A/N: Happy Easter (and rabbit seed hunting)
Chapter 8 - Neoth Wishes He Had Help this Good
"-. Bran Lostkin .-"
How the hell did I end up here?
"So bottom line is that your backup plan of a decapitation strike worked, but the Raven was counting on it?" Valnir summarized for all of them after their little inner circle – minus one – got together the night after conquering the Sarls' and Skaelings' Holy Land. "Sounds about right for birdbrain."
Madness, that's how I ended up here.
"It shouldn't have been enough time for the Skaelings to rally after the sorcerer's false attacks, never mind go raiding into our territory," Hrami asked when no one else would speak. "If Angan is quick enough and strikes first…"
Madness, and none of it his.
"Aye but where?" Valnir leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "He's camped at the Kaamoas Cradle because the idea was we could still get something from not spooking the neighbors. That puts the Hellspire Mountains between him and either enemy. To head off the Skaelings he'd need to rush and secure Jagged Blade Pass before they do, and it won't help much because they can go the long way around through the Forest of Knives, were he can't see'em. If we tell him to blitz the Vargs instead, he's too far to even get to Torfrost Valley in time to do anything, never mind secure the whole place. It's not just the Hellspires but the Frostheim Mountains too, that he needs to cross. In winter."
"We don't got enough men either, to secure all that area," Hrami grudgingly added. "Even if we somehow snuck all the troops from here through two hostile tribe territories, the Vargs could just sail up and down the Lrtyskh river, if they don't just sail by sea to our heartland from the start."
"Like we can't because we don't got no more fleet worth anything."
And mine is all here.
"Noble One," Valnir called to the little god(?)-king, who'd sat and brooded the whole time. "What's the plan now?"
"There's not so much a plan as an ugly necessity," the boy blew a slow breath, letting his face rest on a fist. "I can't stay for the war."
The madness of gods, that's how all this-
"The Rift in the East is a very grave matter, I have to get there as soon as possible. Depending on what space-time nonsense birdbrain and his minions get up to, it might be a long time before I sort it out."
If he even can-
"Sounds like a trap," Hrami said the obvious.
"It is, one specifically for me."
"Can't it keep?" Bran asked when no one else was about to challenge the kid's unilateral decisions. "We're stretched thin as it is, I don't know about the rest of you lot but my men didn't come prepared for protracted war. Besides, my vitkir can barely catch glimpses of this mysterious rift every once in a while, on their spirit walks. They say it'll take a while for it to shape up. Shouldn't we win the war and besiege it in force afterwards?"
"Letting it cohere is the last thing anyone wants," Nimrod replied. "I should already be over there, every moment I'm not studying it is a moment I'm not using to figure out how to shut it down before Zanek and whoever else figures out the opposite. I'm sorry, Bran, but this isn't up for discussion."
"… You can tell them that all you want," Bran indicated the other two men, with all the bravery of the mad. "I haven't sworn any oaths to you."
"And you're free to leave at any time, just don't do it before I figure out some way to keep you from getting immediately assassinated."
Bran slumped back in his chair, taken aback. Not only had his defiance been just accepted, but outright dismissed without reprisal before the other two could even look at him judgmentally-
"I'm sorry Bran," – and now a second apology in just one min- "But between our two tribes, yours currently has the bigger chance of being infiltrated by a Zanek double. Still, the risk goes for you two as well," Nimrod warned the other two. "And Angan too, especially alone as he currently is." Reaching down so far that he nearly vanished under the table, Nimrod picked up the arcane tome that his griffon cub was dozing under, and pushed it across the table to them. "I took the liberty of condensing everything relevant about our situation into this book. We'll meet here again in three hours, after you've had the time to process the information."
Bran eyed the book and wondered how anyone was supposed to get even a third of the way through in that time. It was twice as thick as the one about stone lanterns than Nimrod left them as a parting gift.
The comparison proved even more appropriate when Hrami opened the tome, and the thing abruptly levitated and raced through all its pages before the wizard could do more than boggle at it.
Hrami slammed in the back of his chair, clutching at his head. In front of him, the book closed itself and fell back down on the table. "Fuck," he groaned. "A bit of warning next time."
"… D'you have a normal version of that?" Bran asked in a faintly strangled tone. "No offense, but…" How did he even begin finding words for how disturbing that was? He hadn't personally gone through the lantern primer for the same reason. Anything that put things straight into your head couldn't be trusted, even the good ones – you didn't know what was slipping inside along with the useful stuff.
Nimrod's lips turned down in vexation that somehow still managed to convey sympathy, could he do nothing without making Bran feel like a heel- "Give me a minute or three."
With that same, frightful way of his where he did magic without saying anything at all, Nimrod transformed a block of firewood into another book, then the pages began to fill themselves with words at high speed, just from his frowny stare.
Looking between Nimrod and Bran, Valnir shrugged, pulled the first book over and opened it to bombard himself with whatever information was in there, not a shred of hesitation.
Gods, please don't let their trust be misplaced.
But what gods was he even praying to, now?
Sigmar was never going to favor them over his Empire, Olric loved to send his wolves at them but never his miracles, they had no idea how to invoke Taal properly because the daemon imposters had taught them all wrong, even Bjorn had lied to all them, for centuries on end. Then the Great Bear stopped lying just when Bran thought he might be able to minimize the bloody backlash from finally breaking away from the Four Chaos Powers, if only he'd had a few more years! Even just one!
But no, Bjorn is a bigshot god all of a sudden, don't you know, and Ursun says to do one better than Nimrod's envoy was asking for – set sail for Graelholm immediately because there was a very short window of opportunity! Opportunity for what, you ask? For the Sea God himself to yank their ships across a week's worth of sea in one hour, because he wanted to one-up a child. The little child that had visited Bran's main port town not so long ago, and caused him no end of worry ever since!
Bran's tribe being savaged in a massive shaman-vs-sorcerer free-for-all while he was away was not good payment for all that. Being then drawn into bloody war at the behest of the Chaos Powers as every time before was not fair recompense for all that. Both together were the opposite of a good omen for what to expect in the future!
A soft thump notified Bran that Nimrod had finished mind-writing his new book, or whatever you called whatever he was doing. The boy-king closed it and levitated it into Bran's hands instead of pushing it normally like he'd done to the others – don't read too much into it.
"I've spelled it so it disintegrates if anyone but you touches it," Nimrod informed him apologetically. "There's a lot there that's sensitive. It's more of a risk than I'd like to take, since people can still peek over your shoulder and the like, so please keep that in mind."
I already regret everything, no need to rub it in.
Nimrod gave the three of them a glance that looked too forbidding on such a childlike face. "I've just gotten an idea I want to explore, so I take back what I said before – we can postpone our next meeting until tomorrow at noon."
The longer break was obviously just a favor to him, but Bran refused to feel ashamed. The other two didn't so much as glance in his direction, but that only made him feel even more conflicted. And worried about what was in those pages. Hrami and Valnir didn't even rise from their seats when their god-king took his leave. They damn well near looked shellshocked.
"Try to get some rest if you can," were Nimrod's parting words, before he left with his little beastie.
Grabbing the book, Bran did his best not to look as if he was handling a live viper as he left the late jarl's longhouse, which they had appropriated for when they needed to have closed-door talks unfit for the public spectacle of the meadhall.
He tangled me right tight, Bran thought bitterly. I should've done as he asked the first time and just let him leave, curse my bleeding heart!
