker said necromancer was. Seeing him purge this boy's literal corruption so seamlessly made them all wonder if perhaps he was touched by some holy patronage to perform such a feat. It only made it all the more disappointing that he left so soon afterward.
Evette smiled as she brushed a hair out of Rudy's face, smiling down at the blessed boy saved from the tendrils of chaos. His purging was a blessed day in otherwise dark times for the Shallyan priestesses who had to help the sick and the wounded, which grew daily. It was relieving that the Icons and Wards they placed around their chapel could at least protect against any of those who meant ill will to them to give the sisters space to breathe and tend to their flock.
And the time to wonder how long it would take for this young man who looked as young as her to wind up hale and hearty once more.
"Stare too long, and you might give him a fright when he awakens."
"V-valentine I-
The mother of the Shallyan temple smiled knowingly, raising an eyebrow at the crimson that was now spreading across Evette's face. "You young ladies…have you forgotten that I was once your age to feel the temptation to gaze at those a tad too closely?"
Evette blushed and looked down, unable to meet her senior's gaze. "I…I…forgive me, Mother Valentine."
"The only thing that must be forgiven is that there are other patients that must be visited. But, I can forgive a light matter as Shallya no doubt would." Valentine then circled next to the younger sister, looking sadly at Rudy. "A shame about his eye. An older injury, I can tell, but he would have made a maid back at his village very happy if not for that marring."
Evette sputtered defensively. "H-he still could!" Realizing what she just said, she looked down once more. "I-what I mean is-
"Good heavens, you yougun's are so easy to tease. Come now, Evette, there's no need to feel shame. Such feelings are natural…particularly towards young men who have endured great horrors."
"I…yes."
The two said nothing momentarily, staring at Rudy's form before Valentine spoke again. "It's amazing, is it not? I've dealt with Chaos corruption many a time in the past, but the speed and efficiency with which Spoletta dealt with it…I had never seen anything quite like it before."
"Do you…do you think he is blessed by a God, Mother?"
"Oh? Is that what you girls are gossipping now?" Before Evette could deign to look embarrassed again, to her shock, Valentine nodded. "In a matter of speaking yes. I've heard that the magic of the undead is anathema to Chaos corruption, but I don't believe that was what was at play on that fateful day. After all, if it was, I believe that dear Rudy here would have wound up as an undead, yet there is nary a trace of that condition on his body."
"So…what could it mean."
"Truth be told, I-
"Mother Valentine! Beasts!" The two women, as well as other nearby priestesses, were shaken from their thoughts as a priestess closer to Valentine's age rushed as fast as her robes would allow, her face as white as a sheet. "Beastmen! Beastmen have rushed past the wards, but not before destroying them!"
Screams and panic broke out amongst the sisters, horror-stricken faces marring their youth and expressions. The only reason Evette wasn't one of them was that she immediately looked to her Mother Superior, whose eyes, while widened in alarm, were also glaring fiercely in focus, her mouth open and closing.
"SILENCE!" As if her voice was blessed by Shallya herself, And with that holy-like blessing, many in the room whipped their heads toward Valentine, including some of the bedridden who were conscious enough to notice what was happening. "We will not panic! Panic will only hasten what is coming toward us as we speak! Are the doors barred, Sister Superior Agace?"
The woman who had brought the ill tidings quickly bowed up, not missing a beat. "They have been! I-I even ordered them barricaded!"
"Good. Then we can only pray that the cursed children of chaos do not have hulking monstrosities with them."
"W-we don't know, Mother! We only know that they bring under a hundred or perhaps around that amount, but still-
"Then we perhaps have a chance. A chance until we can get word for someone to grant us sanctuary from this madness."
"But…but, who? Mother?" Evette found herself shouting much to her shame, unable to contain her fear like the rest of her sisters. "Wh-who could-
"Send a raven to Lyle Spoletta. He's the only one close enough to that could grant us aid. Though he uses necromancy, he has a good heart at the end of the day, and that may be what saves us. Quickly, Agace!" The Sister Superior ran with her robes billowing in the halls, haste rushing through her bones. "All of you, get the ill and the wounded into the lower levels! Those of you with free hands…get the weapons from the vault. Shallya would prefer we not shed blood, but she will still forgive us for this day and possibly the coming days."
A crying sister blubbered through her lips. "B-but, Mother, we are not warriors! Many of us have never shed bl-
"It's not just our lives we are defending, but the lives we have sworn to care for. Quickly, while we still have time. NOW!"
Though the fear was still very much there, the sharp and authoritative orders from their Mother Superior instilled a purpose that was very much needed at that moment. Snapping to those aforementioned orders, many of the bedridden who couldn't awaken or get out of their cots were carried down into the expansive basement, including Rudy, who didn't so much as stir from the movement as he was carried down into the depths of the temple.
Evette was about to join her sisters to try to do something to ignore how utterly helpless she felt at that moment when suddenly, she felt Valentine grab her wrist.
When she saw the grave look on the face of her Mother, more dread poured into her veins. "Evette…I have a task for you…a task I hope you can forgive me for."
"I…whatever could you-" Word failed the younger girl when Valentine palmed a large iron key into her hand.
"When you get into the basement, and the last of you and your younger sisters join you with the afflicted…lock the basement and stay down there until it is safe to leave."
"Y-you mean…you have a way to defeat the beastmen?"
"...I do not." When the implications of what Valentine had just uttered sunk in. A sickness welled into her belly, and it seemed as though her Mother Superior knew what she was about to say as she shook her head. "Evette, I know you have many question-
"Questions? You're asking me to abandon you to die-
Her face was then gripped hard by Valentine, who glared into her soul. "Evette…this world we live in is a cruel one…an unforgiving one. Deep down, I accepted long ago that a day like this would come. You have food stores that should last you over a week should you ration them properly, and we have furniture in place to hide the trapdoor you're all going down. You mustn't come to our aid should the worst come to pass, and I'll pray to Shallya that it does not, but if it does…remember. Our duty is to those we swear to mend and heal. And if they reach those whom you are protecting downstairs, then my sacrifice, along with the more senior members of this convent, will be in vain."
"But…but M-
Valentine slapped her this time, shocking the tears out of Evette. "Now is not the time for that. It's the worst time for that, my dear. Shallya is watching us, and what must be done must be done. Now. Go." Valentine marched off, going to the upper levels, not wasting any more time than she already had, clearly looking to the defenses that needed to be tended to.
All the while, Evette stared at her retreating form, the sting of the older woman's hand still fresh on her cheek. She wanted to scream at Valentine for putting this burden on her. Ask her why it had to be her that would be burdened by such a responsibility. Why this had to happen at all and the unfairness of it all.
But, when she looked around and saw her fellow sisters moving the bedridden as fast they could, any complaints, retorts, or anything of the sort could be mustered down her throat. Instead, she held the iron key tightly in her right hand to the point where her grip turned white, and she moved downstairs, waiting for the moment that her Mother Superior commanded her to look for.
As she briefly came across the cramped basement, which was becoming increasingly claustrophobic with the mass of bedridden humanity being sorted inside, she helped as many of her sisters as she could, tending to the wounded and the sick, giving sweet nothing remarks and prayers to put their nerves at ease, which was working both ways in this case. It was a herculean task that weighed heavily on the nerves of Evette and her fellow sisters in the sudden dark times they were now thrust into.
It was only when she laid eyes upon the one-eyed boy that she couldn't help but be drawn to earlier that she felt a sense of ease seep into her. His peaceful face was a fine port in the storm that raged on them above. Though she couldn't quite explain it, it helped center her mind, even Evette felt dread for what she would have to do mere moments from now.
Just as she was about to go and lock the trapdoor, confident that all the sick and the wounded had been carried down, Rudy's eyes flickered open. On the one hand, Evette felt a sense of relief that this young, one-eyed peasant boy was awake, only for her to feel sorrow that it had to be during such a horrid time.
That all went to the wayside when gawked at his, which glowed a fearsome blue, his body rising from the cot.
"The taint of chaos dawdles too near for my tastes."
…
Simmire had decided that seeing Grom the Paunch in the poor and misshapen condition that he was currently in was one of the more unnerving things she had witnessed, and it certainly didn't come from any form of affection she could possibly have for the obese Greenskin. She didn't completely hate her Greenskin enslaver, but one would have to be mad to think that she liked him in any tangible way, even if he gave her a position of relative influence…a position that, in her opinion, she earned.
But, seeing Grom look a sickly green with so much sagging skin and a diminishing sewed-up stomach just seemed so unnatural even to someone like her, considering how his paunch practically defined who he was. Both in his strength and the power that he had. A power that the goblin chieftain now lacked as he sat in a makeshift chair, taking in gulps of air with sweat dripping down his brow at the effort that it took to just exist in his current state. Not even the dozen or so smaller goblins that were tending to him every moment seemed to do much good, and it didn't help that their vaunted leader, who prided himself on how much he could eat, was struggling to keep down even the smallest bits that he could literally stomach.
It had nearly been a week since Simmire had last met with Grom, with Zulz overseeing the meeting, expressing no shortage of worry, fretting over his leader with all the attention the shroom pickers could muster, ensuring everything was going well. The poor night goblin had his hands full, keeping the tribe together while ensuring to those who hadn't seen Grom personally that their Big Boss was on the mend. Meanwhile, all it took was one simple glance to see that it couldn't be further from the truth as Simmire stepped forward, her sandals crunching the grass that she treaded with many wagons and scraps of tent strewn across the trees to conceal the small grove that they had made to conceal the Big Boss and his diminishing girth. After all, the fewer people that knew, the fewer goblins they bleed through attrition. Whether it was fights that were breaking out, upstart goblins that saw an opportunity to become boss, or those just trying to scurry off to find another goblin warboss, these losses had to be mitigated.