It was unfair to think that way, he knew that. When Nimrod saddled him with all those kids, he gave Bran unbreakable leverage over the Graelings too. Baby mages aside, every one of the other children was a hostage guaranteeing the good behavior of their fathers, a lot of whom were chiefs and even jarls. Even if catastrophe struck and claimed the little god(?)-king before he could … turn whatever this was into a lasting thing, the Bjornlings' northern border was safe for at least a generation. There was even a chance of lasting alliance down the line, if enough of the kids grew up right.
It should've been the last thing the Bjornlings or Graelings would've wanted, but things had changed. Were still changing, and not all bad either. Nimrod had outright told Bran in private that he wanted the Bjornling way of life to win over theirs, and Bran, damn him, had believed him. He still believed him.
He believed everyone else too, who said there could be no peace anymore between the Bjornlings and the rest of Norsca. When Chaos Lords started making bids for Everchosen glory, no tribe had a hope of neutrality. Bran wouldn't feel half as resentful if it had been just that, but his arms had been twisted behind his back even before he found out about it. Bjorn's revelation of his true identity – and the other spirit bears – had been loud and blatant in the other world, or so the vitkir said. Everyone 'knew' now, that the Bjornlings had been 'lying' about serving the Ruinous Powers all this time, even though they hadn't been. The good bear god had been deceiving them too, because the clusterfuck apparently wasn't already bad enough! The good god tore the veil off that deception when it would fuck them mortals the hardest, damn it all.
Guess it's not just the bad gods that take mortals for granted, Bran thought resentfully as he slammed the door shut behind him, having finally reached the harbormaster's building that his men had turned into their temporary headquarters. Why did I even get my hopes up? Bjorn is a fucking animal, of course he doesn't share such paltry human notions as common fucking sense!
He was being all sorts of wrong and unfair, he had to be, but when the most fanatic mortal devotee of a tall-talking brute like Kharnath proved more genuine than your only good god, it was damn hard not to be bitter.
"Allan, Cardic!" Bran hollered at his sons as he stomped past the warriors on rest shift and up the stairs to his temporary residence. "Get over here!"
When the three of them were alone behind the locked door, Bran sat at the table and activated the glowstone that Nimrod had made for everyone important. "Stand behind me, we've got reading to do – don't touch it! It's spelled so it'll disintegrate if someone other than me touches it, read over me. I'll want your opinions. Tell me when I can turn the page." Although, did that mean they could use a stick to turn the pages? No way Nimrod would've missed something that obvious, right?
Unsure which option would demoralize him more, Bran decided not to test it and got to reading.
The first pages were basically a summary of their current situation, though with some details Bran hadn't known about, like the exact numbers of Graeling combatants, the exact numbers of Graeling non-combatants, detailed sheets with their available resources – when the hell had they had time to make a Domesday Book? – and the same for the Bjornlings too, scarily accurate – us too? What the hell? Just how?
His boys were even less calm about it, so Bran reminded them that Nimrod had told them he'd be 'gathering info from all sources' and they hadn't exactly protested. Yeah, it didn't really work to calm them none, but what else was new?
Don't read too much into it, Bran bleakly told himself for the nth time. This isn't a power move or a warning, Nimrod isn't the type, at least not to friends, right? He even made it a two-way street, gave us all the stuff on his own tribe.
After that scarily intrusive opening section, the book followed with information on the other tribes which was almost as thorough as for theirs. Some of it was worrisome, some of it was daunting, all of it was a right frightful menace when taken together. Hell, they very likely would have to fight the rest of Norsca combined, it was already a done deal, practically. At least they had actionable information now?
The information on the Chaos Lords was the altar on the hill of carcasses. A lot of it Bran had already known because Nimrod had been open about everything from the start, it was right frustrating trying to be angry at him with how earnest he was all the time. At least with them. Him. The speculations on what Zanek could do with his newly revealed multiplication mutation… What he had already done was bad, what he could do was a lot worse, especially if he could have more than ten copies that the book said should be the limit…
But Nimrod still thought the other Chaos Chosen was probably worse. Because he was a complete mystery despite being a khornate according to his impersonator, what the hell?
You'd think the book would end there, but it kept going! The breakdown about Norsca was followed by one about Troll Country, the Empire, Tilea and the rest of them petty kingdoms around the Southern Sea, the 'Karaz Ankor' of the dwarves, including a bunch of holds and mines that were all over Norsca, even some back home Bran didn't know about. There was even some stuff about movements in the Dark Lands, because of course even them Chaos Dwarfs had to be riled by whatever chaos madness had caused the Warp in the East.
And then there was the stuff happening in the opposite direction, way across the Great Ocean. Dark Elves ruled practically the entire northern continent across the ocean, Lizardmen were part of an empire that controlled the entire southern one, said empire was ruled by fat frogs each more powerful than the best elf mages – the folk in Skeggi were playing with fire! – and then the elves themselves...
The elves were having some big damn civil war. Or at least the good elves were being attacked by the bad elves, who were giving better than they got? With the way the book carried on about it, you'd think the time of elves was ending! Except it wasn't, because if the bad elves won, they were all fucked.
Shit, Bran thought when he reached the entry about a certain dark elf 'ambassador' that he'd had to host not that long ago, before Nimrod showed up. Fucker wasn't there to make nice, he was there to get a lay of our forces and – he was planning to capture me? Specifically? Seriously? Why – because he likes breaking do-gooders?! A cold shiver went down Bran's spine. Them Black Arks can't really do their whole 'ram and rampage' thing against us, Norscan towns are all high up on cliffs specifically to prevent shit like this, but they made off with slaves from us before. If they'd attacked while I was still in Heimseter – if they'd showed up while we were distracted warding off the Graeling raid …
But they didn't, because the dark elf bigshot had gone and called literally everyone back to the Western Continent, to launch the motherlode of all invasions of the homeland he was exiled from for being too much of a cunt. Too much of a cunt even for elves, holy shit.
This is bullshit, Bran thought numbly. How is this relevant to the 'current' situation?
The last dozen-some pages of the book were full of weird magical formulas and definitions and diagrams that didn't make much sense to Bran, and not to his sons either. He was sorely tempted to call Ofnir in there, to have him take a crack at figuring out what the hell this whole malarkey was about chaos and soul anchors and 'fragmentation of the immortal reincarnate'… but what broad strokes Bran did get made him feel like he was infringing on knowledge only the gods were supposed to have. Clearly Nimrod didn't agree, but was that a good thing? For him? For anyone?
He began dictating the contents of that section while his sons wrote it down, for the shamans to go over later without it disintegrating, but the more he did the more he dreaded the second reading, it filled him with an alien feeling of foreboding. Just when he got to the part about the nature of the Chaos Powers and what they do to souls trying to be born, he clammed up, got up and, with a feeling of unnatural urgency, picked up the scroll and tore it to pieces, throwing the shreds into the fire.
The ordeal left him feeling clammy and short of breath, even though he hadn't exerted himself at all.
"Not a word of what you read in there," he ordered his sons, his voice a rasp. "Not until I've talked to Nimrod."
"… He really is a god, isn't he?" Allan murmured in the ensuing stillness. "Who else would know all these things?"
"Daemons, maybe," Cardic offered, but he didn't sound like he believed his own words.
"Maybe," Bran echoed. "But they'd never tell us mortals about it."
"Is that really all the difference there is?" Allan asked what all three of them were wondering. "That's it?"