Something that she felt would be one of the major sticking points for why she was 'summoned' again. As she drew closer, Grom waved off his attendees, who did so with hesitation, with many holding shrooms, shroom paste, different bowls of soup, or anything that could have been done to aid him. After they scurried off and Simmire finally reached the goblin, she had to lean in close to his face as the goblin wheezed and whispered, his voice unable to get any higher than such. "P-pretenda's." He muttered out.
"Less and less the past few days." Simmire reported honestly, having no reason to lie. "Two more had to be dealt with the past two days, but ultimately they WERE dealt with."
The goblin looked as though he was going to say something else but then winced, his hand nearing the stitched up-haphazard wound that was marring his deflating stomach, which seemed to be shrinking by the day. It made Simmire wonder; would any amount of food be able to fill the void that the troll flesh once did? Probably not. But, it became difficult to have a replacement when all of the other trolls they once had died outside the walls of Castle Bastonne.
Eventually, Grom found the strength to speak once more. "...How many…boyz we-
"Around two thousand remain. Forgive me for not getting you a more concrete number, but the number is fluctuating due to…developing events. Events Zulz and I have made you aware of."
Grom swallowed some spittle, but it seemed to be a laborious action, wincing and gritting his teeth. "T-Troll flesh?"
"Still working on that. It's hard to venture out. The wolf riders haven't been able to find any nearby troll caves or the like. We're not near any mountain formations, so our chances are not optimal."
The Paunch looked as though he wanted to curse but knew that would not do him any good, so he only settled for glaring his crimson-red eyes out into the tapestry that was used to hide his condition, which only served to agitate the goblin further. The last thing he needed was yet another reminder of his condition.
Besides. He knew there were other concerns. "Da…da boyz."
"What about them?" Simmire asked curiously, before she opened and closed her mouth in realization. "Ah. What do they say?" When she received a withering look but a tight nod, she spun her tale. "They say many things about you, your immensity. Some think of leaving, some wonder why you're still boss, and some are simply scared and wondering what will happen next. It's leaving your goblins feeling…anxious. Unnerved. Even the skulkers we've been having do our wet work have had itchy blades since we arrived here."
Grom scowled hard before opening his mouth. "Raid."
"Ah. A target to distract them with. It's relieving to see that your instincts haven't failed you in your…condition." She coldly let the word hover in the air, trying to hide the ghost of a smirk that threatened to break out on her lips. "Would you like for me to convey this to Zulz?" When she received a sharp and impatient nod, which was further emphasized by his sudden coughing fit, Simmire had to look away once more, hiding the smirk that DID break out on her lips this time.
Though it had initially been stressful to keep the Broken Ax tribe together, Simmire had to admit that she was proud of the results of her efforts. Sure, things were far from perfect when it came to the tribe's strength, but it was through her efforts and her efforts alone that things had lasted as long as they did.
And it most likely galled Grom to know that better than anyone, which was why she decided to strike while the iron was hot. "My fellow slaves have worked tirelessly to ensure that we've come to this point and will faithfully continue to do so as even now see no better purpose than to serve our genetic betters." Simmire had to suppress a laugh, and even Grom looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes. "There are some within the tribe who have proven their mettle these past few days with their efforts, and I believe it is only fitting to reward them in their proper place. Three more silver collars and Eight more bronze collars would be a fitting reward. For now, of course."
Now Grom looked righteously enraged, his jowls shaking in utter indignation at his head slave suddenly springing this on him, especially when he had so many other concerns. The elf was sure that he was smarting over the gall of her to ask him now when he was at his weakest, but they both knew there was little he could do. Oh, he could protest and possibly have Zulz try to put a stop to this.
But again, they both knew this would be far more trouble than it was worth and would only hasten the demise of him and his tribe.
"It relieves me to see I have your approval, your Immensity." This time, Simmire did allow a smile. "Rest assured that we shall continue to serve as loyally as we were destined to and shall endeavor to do everything we can to maintain the integrity of your tribe and our goblin masters. Now. Is there anything else?"
Grom indeed looked as though there was plenty to get off his chest, no doubt spurred on by all the frustrations that boiled within him, but instead, he clicked his teeth shut, gesturing for her to leave as his breathing became more labored. She bowed deeply and sauntered off, the goblin aides returning to his side and fretting over the Goblin Boss once more.
…
"Congratulations are deserved. To all three of you." Simmire crowed with pride as she personally fastened the third and final silver collar to the final woman from the trio of individuals before her. Two of them were fellow elves much like her, who had proven themselves not only capable but, above all else, loyal when it came to carrying out her direct orders, but the third slave to reach her silver collar was unique in the fact that she was a human woman. A Bretonnian peasant who miraculously hadn't received any of the mutations or ill-bred traits that so many of her kind had received and had shown excellent initiative…especially when it came to information Simmire about other humans who had been spreading ill-words behind her back amongst not only the cloth collars but bronze collars.
Someone willing to go that far and show loyalty to her personally could only be an asset in the changing days going forward, especially since this Bretonnian peasant woman she now knew as Nadiya would be helpful for another purpose. There were only two other female humans who had managed to reach silver collar status, and though she saw humans below her as any sane elf would, it wouldn't do Simmire any favors to completely exclude the lesser race from her inner circle. After all, if she had nothing short of utter contempt from the lower slaves, which would be made of nearly all humans, they might seek to undermine her and, in turn, cause the elf to lose face to Grom, who would see her as more replaceable.
But, if she gave them hope. A few promotions here and there, they would do everything they could to achieve that hope. A hope to reach the inner circle of Simmire's silver collars, who, while reporting directly to her, had only the best perks compared to those below her, even compared to many goblins within the tribe.
And it was something that Nadiya was all too happy to seize upon and express gratitude for as she bowed and smiled with utter relief. "Thank you, Lady Simmire. Thank you, thank you oh so much!" The thanks were genuine, especially since many among the bronze collars thought for sure it would be yet another group of elves that were chosen. It was a result that many of the other human bronze collars looked upon with hope…and jealousy.
Something useful for Simmire as she smiled at the peasant. "You earned it, Nadiya. Your personal tent, along with a few sets of clothes of your choosing, will be set up and ready by the end of today. Make sure that certain quotas are met with the bronze collars that will be under you, and I'll see that the amenities you desire are met swiftly."
Once again, the peasant woman bowed, filling Simmire with more pride than someone in her position normally wouldn't have. "I know I've already said it before, but thank you! I know these are troubling times, so I'll ensure your trust in me isn't misplaced!"
"See to it that you don't. It's as you said. These are troubling times, after all. That goes for all three of you." Simmire said, sweeping to the more reserved but clearly pleased other two elves who reached silver collar status. "As a matter of fact. That goes for all of you. These are times of chaos for the tribe, and if one of us falters, we all do. Am I understood?" All the silver collars nodded to her. The most productive and loyal, ensuring that she had their obedience. "Now, with that bit of business out of the way, the rest of you may go. Those who know must stay. Stay. There is still much to tend to.
Nadiya looked lost for a moment, not looking as though she wholly understood the implications until her new silver-collar fellow graduates whispered in her ear and whisked her away, both of them clearly understanding Simmire's need for privacy along with everyone else. That was good. It was better than a newcomer like Nadiya finding out from someone who wasn't her. That way, no future resentment could be directed toward her specifically.
When the rest of the silver collars left, only four individuals remained at a circular wooden table set up a healthy distance away from any activity. Not far enough for them to be in danger but far enough away to be away from any open ears.
Sitting around the table alongside Simmire were two elves and a human, all of them women, and they were what Simmire often thought to herself were: her Gilded Collars. An inner circle of sorts that only the most trustworthy and productive had the 'privilege' of being a part of.
First, there was Ellania. A platinum blonde-haired elf who had once been a noble, unlike Simmire herself. Despite her nobility, she didn't have the usual air of snootiness and higher-than-thou energy that even Simmire found to be insufferable amongst her own kind. It probably had to do with the fact that she served as a silver prince helm rider who had been caught by Grom after a defeat at the goblin's hands. He was tempted to throw her into the pot for personally killing many of his goblins before Simmire intervened, seeing not just her martial prowess as a possible asset but her experience in trinket building, given that it was a vocation her family had a high amount of pride in. It was why she was an easy choice to oversee the production and maintenance of the many trinkets, gear, and other items.
Secondly was the brown-haired and mousey-looking Fanriel, who may have been small in stature but had a calculated look about her as her eyes hovered between her three other counterparts. Simmire thought she was cold and calculated until she ran personally into Fanriel, who had a talent for listening to conversations and getting people to tell her the gossip of the day. It was a talent that helped find out about any dissension amongst not just any fellow slaves but other goblins who thought about taking their chances against Grom even before he was gravely wounded. It was why whenever Simmire heard about something of note, it was more often than not from this brown haired elf.
And then there was finally the sole human of her inner circle with her braided red hair, feet on the table, and an uncaring look on her face. Bjorghild was a curious case even amongst the slaves since even before Grom had enslaved her, she was technically already serving another master. She had once been a part of a Skeggi raiding party attempting to try their chances at pillaging Chrace only for their longships to be sunk and the raiders captured.