"Obviously not," Bran grunted. "A daemon wouldn't have closed the Eye, for one."
"The good gods didn't either," Cardic played Chaos advocate again.
"Because they didn't have what it takes."
"But Nimrod does," Allan muttered.
And wasn't that the biggest stick in the bonfire? "Did," Bran corrected. "He hasn't built his power back to that point yet, or so he says. Don't spread it around."
Bran slept fitfully that night. He dreamed about having a screaming spat with Father Bear himself, and woke up feeling like he hadn't rested at all. Even though he'd overslept until almost noon, fuck.
For better or worse, the Skaeling thrall he'd singled out as his time-keeper already had word that Nimrod was waiting for him up on the overlook, where the prior day's mess had started and finished. Bran dismissed the thrall and hurried there, all the while wondering if there was double meaning to the message. To Nimrod choosing to send it through a slave, when he'd made it clear he intended for thralldom to be dismantled entirely. Something the Bjornlings would no doubt be expected to pave the way for, being the 'good' Norscans.
As if Bran didn't already have his hands full with all the other miracles expected of him.
"You didn't need to wait for me to wake up," Bran called in place of greeting, when he finally reached the place. "Didn't you say time is of the essence?"
"Did you read the section about the Skaven?
"What's this now?"
"The book. The part in it about the ratmen. Did you read it?"
"… What section?"
Nimrod reached up to rub a spot on his neck, where his necklace was missing a bead. "Do you at least know about those creatures?"
"Rat beastmen, sure, everyone knows about them, there's all sorts of beastmen out there, what of it? Don't tell me those are suddenly all special too."
"See, this is what happens when the bad and good gods condition people to believe complete lies for all their lives and entire ages of history – you accept all the other lies being force down your spiritual throats too, even the flimsiest Ulgu miscasts of rats."
Bran felt like someone had just stepped on his grave.
"Do you have my report with you?"
"If you mean that book, it's right here-"
"Open to page 78."
Annoyed at being constantly interrupted, Bran opened his book to page 78 and read. "… The collective refusal to acknowledge the existence and/or true nature of Skaven is a trick that Ulgu plays on the collective mind of humanity. It may or may not be kept in existence by a great ritual the Skaven perform every year in Skavenblight." What was this?
"Now read the footnote."
"I haven't had the opportunity to check yet, but since the Horned Rat might be the only Old One on this planet who fell to Chaos, I'm not ruling anything out." What the flying fuck? "I don't remember reading any of this, how-?"
"Magical influence that doesn't work near me. Keep reading."
Bran forced himself to continue reading. "I've managed to avert their interest after their latest attempts to meddle with the Graelings and Bjornlings, but it was only so easy because the bulk of their focus is already taken by something. Given the point in time when this was written, that 'something' is likely the plague which will be unleashed on the surface in roughly sixty years – oh come on, a plague's coming too?" What even was with that wording, 'given the point in time when this was-'?
"It will be called the Black Death for the black spots it causes on the skin. It catches quick, spreads fast and kills victims in days of excruciating suffering, or hours if you're lucky. The Skaven plan to unleash it on the surface, and when half of humanity is dead and the other half too weak to resists, they'll swarm out of their tunnels and enslave everyone in their Great Ascendancy."
"You can't be serious," Bran didn't know if he wanted to clutch or throw the book away. "That sounds worse than a bogeyman story meant to scare children."
"That why it's going to work."
He can't be serious, can he?
"Garlic, herbs, leek, cabbage, carrots, and mold grown from corn. That's where the cure is. We'll talk about disseminating the recipe before I leave."
Bran didn't know what to do or say, except… stand there. Stand and stare at the small child that…
He looked at the book. What else had his mind just… skipped over?
The silence was tense. That they were suffering it in the same spot where Nimrod had almost been killed the previous day didn't help.
"Am I the only one?" Bran asked in a desperate hope that he wasn't the only failure. "The skaven thing, or did your magic book – was that why you made it like that, shove it all in your head, to bypass whatever this is?"
"I shared this with the others well before. I had ample time to discuss the matter with them, unlike you. None of them had issue remembering or giving the information its due respect."
"Hrami and Valnir have magic."
"But Angan doesn't."
It's true, Bran admitted inwardly, feeling sick. "So it's really just me?"
"And the Bjornlings as a whole, quite likely."
That's so much worse. "If you're trying to scare me, it's working."
"I ap-"
"Yes, I know, you apologise for being the only one doing something about all the bad shit everyone else does to us, it's not helping! What am I supposed to do with this?"
"The shamans should be able to work with your spirits to create zones proof against this influence. I've already given Ofnir diagrams and incantations to get started. Even if it's temporary, an hour will be more than enough. It takes ten minutes for short term memory to enter long-term storage. Have them create such a buffer field and keep the ones you inform inside for at least half an hour. Do it enough times, with enough people, and the vulnerability will wear off your whole tribe. I'm going to see about it being part of the standard ward setup for everyone, not just you, it will keep away other field-type spells too."
Oh, how dearly Bran wished he could take that offered diversion. "How can it just wear off?"
"It's a reactionary sort of enchantment, this. Once the information has made it into your long-term memory, the Ulgu can't reach it anymore, at least not this weaving. So long as you don't walk away from me, you'll pass beyond the reach of the enchantment in about five more minutes. The more of your tribesmen you help achieve the same, the less the influence will be on your tribe as a whole. The collective unconscious doesn't account for near as much as some would claim, but it does exist in a sense."
"You keep throwing new concepts at me, but all I hear is noise." Bran seethed, frustrated. "Didn't you just say it's a spiritual problem from Bjorn lying to us?" Lying to them about being a servant of Chaos, about the Chaos Gods being right, training them to believe that the Four – what Chaos claimed to be right about-
"It's not a wound or anything like that, it's a learned behavior. A subconscious one, of the spirit. I'm sorry, I know that's not real consolation."
"Will you stop apologizing!" Bran barked, then ran his hands over his face in shame at his outburst, feeling at once depressed and exhausted. "Great, now I'm the one that's sorry. I'm not covering myself in glory right now. Just – you wanted me for something. Let's just go."
They left town.
Because he was apparently completely serious about wanting Bran where he could see him, Nimrod refused to walk ahead of him. Bran was too shaken and soul-weary to begrudge him. How – how does anyone react to – how was he supposed to feel, what to even think? He thought he wasn't afraid of death, but it was one thing to die in battle, this… none of this was a battle, at least not one he could fight – this was a disgrace. He was a disgrace, if it was all true – it had to be, unless Nimrod had played a trick and modified the contents of the tome on the fly just now, the same way he wrote it-
"Did you read the part about souls and Chaos?"
The question was like an ice bath down Bran's back.
"It's as bad as I feared then."
"I didn't forget that part," Bran snapped, only to cringe at having had yet another outburst. "I didn't forget any of it, I just…"
"Be specific please."
"… I tried to dictate it for my sons to copy, was going to ask Ofnir and the other vitkir to go through it, but…"
"But?"
"I burned the scroll and swore them to secrecy, alright?! What else was I supposed to do? That wasn't knowledge meant for human minds!" And now he was arguing about the wrong thing, obviously Nimrod would be upset with him for trying to spread than information at all-
"Do you feel as strongly about it now?"