Now, while she and the rest of those captured weren't technically enslaved since it was by law an outlawed practice, made more pointed so that the Asur could be what the Druchii were not, the actual practice still held some hold in Ulthuan. Not under the label of slavery but Indentured Servitude, something that was becoming more relied upon for the labor of Simmire's homeland as Elven birth rates decreased, especially after their cousins split permanently into their colder climates. You see, Indentured Servitude was, in a way, a method in which someone could pay off a debt, which was even used against some elves who needed a way to pay off any loans they had. It didn't last forever, especially for a shorter-lived human, and thus shouldn't have been a problem widespread.
At least officially, some of the more 'noble' and privileged families of Ulthuan are finding a way to abuse this protocol, often forging documents to extend certain servants' time in servitude. It usually happened to human prisoners of war who had wronged Ulthuan in some manner since not many would care enough to look into their true documents closely. Sure, some inspectors came to ensure no abuse took place, especially since King Finubar didn't want to have any similarities to his Druchii counterpart in the West. But, even they could only see so much when experienced families could hide what they wished not to be seen.
Brunhild had been an indentured servant for five years, working at a food stall, much to her chagrin. She prided herself on being a warrior, but working in that environment had gifted her knowledge on the subject matter whether she liked it or not. Through her work, she managed to garner a better understanding of how to preserve and prepare different types of food, whether they came from the ground or the sea. Something that Grom was all too appreciative of, given how gluttonous his grand feasts could be, particularly after a battle. And while Simmire didn't think too highly of the short-lived mayflies that made up humanity, she couldn't deny Brunhild's talents. Having a human like her in the Gilded Collars allowed her to dangle hope in front of the human slaves that promotion was possible. It was just scarcer, that was all.
Which is what made it so fitting for Brunhild to start the conversation. "So fatass, hasn't keeled over yet?"
Simmire wrinkled her nose. "We'd be meeting under very different circumstances otherwise."
"Pah. Figures. Big Papa Grom ain't gonna roll over that easy." Brunhild didn't sound too concerned about the matter, merely curious like one would see how far a snail would take to cross the road. "He gettin' any better?"
"Worse, actually."
"Then we should prepare for the inevitable." Fanriel said quietly, her eyes darting around to make triply sure nobody else was around to listen. "Zulz has been as prepared as he is going to be. If we move the proper pieces in place, we can profit even more from this than we thought we could."
Ellania shook her head, frowning hard. "Or it could wind up ruining the painstaking efforts it took to even achieve the influence that we have now. Zulz doesn't quite have the charisma or gravitas of Grom, nor his…well, his girth, as ridiculous as it sounds. I know it's cliche to say that bigger isn't always better, but in this case-
"The tribe will survive." Fanriel riposted gracefully as if she expected the counterargument. "Some goblins will leave, but we don't need all of them. The night goblins will never abandon Zulz; through them, we can force many others to stay. Even the skulkers would know better than to abandon the newest Big Boss-
"Which he is not yet." Ellania interrupted.
"But he could be soon. Besides, Zulz, though not as prominent as Grom, brings his own benefits. He listens to our dear Simmire, does he not?"
With the question directed at her, Simmire smiled with a prideful smirk. "He listens more and more every day. Relying more and more by the hour."
"Which means he is controllable." Fanriel continues a ghost of a calculating smile on her lips. "Moldable. Capable of being influenced. Grom could be too at times, but if act as a steadfast pillar at Zulz's side…"
They would all but control the Broken Ax Tribe. It was a bitter irony for the goblins, even if they realized it too late, as accurate control slipped into the hands of the very women they enslaved. They could influence what Zulz's subsequent actions would be, what his next target could be, and even further, whom they could promote within their own little hierarchy. A hierarchy that Simmire would have utter control from the bottom down and possibly even the goblins once they fully relied on them.
Of course, Ellania's concerns did have some merit. The tribe's size would no doubt diminish once Grom died, but she had no doubts that they could keep it together. The problem would be that they would have to considerably scale back the size of their operations since many followed the tribe not for the tribe itself but because of Grom. Greenskins were odd in the fact that they didn't follow any singular institution, but the personality behind said institution would often bully, badger, or berate them into submission or simply herd them into a target they could be unleashed upon. Grom's gravitas and charisma had helped him keep said tribe beyond such trials and tribulations, but Simmire had no doubts that the hard times would be near immediate once he finally expired.
Finally, Brunhild spoke up, showing a modicum of interest in the discussion. "Does any of this shite even matter if the big man doesn't survive? I mean, it's not like he's gonna live much longer anyways, right?"
Blunt, as her upbringing made her, the human Skeggi had a point, which made the two other elves consider the matter as Fanriel smiled. "Then the matter is moot, yes? Unless a medical concoction can be made to save Grom's life?"
This time, Simmire supplied an answer. "From what I've seen personally and what many other goblins believe, he'll need new troll flesh entirely to replace what was lost…but with all of our previous trolls dead and at castle Bastonne and none being found yet…"
"Then his fate is sealed. And Zulz's ascension is imminent." The mousey-looking elf affirmed with satisfaction. "If there's nothing els-
"What of the damsel the wolf riders captured?" Ellaria countered. "You mentioned she could heal, did you not?"
Fanriel didn't scowl or shout at being rudely interrupted, but her still and cold look told a story that couldn't be conveyed with words. Despite that look, Simmire replied in the same way. "She did."
"And where is she now?"
"Working with the cooking slaves."
"Would she be open to healing Grom?"
"Perhaps if her freedom was dangled in front of her. We would have to take off the magic-sapping collar that is around her neck-
Fanriel coughed. "And put the rest of us in danger as she retaliates for allowing her to be enslaved. We have no guarantee that her magic could even work."
Ellaria frowned as she stared down Fanriel. "It would be worth it to ensure the continued growth of the tribe."
"It can grow through Zulz."
"We've no proof he can lead the Broken Ax tribe long-term."
"And you've proof that this damsel's magic can heal Grom's insides long term? To replace what was lost with the troll flesh?"
As the two elves continued to argue, countering one point with another, Brunhild muttered to herself, not at all looking bothered with whichever decision would be made. "All this over that fat lump o' green flesh."
Truth be told, Simmire could understand the merits of both arguments to the point where she thought that neither Ellaria nor Fanriel was wrong. It just depended on how you looked at the situation.
From Simmire's perspective, it was a matter of risk vs reward. Letting Grom pass on would allow them to have safe and firm control over Zulz as he would desperately need his 'slaves' help to control the Broken Ax tribe, but growth would be stagnant until the night goblin fanatic found his boots, so to speak. On the other hand, with Grom, you could grow rapidly and have a fantastic bounce back if they could adequately heal him. The downside was that he was harder to control and influence than a Zulz in comparison. It could be done, but it had to be done through more tepid means.
Decisions, decisions.
She was about to delve further on what her decision should be when she heard rapid footsteps from her right. For a moment she feared that perhaps the beastmen had found them and was about to visit vengeance upon them with Brunhild even go so far as to reach for a small ax that she kept strapped to her leg when they all saw it was another silver collared slave, panting looking nervous.
"We have news from the wolf riders! Druchii! Druchii are near where we are, which might not be the worst of it! They have taken Castle Bordelaux!
…
Yasmine grunted with exertion, her arms burning more now than she could remember when she was a simple peasant girl who had only just started working on the farm, moving crops with parents that she could scarcely remember now. Sweat poured down her face as she carried a wooden tray full of boar ribs and breathed a sigh of relief when she managed to get them onto the makeshift table created for the express purpose of making the meal she had taken part in slaving over. Ribs that Yasmine had to admit smelt incredibly delicious to the point where her mouth was watering to at least have a taste.
Sadly, the idea of losing her tongue was more than enough of a deterrence to convince her to go trudging back to where the rest of the food was being prepped. Wiping some fresh sweat off her brow, her soles feeling sore against the grass she had to walk across, Yasmine wondered how the rest of the slaves were keeping up with the brisk pace that the sous-chef Rix as he spread seasoning across a large pot that was being stirred by several other male slaves, their muscles bulging in the effort as Rix worked frantically.
When she had first started working a week ago, she resented the Goblin with every fiber of her being, especially as she drove her and those around her to near exhaustion from the work that never seemed to end. As time went on however, Yasmine ironically found herself growing a modicum of respect for the Goblin as it became apparent that the chef-hat wearing greenksin was working just as hard as the slaves were, even if you didn't see it right away.
If he wasn't adjusting seasoning, he would rush off to see how long certain meats were cooking. If he wasn't watching after meats, he ensured that specific recipes were followed to the letter with little to no deviations. When he wasn't doing any of those things, he often hopped onto the line himself, showing surprising strength and endurance in carrying trays or platters of food that had to get fed to the rest of the Broken Ax tribe while barking orders at his underlings to make sure everything was done without a hitch, with the pressure in their open-air kitchen being felt by everyone, whether you were a goblin or an enslaved elf or human. Yasmine had heard how seriously this tribe took its cuisine from many others, unfortunate enough to run into Grom the Paunch, but to be a part of the cooking line was a different form of an eye-opening experience.
Even now, Yasmine grunted along with many others, helping stir the gargantuan black pot that needed to be in constant motion or else it would settle, which in turn would make seasoning the cheese within that much more difficult. It was a brutal shift that required different slaves to take shifts at varying intervals, with so many people's arms feeling like they were on fire after minutes of stirring. It only made the blonde-haired woman wonder if peasants had to keep up with such demands. Surely she would have noticed?