"What kind of question is that? Of course I-" but Bran immediately realized that wasn't true. He remembered how he felt in hindsight, but right here and now, none of the same emotions emerged, even as he recalled the writing – even as he had no trouble understanding it now, even though back then he'd – he suddenly stopped and grabbed himself by two fistfuls of hair. "Fuck, it doesn't stop."
"You're more than intelligent enough to understand everything I wrote there. Your feelings weren't natural. It was all induced, forced on you. There's a malediction on that knowledge, in the Immaterium where souls reside."
"Gods fucking dammit!" Bran punched a tree, and his lips seemed frozen in an ugly snarl. "I was – I've been – why the hell do we even have shamans, you'd think Bjorn would – what am I saying, good or bad doesn't matter, does it? Fucking gods are all useless."
Nimrod didn't react to his blasphemy, to what could have been taken – what was a personal insult. He just waited for Bran to get ahold of himself again, before they both resumed their walk.
"It's not something that can be attacked," Nimrod said lowly. "Not even something located, spatially, it can only be defied."
"And I failed."
"You didn't know to try."
"I failed, don't sugarcoat it. I failed the skaven part and I failed this too."
"You'll be able to try again soon enough. I'm going to go over the explanation one more time anyway, because I want it to be the first thing on your minds when the ritual begins."
Bran didn't have the energy to ask what ritual he was talking about.
They proceeded north until they reached the woods.
It was when they no longer saw the port town due to the tree cover, that Bran could finally pretend to have regained control of himself "Give me that fucking book."
"It disintegrated after the allotted time I set for its existence. I'll make another if you want, but not now. I'd rather you defer on it in any case. Your different perspective might actually help me."
Was the kid finally going to explain what the hell he wanted them all alone in the big bad woods for? "You're not going to sacrifice us or anything, are you?"
"That you genuinely consider that a possibility is a very sad thing, Bran."
I'm the only one who still wonders about you at all, Bran thought but felt too guilty to voice. Which only made him feel angry all over again, since when was healthy skepticism a bad thing? But then, it wasn't like it helped him see through Bjorn's trickery, did it? The Great Bear wasn't even a proper trickster!
When they reached what was clearly a freshly created clearing, Valnir, Hrami and even Angan were there.
"I used special-purpose talismans to fly to him and back really fast," Nimrod explained. "Not something I can do on a large scale, but I can manage an adult griffon's flight load at least. I have enough for one or two more trips before I need to make more."
"And you don't have time."
"For that and most other things."
Bran looked at the cross-shaped magical array on the ground, with four circles at the points each just big enough to sit down in. He wished he had Ofnir here to tell him it wasn't a blood sacrifice rite he was walking into. That he genuinely considered that a possibility was another sad thing, but he couldn't help it. Not after what Bjorn did. "This is more important than all that?"
"I've given matters all the thought I could. My conclusion is that the only thing I can do about the trap in the east is either ignore or spring it. So I'm going to try and solve what I can of everything not directly related to that. Of those, the thing I'm most deathly afraid for right now is your life, Bran."
Bran was floored.
"You don't need to participate if you don't want to, but will you at least stay nearby? And then until I leave too, preferably. That way I'll only have to obsess over it afterwards."
How did I end up here? What even is this? When did our places get reversed? Even if he did his best to stay skeptical of Nimrod's claims – everyone else's claims about Nimrod's divinity, that just made Bran obsess twice over about everything the kid did. If Nimrod was just a human, he'd just declared Bran the most – more important than everyone else? His own tribesfolk, even? But if it was true he was a god, what kind of God even says something like that? To a mortal! Right here for the others to see and hear too, Bran's dark thoughts reasserted themselves. Of all the ways to stir envy-
Setting his face, Bran stomped over to the nearest circle and plopped down, doing his best to ignore his pounding heart. "Let's just get it over with."
The other three took his actions as signal to do the same, and soon Nimrod went and sat down too, cross-legged at the center of the formation. Bran didn't know if he was more conflicted or thankful the kid didn't sit facing him. Embarrassingly, he did feel pleased the kid didn't directly face any of the others either.
"All living creatures exist in the material as well as immaterial universe," Nimrod began to speak, even as the magic circle below them began to gather light. "The body in the former, the soul in the latter, with the spirit – think of it as a sort of anchor in between. Usually, while the soul is anchored to the body in this way, it is in minor danger from the dangers of the warp. However, worshipping chaos automatically marks out your soul to a Power, so that even the souls of the mightiest Immortal Reincarnates can be dragged away and slowly consumed by the Powrs of Chaos."
That word again, 'Immortal Reincarnates' what did it actually mean?
"This, unfortunately, means that those of you who ever worshipped the Four or their daemons are at risk of one or two fates, when you die: either your spirit is subsumed by part of the Chaos God and turned into a daemon prince – unlikely – or your spirit is eaten to empower them, while your soul is consigned to the nigh-eternal torture in the Chaos God's belly, to end only when the God ends, or the soul undergoes total dissolution. Meanwhile, your body may or may not become a chaos spawn because of how much of your spirit has been replaced with chaos essence, through that worship."
Bran clenched his fists over his knees, scared and angry. He wasn't a Chaos Worshipper, but like everyone else he had been when younger, before he lived long enough to learn better.
"My pact with Manann means that you're safe from all that so long as you die within sight of my lanterns, and your descendants will not be at risk at all if they aren't dedicated or taught to worship the Four like you've all been."
Bran wasn't the only one who reached for the lantern pendant around his neck. He probably was the only one for whom it didn't signify worship though, but how long would that last at this rate?
"That said, it's not a perfect solution, and it does little about the other thing that marks people to chaos – active use of magical powers. By existing in both planes at once, people are each a tiny warp gate unto themselves, and minds draw on the soul's power to various extents all the time. Those born to magic do this a lot more than other people, but it's not a requirement. You can have a strong soul without magic, or without using it, and that power will fuel great feats of fame in all manner of ways. Unfortunately, when the soul is depleted through such a process, it expands back to its previous energy by absorbing raw energy from the immaterium. Deplete your soul too much and your dominant character traits won't be able to overpower any intrusive thoughts and urges that seep into you when your soul draws on the warp. This is the final state of Dark Wizards on this world, and vampires and other undead as well, even without worship of a dark power."
I don't want to hear that I was even more right about things slipping into my head.
"Unfortunately, a soul strong in characteristics associated with a particular Power will naturally exert an attraction to that dark power. That's why people fall to chaos easier if they don't have the protection of another entity. In that, the Bjornlings are luckier than most for Ursun's deception – active worship of the Four exerted its pull as normal, but merely exhibiting valor or deviousness didn't add to that pull as it normally would. I suspect this is why you Bjornlings are the only ones able to distinguish between worship and appeasement, in your ways."
I don't want to hear about this either, I want to stay angry at Bjorn for how badly he handled the reveal, he deliberately made it so I'd be away when he did it, I'm the damned king, calling our tutelary to account on my people's behalf is the whole point-
"And then there's daemonic possession."
There's more?
"When someone draws on their soul, the power flare from the soul to the body makes the spirit glow brightly in the other world. If it's bright enough, or frequent enough, a daemon will be attracted to the soul and attempt to blend into the spirit anchor. If it is successful, then every time the soul passes energy into the material universe thereafter, a portion of the daemon will be drawn along as well. These daemon pieces will push the person's own mind back along the anchor into their soul, while the daemon takes more and more residence in their body until they predominate over the native personality."