"C'mon humies! Don't stir fasta' just use broada' strokes!" Rix, the chef, grumbled as he seasoned the cheese, his chef looking as ridiculous as ever upon his head. "How many toime's do Oi gotta tell ya dat' ya ain't racin'! Gettin' more of da cheese is more important! Use dem' gangly lookin' elbows of your'e n' do it roit!"
The damsel followed the goblin chef's instructions to the letter, not wanting to get singled out any more than she already had by her peers, who gave her sideways glances at how slowly she kept up with others. Yasmine, truth be told, hadn't minded Rix, the goblin chef, all that much. Sure, he swore at and ordered up and down the kitchen, but he did that with everyone, even other goblins, and to his credit, he seemed to take his job of cooking cuisine quite seriously. He hadn't struck or smacked her around, which would have hurt the damsel's pride more than anything, given his short size, but she felt that was for another reason entirely. Besides. Working in the kitchen had SOME perks. At least you had the first claim to the finest food before everyone else, which was something the other slaves couldn't brag about.
Mercifully, she only had to keep stirring for another fifteen minutes until another man finally took over. He looked none too pleased about having to take her place, but he knew he had no choice in the matter as other goblin assistants ordered slaves to and fro to help with the food demand within the tribe.
Flopping onto the grass after stumbling away from the chaos of the kitchen that she had only been immersed in for a week, Yasmine let out a deep groan, her hands, back, feet, elbows, and shoulders aching from the constant work that she had been forced to endure. The kind of labor she had experienced only made her wonder how terribly others in Bretonnia had it.
"Still alive, blondy? Might be hope for ya yet."
Yasmine groaned once more as she felt someone sit right next to her prone form, already knowing who it was. She cracked an eye to ensure and was met with the familiar sight of a male peasant wearing a bronze collar and slightly better clothes than her. It didn't take her long to gauge the accent that he was a peasant of her motherland, as she had learned since she had arrived here. "I certainly hope so. The Lady still demands much of me even in these trying times."
"Oh, I'm sure, I'm sure." The bronze-collared peasant shrugged, not putting much stock into it. "Just make sure that you don't go over the-
"Ten-minute limit, yes, Lady forbid I have but a moment to catch my breath."
"Heh. If you can't Catch ya breath in half that time, then you ain't much good to the rest of us. Idelle n' Edgar has enough o' your slack to pick up, don't ya think."
Yasmine glared at the peasant bronze collar, looking down at her, flashing a smile that showed just how many teeth he was missing in that wretched complexion he had. The fact that she was under the purview of a wretch like him made her question the Lady at a few dar moments this week, but those moments were quashed, along with any current hopes of escape.
Something that was compounded whenever this man would speak. "Listen, Blondy. If ya don't want the grief of ya fellow slave, then I'd suggest ya but more into those elbows of yours…even if ya don't get much meat on em', like I hear the goblins complain about."
"... I'll try as much as my body allows."
"Heh. Try ain't somethin' I'm hopin' to hear. But you'll smarten' up, blondie. Your lot always does."
"To what end?" Yasmine moaned, rubbing her eyes with wariness pouring through her skin. "Are you that intent on pleasing the goblins that work us near death? That hurl abuses at us an-
"You ain't that smart if ya think it's those Greenskins Ah'm lookin' to impress." The peasant flashed that half-toothed smile before wandering off, no doubt looking for other cloth collars like her to harass.
With HIM now out of her presence, Yasmine took a few deep breaths to try and right herself. There was no use losing one's cool in a situation like this. Besides, it was easy to forget how much worse things could have gone if the beastmen had their grubby, chaos-afflicted hands on her. She could have been sacrificed to their dark gods if lucky. At worst, they could have just used her…to create even more of their misbegotten kind.
The sickening shivers that traveled down her spine at the mere idea of this was enough to make Yasmine feel ill, forcing her to kick herself for squandering her precious downtime on such dark thoughts when she could be thinking about possible escapes.
As of now, however, it felt like a useless gesture with the goblins all on high alert, not just to watch the slaves but what felt like each other. This was understandable as the damsel had heard and seen firsthand how Simmire had personally ordered the deaths of some upstart goblins trying to supplant Grom, only to be found deceased and thrown into the cooking pot. Let it never be said that the Broken Ax tribe was one to waste resources. Plus, once Yasmine had learned that the info on these would-be upstarts was info coming from slaves with good hearing, it didn't take long for her to see how quiet goblins would get when slaves were nearby. Almost as if they feared that the wrong words could cause them to have a similar fate. The irony that goblins were fearful of the very slaves they apparently 'owned' was not lost on the blonde to the point where she had rarely seen the goblins strike any of their slaves. Oh sure, they would shout and hurl abuses at the slaves, but whenever they would be on the verge of hitting anyone, they almost seemed to stop themselves, their eyes twitching around them before they settled on more shouting.