How did Svengar not end up that way? Because he wasn't a psyker, so it just took longer? Even with two daemon weapons? "Then wouldn't it be the same with the good Powers?"
"No. Many of those are former mortals who ascended through various means, and the rest were either born from the union of the aforementioned, or created specifically to be enduring and self-contained. The ways through which they retain their nature and existence runs contrary to the rampant, self-damaging and destructive mechanisms by which a chaos being blends itself with a living spirit. The only way you can do that is if you lack your own identity, or hate yourself so much as to welcome its destruction, even just partially or temporarily."
Being chaos is suffering, is that it? Bran supposed that you needed to be a special brand of crazy to want to merge with another soul, or whatever you called it. And if daemons were so great and powerful, why did they all want to insert themselves into the small, limited lives of mortal kind? Above everything else? It's not like they ever have half as much power on this side. Do the Four bigshots themselves hate themselves too?
"There aren't good warpspawn then?" Valnir asked this time.
"There are, but the benevolent won't trespass on another, and the selfish will care about their own sense of self too much to jeopardize their own identity if at all possible. What blessings they give have buffers built in, if they aren't entirely disconnected from them on a conceptual level. If you're worried about the white dove, though, don't be – she's just Shallya in disguise."
Shallya – isn't that some weak southern goddess? It wasn't just Bjorn that - another good god tricking mortals, how many are there? Do they all do it? Of all the lying, deceitful, patronizing-
"Now that I've told you all this, keep it at the forefront of your minds while you try to come up with any random idea to avoid all this trouble. Hopefully, with four of you here as bait for the wild geese to crowd instead of me, I'll be able to pick a path through them towards an actual solution that works for everyone."
What does that even mean?
There was no time to wonder about it, because the magic circle had been gathering power all that time. With a flex of Nimrod's will, that power engulfed Bran where he sat, inundated him, his whole body, his brain as if trying to see everything in it.
It's reading my mind? Bran thought in sudden panic, but any attempts to get his body to move was lost in the deluge of energy rushing through him from the ground. What's happ-?
It lasted for a single moment, but that one moment felt like an eternity swimming through the fulfillment of every last one of Bran's dreams, from the most childish to the most impossible.
When the light stopped, Bran Lostkin was laid out on the ground, feeling like his soul had just been teased for an eternity with things that would never be, even as his spirit felt stuffed like after a feast. He'd fallen just right, though, to catch one single glimpse of Nimrod in – whatever that other realm was, before the vision or whatever it was faded. The kid was spellbound, almost, by some weird glowing string floating above his palm, and then a second string showed up, and more, multiplying until they looked like a man made of light threads.
The visions became briefly clearer as Nimrod did… something that felt like he was burning his own soul out.
A shining orb of mighty power appeared at the core of the light string human, where you'd imagine someone's soul would be.
Finally, the vision ended, leaving only the kid standing where he'd once sat, and the rest of them spread out on the grassy forest soil, addled and muddleheaded like after the best feast of their lives was followed by the absolutely worst drinking binge.
"It worked," Nimrod breathed where he stood, sounding right stunned. "It worked." When Nimrod began to laugh, Bran realized with conflicted feelings that it was only the second time he witnessed it, and the first time when it was so raw, so unfiltered, so honestly relieved.
Was – he always so worried?
It didn't last for long, the laughter, but when it finished, Nimrod looked fresh as though after some fundamental transfiguration. "I can use this. I can do this." The boy looked at them then, looking and sounding quite frankly excited. "Who's up for a bit of spirit surgery?"
"No offence," Bran rasped through a dry throat, trying to sit up only to roll over on his back instead. "But I think I'll pass."
It felt horrible to take the wind out of the sails of someone so honestly trying to be good, never mind after – whatever that had been.
But after everything with the bad gods and good gods and all of them taking him and his people for granted, even though they were due a god that wasn't an arsehole like the rest, Bran Lostkin didn't have it in him to take anything on faith anymore.
"-. .-"
He was going to pay for it. You only defied a god so many times before you got burned, and it wasn't that different with kings. Whichever Nimrod really was, Bran didn't have any illusions about who was senior in their alliance. Right now, the Bjornlings still had the leverage of men and ships, and the onset of war ironically meant that infighting would only break out if someone else started it. But that wouldn't last. The fact he was the only Bjornling in their little council left little room for interpretation.
The fact he was the only one left behind to hold the fort for almost a week, while Nimrod took the other three back home for 'spirit surgery,' turned that 'little' to 'nothing.' Sure, kid said it was because he needed time to assimilate the knowledge, and the Waystone's power to do everyone in one go, whatever 'do' was supposed to mean. Bran couldn't exactly raise a stink after he refused to have his spirit cut up and twisted into yarn. Literally.
It did rankle, though, that Bran's entirely reasonable misgivings about Nimrod not taking responsibility for the war he started weren't enough to make Nimrod stay longer, but this somehow was.
Didn't change what it looked like either, that he was the only one now 'excluded from the New God's confidence.' From the judgmental silence of his sons, and Ofnir, and half of everyone else he had to deal with for the half a day and night those four were gone, everyone else shared Bran's sentiments.
He spent a fair chunk of the evenings reading Nimrod's book again. On the fifth day, he was finally able to go over and remember both the skaven and soul parts. It only made it more disturbing when his sons kept forgetting or twisting what he read to them into the usual 'yeah, some beastmen are ratlike, what of it?'
Bran decided to join the rest of the army in their carousing in the meadhall after that, and told the tale he'd only just read of the Doom of Tylos. When he was done, his claim that the skaven were a real thing caused a literal brawl. Because his own tribesmen laughed him off and sent insults flying at the Graelings for taking it completely seriously.
One of the brawlers might've died if Bran didn't have those one-use healing talismans that Nimrod had made. It earned him back the goodwill he lost by not being able to control his own men, but that wasn't really saying much.
If it's not the gods it's your fellow man, fuck my life.
He slept fitfully again. If he dreamed, he didn't remember it.
He made sure one of his sons woke him for the others' return this time, though in all honesty the boom of sound would've done the job too.
Angan was absent, but the other two were not. Both of them looked a little green from the meteoric trip, but also twice as confident as before and even more dangerous. Hrami was completely covered in his green robes as usual, but Valnir liked to go around in just his kilt and a battle harness sometimes, with or without his big fur coat. Said it was because Norsca was so much warmer than the Wastes. Bran believed him, and was thankful for it now because it meant he could see the changes he'd undergone. Sprawling, sinuous tattoo patterns now covered almost his entire front, and Valnir's back too.
That sure is some 'spiritual' surgery right there.
"That is no tattoo," Ofnir muttered from nearby, because Bran apparently was wrong about that too. "It's not an arcane mark either, but it's both physical and spiritual. I think."
"You think?"
"I can't actually tell there's anything strange about it, but the Grey Wind doesn't quite ignore it when it passes through. Other mystics surely won't be able to tell, even most other Ulgu practitioners. I've never seen the like."
"Any idea what they're for?"
"… The man doesn't feel of death anymore," the vitki said in puzzlement. "Some manner of mystical concealment?"
Just that? Not likely, or Nimrod wouldn't have been so relieved. Especially after that crash-course in the nature of Chaos that he gave us.
Because Bran's predicament wasn't precarious enough, Nimrod immediately went off on his own somewhere, to see if he could 'do one last thing' before he had to leave them. Abandon them, Bran was going to call it like it is even if no one else would.