It was an utterly bizarre and alien culture that this greenskin tribe had to the point where Yasmine found herself struggling to grasp how it could function until one read between the lines and understood just how much power and influence Simmire had. That a slave could apparently accumulate this was nearly absurd. No. It was absurd, but she couldn't deny what she was seeing and hearing.
What kind of Goblin from the Southern Gray Mountains could have conceived such a system for Simmire to use? It was difficult to believe but not impossible, given-
"Oi. Ya, look like you're thinkin' too much there, blondie." Another cloth collar like Yasmine sat next to her, drinking a horn of wine that she was holding, with her dirty black hair stringing down her face as she stared at her with mild amusement. "Keep thinkin' like that, and you're not gonna last another week."
"Thank you for your advice, Fantine." Yasmine huffed, not bothering to look at her. "I'll be sure to remember."
"Damn roight ya will. Oi, mean, why else have ya avoided gettin' tossed into a pot?"
"Probably because Simmire has use of me yet. For what I shudder to think."
"Yeah ya mentioned that Ah' think ya did. Heh. Guess there are worse problems to have, huh, Blondie?" The woman takes another swig of her wine and belches slightly, her eyes clouded over. Yasmine could not even loathe the woman's inebriation since it was a great way to muddle through the work. "Jus' make sure to put in a good word for me eh? With more silver collars gettin' promoted, there's more room for some bronze collars to shine through."
Yasmine had heard that kind of chatter before, but hearing it again just caused a depressive feeling to rush through her bones. "Oh, I'm sure.
"Try not to sound too excited, blondie. Don't want the blood to flow to the wrong areas, now do we?"
"Bite me, Fantine."
"Oh, I'd love ta. But, I know you only got a couple minutes left on break before we could rub one out."
Simmire nearly gagged at the comment and instead settled on turning away from the woman, sighing deeply. "I know my time is precious. I don't need you wasting more of it reminding me that."
"Oi now. Is that any way to talk to a future bronze collar?"
"I'll be sure to hold my tongue when I come across someone who has that prospect."
Instead of being offended, Fantine chuckled and took another swig of her horn only to realize that she had already gone through her wine and sulk for a moment. "Ah come on now, Blondie. Don't be as down as a Greenskin without anyone to fight, now. Could be worse."
"Hm."
"Oi, now I'm serious! I mean, at least things are interestin' round here compared to my ol' village. Least here you can climb the ranks a bit." Her voice then drops conspiratorially. "Even if the damn pointy ears are at the top."
"I'd take them over, Dieder."
"Oh Gods, yes. The fact that you had to look at his toothless jaw for that long…" The woman cackled and tossed her horn away, and despite herself, Yasmine found herself laughing alongside the woman. Starting to get up, she knew her precious break time was dwindling to an end. The last thing she needed was Dieder having an excuse to badger her again.
Or at least that was the plan when a lone goblin came marching up to her with an annoyed look. "Oi, humie! Simmire wants ta' see ya!"
Fantine smiled stupidly, the wine getting to her system. "Don't forget what Ah, said, eh Blondie? Scratch me arse n' Ah'll scratch yours?"
Simmire was quite honestly relieved to hear the summons from the Goblin, silently sending a prayer to the Lady for the reprieve for whatever Simmire required of her. Though she dared not to admit it aloud, she had become a bit more amenable to whatever demands the elven slave runner would demand, even if there would be hesitation for whatever she could possibly want.
So with aching limbs and feet, Yasmine followed after the stunted Goblin, not looking to linger in the hectic open-air kitchen any longer than she already had.
…
A/N:
And here we pay a visit to our boy Rudy and see how Simmire takes advantage of a rapidly changing situation involving everyone's favorite elf Simmire! Just makes you wonder who really calls the shots in the Broken Ax tribe doesn't it? Just another reason for all you elf lovers amongst my viewers to adore them more isn't? ;)
Also quick question. If I do decide to get a account started, what are some ideas for rewards that you guys would like? I'm open to suggestions since I've never done it before. One of the only things I can't promise are things like art, since I can't draw to save my life.
With that out of the way the next few chapters will be more of Lyle as well as others licking their wounds to prepare for further conflicts while he cements his rule over his somewhat ill-gotten gains. I'm also having a surprising amount of fun writing someone like Simmire who isn't your typical villain in the conventional sense considering who she works for. Be sure to let me know more about what you think in this chapter with your coming reviews that I appreciate so much.
Also be sure to check out Eight Peaks Royale as usual, for those who don't know that it was created a few weeks ago. The more reviews I get on that story as well, the more motivated I'll feel to keep on churning out those chapters.