The two men invited Bran to break their fast together, but he begged off on account of not being a breakfast person. Which was true and everyone was used to it, but it was still an obvious deflection.
Bran busied himself inspecting the camps, then returned to the repurposed harbormaster building to get updated on the many headaches that came with establishing proper seaborne logistics. It was just a way for him to run from his real problems, avoid the ugly confrontation he really, really didn't want to have. He believed the kid's heart was in the right place, but the others… men like them, the sins on their souls didn't wash out easily. A light could shine bright enough that you couldn't see the stains, but the light wouldn't always be there.
How long do I have before Nimrod's new favorite comes to show me the new pecking order?
Bran was crossing things out in the ledger when he heard the door open and shut below. He discreetly used the echolocation ear clasp Nimrod had gifted him, back when he'd gone on his 'everyone ask me for whatever you think is useful' enchanting spree. Instead of Bran's sons come to bring the latest information from the scout ships, it was his two, freshly emboldened, wholly unsupervised peers.
Shit. No one else was in the building, and Ofnir was… not right outside where Bran had asked him to be today. It's an ambush.
Bran quickly walked over to the wall rack and donned his sword belt, thanking his paranoia that he didn't go long unarmored when he was outside his own borders. He got back to his desk just in time to pretend he was inspecting his map, when Valnir and Hrami came upstairs. From both ends of the floor, curse the Skaelings for their tastes in interior architecture. If their forward thinking about thralls being unable to hide and protect themselves indoors was what was going to kill him here, he'd-
"You realize you're going to inherit all this, right?"
Bran… had absolutely no idea what he'd just heard.
"If not you, then your heirs. Whether because yonder rift eats him, or because he's done reshaping us and our lands in his own image, the day will come, sooner or later. That's what gods do. They swoop down, change your life how they see fit, then leave."
"… What are you talking about?"
Hrami and Valnir exchanged a look of commiseration, before the Green Wizard looked at him again. "If Thengill can't return to us by the end of this, you'll be the one expected to inherit his vision."
"Saying the same thing with different words doesn't make you make any more sense."
Hrami pinched his nose, such that it was Valnir that spoke this time. "Lostkin," he said slowly, as if trying his hardest not to sound like he was talking to a total goose. "It'll be years before the Noble One gets a lady and an heir, if he even does. Until that happens, the one he cherishes most in this world is you."
Bran glanced around for the hidden assassin they were playing distraction for.
Hrami scoffed. "Give it a rest, if we wanted you dead we wouldn't do it here, never mind before Nimrod left!"
"Forgive me if I don't actually believe anything you say after I went against literally everything the kid asked me to do. You were there, I saw how much you disapproved."
"Unbelievable," Valnir rubbed a hand over his face and leaned back against the railing overlooking the bottom floor, if Bran could charge him fast enough, the fall might- "Lostkin, that only made him like you more. If he wasn't going to marry his firstborn to one of yours before, he sure as hell is now."
Bran made to say something smart back, but his words caught.
"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and attribute all of this to stress," Hrami told Bran waspishly. "Do remember my goodwill when you become High King of all Norsca, and whatever other lands Nimrod decides to pull along in the meanwhile."
Bran Lostkin felt abruptly light-headed. High King? Of all Norsca? What? "That's – not –" Not what? "You – expect me to think you – that none of you-?"
"Oh come off it, Lostkin," Hrami said with a ghastly sneer. "Even you can't be so dense as to think I'll ever be deserving of such high honors. It's a god-given miracle I'm still alive, literally, never mind in my god's confidence."
Stop making so much sense! "Angan-"
"Is old and childless, next nonsense."
In a last-ditch effort to find some sanity in the world, Bran turned to the other man to-
"Don't even try it, are you kidding?" Valnir cut ahead of him with total disbelief. "Me and mine are from the Chaos Wastes. If there ain't a whole bunch who agreed to move down here just to cause trouble, I'll eat my boots. My clan will be the source of eight out of ten chaos plots against our new nation for the next hundred years, just you wait."
This couldn't be happening. It was impossible, it didn't make sense, how was everyone else making more sense than he did, never mind these two!
"Bran," Valnir's voice was like a thunderclap in the tense stillness that followed, even though he didn't raise his tone at all. "Think, Lostkin, think. There wouldn't be a Graeling tribe anymore if Hrami hadn't bungled his way into unearned redemption, and the only reason me and mine aren't crowfood is the White Dove's pity. The Noble One had completely written all of us off when he went down to your lands, and what did he find? That you and yours had already achieved everything he wanted. Who else could it be but you?"
Bran felt like one of Nimrod's powder kegs had blasted him right in the chest. "That – it's not what he told me."
"He didn't tell you he was a god either, didn't intend to meet you so soon at all. That wasn't how he wanted to treat with you. He wanted to earn trust from you. He wanted to impress you."
Bran's chest tightened. He went to speak, but the words caught in his throat again, and he didn't even know what they were. What he meant to – what was he supposed to-?
"We're going on a bender."
What-?
"Aye, let's."
They marched him down and out before he even realized they were in striking distance.
Half-way to the meadhall, Bran learned that Ofnir had vanished on him because Bjorn had warned him about a would-be saboteur making to summon daemons.
The others accompanied him while he confirmed that the issue was done and done with – it was one of Valnir's, as he'd foreseen – then they proceeded to veto all of Bran's subsequent attempts to get back to work.
"-. .-"
The bender was dreadful, the hangover the next day was worse, but when Bran dragged himself out of his corner of the meadhall to say goodbye to their little God-king, he felt weirdly not worried anymore about his place in life. Even though they still didn't have a coherent strategy for fighting a war against the entire rest of Norsca.
Fuck.
Of course, the Skaelings and Vargs still hadn't decided what their war effort would look like either, but those were just excuses.
So of course the kid would pull him into the nearest empty building for a private word that would completely upend that too.
"How do you feel about living a thousand years?"
Bran's questioning grunt came out strangled.
Nimrod held out a fruit. "It took some work, but I was able to come up with an adequate delivery system."
Bran accepted the fruit like it was red iron, even though it looked like a random crabapple. "What does it do?"
"Gives you a body like mine."
Bran almost dropped it.
"In respect for your wish not to have your being meddled with, I've made it so it will only activate on a violent death. Even then it won't mess with your metaphysics. There's nothing spiritual or even magical about it really. Well, except one thing." Nimrod's expression turned guarded. "I used some of your hairs to make it so it only digests properly for you, but I'd still prefer you not advertise it. Ideally you'd eat it as soon as possible, but I'll understand if you-"
Bran raised a hand, though he closed his eyes just so he didn't have to endure that sincerity a moment longer. "What do you mean live for a thousand years?"
"Or possibly forever." He didn't need eyes to know Nimrod had just shrugged. "A thousand years used to be average for humans back in the day, on the homeworld." On the what-? "There's even records about kings reigning for tens of thousands of years at a time, even longer depending on the source. Whether it was immortality or regular reincarnation, the result was the same. We were all a race of gods, back then."
That was far too good to be true. Bran tried to say so, but the disheartening words wouldn't come. If it was too good to be true, it made sense that something conspired to make it stop being true. It wasn't true now, was it? He cleared his dry throat and words still didn't come. Could he let himself hope again, just a little? "When you say a body like yours, you mean…?"
"Strength, speed, toughness, reflexes, burning hotter than the sun, breathing fire, healing from all wounds in mere moments, you've seen it all already. Just don't explode yourself, it can happen if you draw on the heat too much."
"… I saw the tail-ends of your fight with Svengar, you're saying I'll be as strong as that?" Tough too, enough to, what? Jump off mountains?
"More, actually," Nimrod wryly admitted. "Turns out purely scientific bioenhancement doesn't scale with conjured biomass. I wasn't as powerful as I'll be when I've grown to adulthood naturally."
Bran stared at the crabapple like it was an explosion waiting to happen. This little thing could make him as strong as a god? Well, this god anyway. Why? Who go so far? Just because he cared about Bran's life that much?
The one he cherishes most in this world is you.
He couldn't believe it. He barely even believed this was happening, really. He'd never believed things that sounded too good to be true.
But…
Nimrod had never lied to him, had he? He even warned him away from the very start, even though he had no reason to, being so good. Unlike the gods.
… The other gods, why the hell not?
Bran bit the apple and ate it all in one go.
It hurt like hell going down, he didn't chew it enough and swallowed to soon, fuck, he'll kill himself before he drives anyone else to it, ugh – ack!
The kid, as always, was too nice to make fun of him. Too nice by far, why the hell had Bran even been worried? Just to choke himself to death like a complete idiot after it was all over?
High King of Norsca my arse, nnngh!
When his ordeal finally stopped, Bran didn't feel any different. Of course he didn't, Nimrod said it wouldn't kick in unless he kicked it. The bucket, that is. Was it too late to ask him to activate it now?
He was too embarrassed to ask. If he had to go through hell to get it, he probably deserved it. It wasn't right to just be granted such impossible power anyway, without putting in at least some work.
Immortality! Fucking hell.
"Come on, let's get back out there before your shaman starts fretting again."
"-. The Beastlord of Hoeth .-"
The blockages along the nexus lines that powered the Great Vortex should have been their salvation. Instead, it had doomed their war effort. The moment the Eight Winds once more became strong enough to support Qhaysh, Malekith was free to show that the world had yet to beget his equal in High Magic.
Shamefully, the only thing that stemmed that tide was disseminating the transformation spells of the ancient human necromancer among the Loremasters, but even that wasn't enough to break the tide. Worse, at the end of it, the Asur lost more mages to the slow mental decline of irreversible beast transformation than to death.
Those that took the full plunge into Ghur and turned into dragons were now their greatest assets, seemingly giving even Malekith pause at last. But that was just more proof of the Witch King's dark cunning, for while he and his cadres engaged the new dragons and Asur on all known fronts, the distraction allowed Laithkikir Hellheart to circle around the Isles to the North, and successfully capture the Blighted Isle before anyone could send reinforcements.
Now, the druchii held the Blighted Isle uncontested, allowing them to attack the northen shore of Ulthuan with impunity. The black altar at the heart of the great Shrine of Khaine ran red with elven blood as it hadn't since the Sundering. The fortresses and watchtowers that the High Elves once held upon those desolate lands, the fastnesses that had served to warn them against invaders, now cast forth upon Ulthuan Morathi's evil eye.
From that cursed isle, Tullaris Dreadbringer and his mistress the Crone Hellborn had crossed the Shadowed Strait, and landed a second invasion force upon the Lion March. Faced with a war on two fronts, the Phoenix King had to choose between Nagarythe and Chrace, and he'd naturally chosen the latter.
Now Anlec was lost, the Flame of Galirian had been snuffed out and replaced by Khainite blood offerings, and the Desolation of Tethlis was a forest of Asur in unrelenting agony. So was Athel Sarui, such that it no longer deserved to be called the Forest of Silence. For every dark elf that Alith Anar had crucified on those trees in the past two thousand years, the Witch King of Naggaroth was determined to return the favor twice over. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of prisoners were suffering torments that made them beg for death, only to be denied that sweet release by the Cytharai cadres.
Perhaps worst of all, the Asur ended up having to fight a three-front war. Not only had the druchii amassed such hordes as to overtake the entire Lion Fang Hills, but with their thralls and war beasts swelling their numbers to levels unseen since the Sundering, they had overrun the outposts around Dead King's Peak to besiege the Phoenix Gate itself. With their forces split between those two places and the western Nagarythe front, the next great loss was certain and everyone knew it.
Unfortunately, the reports of strategists and swordmasters only reached the Phoenix King through his chancellor, and so Aethis the Poet only made the call when the last and only bastion of civilization on accursed Nagarythe finally fell to siege.
"Alith Anar," the Phoenix King urged the Prince of Nagarythe one last time in the shadow of Tor Dranil. "There is still time to retreat, the last ships will bear you hence along with us. After this, they will not return."
"You mean you will not give the order to return," the Shadow King rebuked. Though his tone was no more frigid or aloof than ever, he did not mince words. "Your dirges are as belated as your presence on the battlefield, oh Lord. Save them for the dead. Malekith is not such an accomplished rogue as to steal away with hope itself. Tor Anroc remains ours, and there are still landbound paths to Cair Anroc left open."
"Yet you will not use them."
"Not to flee."
"Why?"
"Why do I not listen?"
The words were self-aimed and straightforward, but the deeper meaning in the tonal inflexions was closer to 'Why did you not listen to those in the field until now?'
Elliriad was not the only one who glanced judgmentally in the chancellor's direction. He was not discreet.
They evacuated by sea, and made haste south along the bay. Cairn Anroc was a sheltered and shingled bay that thrusted inland between the lands of Tiranoc and Nagarythe, its craggy slopes reaching up and further inland. They left part of their force to reinforce the Salvation Isles, but the main War Council accompanied the Phoenix King onwards. Once they landed in the Night Wood, the army would be able to reach Eagle Gate in one day's time.
Elliriad did not wait for the march. After sitting in council as expected of his position, he begged leave with the king to let him fly on alone, to be there with his apprentice while he still retained some elven wits, before his transformation into a dragon subsumed him entirely. His leave was granted, even though he suspected some in the King's retinue saw through his lies. His apprentice hadn't been a weak-willed oaf, it would be a while yet before his mind truly degraded. But no one called him out on it, which only emboldened him.
He flew to Tor Elyr for a secret meeting with the leading Loremasters and Swordmasters of Ellyrion, and from there onwards to Whitefyre Tor for a repeat of the same.
War was not the best time to engage in court intrigue, but the chancellor had caused the King to err one time too many, and too cleverly to be simple incompetence.
"-. The Warrior Queen .-"
She woke up alone. She heard no whisper of a priest's chants to call her from her deathly sleep. This was not the way. True, her standing orders that none be in the chamber to witness her rise had not changed since her first awakening, but that only meant that the Priest was supposed to leave the room before she arose from her sarcophagus. She seldom had the drive to awaken by herself, for what was there in the world for her as she was now? She would not awaken at all and instead pass the ages away in peace, if not for the threat that rival kings might encroach upon her demesne.
And the machinations of her hated sister.
She reached up and pushed aside the lid of her sarcophagus. She rose. She did not stretch, for feeling was lost with her life, back when her blood betrayed her. She did not yawn, for she did not breathe except to speak. She did not run her hands down her body, hating enough the mere memory of dry, coarse linen wrapped around her dessicated flesh. She did not let her eyes see.
Instead, she stepped out of her stone-wrought coffin and walked her place of rest wholly from memory, approaching the large mirror on the wall with light and dainty steps. All the while, she chanted the words of power of a spell that the Gods had not seen fit to grant even the foremost Liche Priests, ever so grasping even in their faith.
The incantation reached its apex just as she stopped before the mirror.
Life's sheer euphoria was more wondrous and intoxicating every time.
Standing within her specially made reliquary within the temple of the blessed asp inthe magnificent city Lybaras, Khalida Neferher opened her eyes and beheld her old glory. Now she breathed, for she had lungs and a sense of smell that delighted even in that closed off, stale air. She ran her hands down her body, knowing she would later regret displacing the bandages but unable to care. She licked her lips, luxuriating in the sharp tang of the frankincense that the Priests regularly sprinkled upon their kings and queens during repose. The incense that would turn her teeth to powder if not for the dreadful fact that this miracle wouldn't last long enough for it to happen. It never did.
She refused to blink, to lose a moment of this sight that was the only thing that could eventually bury the horrifying memory of her new nature, back when she first arose.
She closed her eyes just before the miracle faded, returning the ugliness she refused to witness a second time since the first time she awoke to undeath.
She rang the bell that would rouse her guards and attendants. She kept her eyes closed and her words to herself while they dressed her in her all-concealing vestments, and the death mask of gold created in her likeness.
She strode out of the temple and allowed her people to lift her high on her royal palanquin, forward towards the palace. As every time before, she was struck by the sheer wrongness of this existence.
Nagash be damned. Neferata be damned. Settra's Reign of a Million Years be damned. This was no life to force on anyone, when all that made life life was gone, save for ambition and lust for power. She knew she was right, not for nothing did most of her peers choose to sleep the years away like her, only awakening once in a blue moon to make an appearance and appease the Khemrikara.
If the gods were good, she would not have to deal with too much intrigue this time. She would not reach the palace only to be told that pirates or thieves or explorers had been by and made off with some trinket. She was in no mood to put on a show of being outraged at the living for doing what all of them would do in their place.
All she cared about was the vision that roused her, and to confer with the high priest about what the source meant. She slept the years away in Asaph's breast, but while the vision had come through her, it had not come from her. It had come from Usirian.
Who was that tall and mighty man of age with her old self, with hair as red as hers and eyes like sky sapphires? Who was that tall and mighty warrior-king that soared without wings to wrestle with the Powers Beyond the Skies? Over a hammer?
What was so important that the gods themselves would make common cause to show him in her dream?
And why in Earth and Heaven would the God of the Dead send her a vision that reminded her how blood raced in her breast, back when she had not been robbed of life's passions?
Next chapter is available on P treon (karmicacumen), Ko-fi (karmicacumen) and Subscribestar (karmic-acumen), along with advance chapters for The Unified Theorem (Warcraft) and A Backwards Approach to Clarke's Law (Highschool DxD X-Over, Inspired Inventor)
"-. Mechanics Discerned .-"
Guided Epiphany: Nimrod has figured out it is possible to aim his Form delving somewhat. Currently, there seems to be two methods:
1. Use magic to 'pull' other people 'close' enough to the World of Forms for some of the Forms to be attracted to them, and thus away from Nimrod. This means the only forms that don't drift away are the ones equally compatible with all the people involved. What the participants want and/or have at the forefront of their minds during the ritual seems to play a factor. Nimrod still doesn't control the outcome, but the options are narrowed down enough to make rerolls cheaper (in this case free because the forms rerolled were themselves were free).
2. Use Forms already grasped as checkpoints to look for related / more sublime ones (i.e. Magic Circuits - Magic Core)
Side benefit, purchasable forms are now unlocked, provided Nimrod possesses at least one in the chain (for example, if he rolled WoD Magic one dot, he can purchase the 2/3/4/5/ dots if he has the anima).
"-. Forms Grasped .-"
Spiritual Root Channels of Understated Transfiguration (Free, Magic Circuits, Fate/kaleid liner PRISMA ILLYA, Source) – Magic Circuits are a pseudo-nervous system that spreads through the body and acts as an organ that converts lifeforce into magical energy. Magic Circuits reside within the soul and what is found in the body is a physical expression of them. The number of Magic circuits one possesses is determined at birth and cannot decrease or increase naturally. You gain twenty magical circuits of top quality and a further twenty each time you purchase this option.
Spiritual Branch Channels of Inheritance (300 CP, Magic Crest, Fate/Zero, Source) – Within a tattoo somewhere on your body is the combined knowledge of magecraft from your ancestors and family. This tattoo is in truth called the Majutsu Kokuin, the Magic Crest, and is formed of Magical Circuits donated from each of your precedents. It also marks you as the heir to your family, as you hold the family's most important possession on your body. Your Crest has a great deal of knowledge, the equal of several tens of generations of your family imbued within it, though focused on the specialty or specialties you chose as your family's focus early. The knowledge is yours to use as you will and the Crest itself works as an additional 100 Magical Circuits added to your own.
Spiritual Fruit of the World Tree Sapling (600 CP, Magic Core, Fate, Source) - A core identical to the one Arturia Pendragon holds has appeared deep within your soul. This Magic Core has granted you an immense amount of Mana, far more then any normal magus could ever hope to achieve with just magic circuits. This source of mana also regenerates quite rapidly, refilling to full within a single day. This mana is roughly equal to B rank in Servant terms.
Elementary Thaumaturgy (Free, Lord El-Melloi Case Files, Lore) – You know the most basic levels of magecraft. You can use the most basic forms of Structural Analysis, Gradation Air, Reinforcement, and Alteration. You have the beginnings of an understanding of the laws of magic in general, but don't expect to outclass anyone but Shirou Emiya. Some of the more haughty mages will resent referring to you as a mage at all.
Focused Thaumaturgy Research (Free, Family Research, Lord El-Melloi Case Files, Lore) – Area Chosen – Self-Sustaining Thaumaturgy – Every magus lineage has some focus, some subject they're studying, such as the biology of a specific Phantasmal Species, mystical archeology, the human genome, the interaction between Paracalus's alchemy and the Periodic Table, astronomy, or the inner workings of Mystic Eyes. Whether you inherited it or stole it, you may pick one such focus here, and gain a vast well of knowledge pertaining to it - enough to rival an accredited doctor if there is such a thing. At base there is little mystical benefit to this knowledge, but as your magical skills improve it will grant you access to numerous mysteries that are either unusually powerful or extremely difficult to replicate using modern thaumaturgy. Some of those shall be the fruit of your family's research, some will be the tools necessary to continue it. It's nowhere near enough to reach the Root, but maybe someday, if you keep at it. Additionally, some Thaumaturgic Attribute - probably one that resonates with your family research - has been passed down your bloodline, like any magus lineage, which adds "meaning" to elemental magecraft, making it many times more effective and versatile, and may even open up otherwise-impossible options, though you cannot claim the most impressive canonical examples such as Tradition Carriers and Wish-granting with this perk alone. Like elements, these can be changed, but never casually. Known attributes include swords, sisters, opening wounds, the flow and transfer of power, and absorption, so you can pick just about anything you can imagine. Just remember that having "almighty" as your Sorcery Trait won't actually make you almighty, though the Queen of the Clocktower might have something to say on the subject.
I had a whole thing typed out about perk synergy here and what Nimrod can do (and has done) with them, but decided it would be too spoilery. Also, I might have missed some possibilities. Please, speculate as much as possible!
Banked Anima (CP)
2000 – 300 (Crest) – 600 (Magic Core) 1100 (New Word Count) = 2200