Daemons of the Night, part 2

[Rork]

God, this took a while. This is a more "plotty" part introducing the rest of the major characters of the story.

I dedicate this part to darkprincess, whose own fluff helped me out of a plot "issue"

Part 2 – The Act of Unity

The carriage passed through the streets of Altdorf, unremarkable amongst the other carriages in the “better” part of the city. The carriage in which the Succubus was sat was a particularly fine example of craftsmanship, but with the paint beginning to peel and the leather losing its gloss, it had seen better days. She batted her needle-like eyelashes at her would-be rescuer, “How incredibly rude of me, kind sir! I neglected to ask your name. Pray tell, what would it be?”

It could be considered unusual that any follower of Slaanesh would not skip the introductions.

With a mildly imperious tone the man replied, “I am Lord Frederick of Bitterhofen, my good lady.”
“A lord? How interesting, are you a mighty, dominating lord with many conquests to your name?” she whispered, running her delicate finger down the front of his tunic as she did so.
Frederick seemed to be taken aback by the lady’s directness, “Well,” he coughed, his mouth dry, “my family made its name and fortune in trading good along the Reik, as well as further afield.”
She started to carrass his chest, “So you are well-versed in the ways and customs of foreign lands…?” she said with a hint of wickedness now beginning to enter her voice. She was now close to him, her breasts heaving with desire (Of course, this was largely for effect. Not being mortal means breathing is usually optional), her eyes burning with calculating lust.
“I suppose you could…” he began to say, but was cut off as the Succubus clamped her luscious lips upon his, her tongue thrashing around wildly within his mouth. Soon, she thought, Soon I will have acquiescent fools to carry out my every demand, the desires of men are so easy to fulfil…

“Odd,” muttered Dieter, the coach driver, to himself, “I don’t remember this road being this bumpy.”

*

It had been a long, hard walk across the plains of the north, and for the days, or more likely months, ahead the Supreme Lord Rork would be walking all the way back to his fortress. The pace was near frantic, or at least showing a sense of frustration. “How do you know this is the way back, Advocate?” the Lord Rork growled.
“Trust me, my Lord.”
“You should know by now that I only trust two things: Corpses, and tools to make the living into corpses.”
“What about the living dead, my Lord?” came the mocking reply.

The Lord Rork seemed lost for words. This was, of course, not entirely unusual. While the Slaaneshi could muse over the pleasures and vices of the body, and the Tzeentchians could mix metaphors with the best of them - The amount of conversation among the followers of Khorne tended to be small. They could stretch it to the size of their weapons and unnecessary number of skulls they hung on chains. Then a brief silence usually ensued, followed by over-enthusiastic cries of “Blood for the Blood God!”

Rork kept on checking the skyline. It had been days since he had found anything to kill, and even that was just a lion-rabbit mutant thing. “Here we are, my Lord,” said the Advocate, his tone enthusiastic.
The Lord Rork had to stop himself from walking right into the walls of his fortress. For a moment he looked around, confused, “Advocate, this wasn’t here just now.”
“The nature of the realm of Chaos can be fickle, my Lord,” came the innocent sounding reply.

The Lord Rork prodded the air, as though trying to make a point. He shook his head. As though on cue, the vast iron gates of the fortress began to grind open. The Lord Rork pushed against them, despite knowing that even his considerable strength would do nothing to hasten their opening. He stepped into the centre of the courtyard, and with a hate-filled look in his eye roared, “Who is the greatest Lord of…them…all…?”
He too noticed that the Fortress was quieter than the aftermath of a massacre. He turned back to his ever-loyal servant, who was looking knowingly at the brazier atop his staff. “Well, you disingenuous fool? Care to explain where my mighty horde has disappeared to?”
“I am not sure of what horde you speak of, my Lord,” mocked the Advocate, “but according to Lord Kasalas, and my own powers of divination, you should find Phaos Khar and the rest of your warriors of Khorne a comparatively short distance north of here.”
“And my steed?” he snapped.
“Where you would expect, my Lord, in the stable…”

The Supreme Lord Rork spurred his steed onwards, out of the main gates. The old wounds on the horse’s sides began to bleed once more thanks his spurs. In the fading light he could see a fire in the distance.

The general would have his army…

*

The Succubus looked through the net curtains, her naked body silhouetted by the light streaming in through the large lead-light windows. The room was sumptuously decorated – thick rugs from the eastern lands covered the floors, silk sheets on the bed, and a beautiful fireplace noted its owner as a man of taste…and wealth. In front of her she could see a large garden, beautifully maintained by the groundskeepers - even now they were pruning any rogue leaves from the bushes. In this world, money is power, she thought to herself, Yet it is we who control the world, and everything within it. It’s a simple matter of giving them what they want…
The Succubus heard movement behind her. The hard look on her face softened as she turned to face Lord Frederick beginning to stir from his sleep.
“Are all noble ladies like you, m’lady?” he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
She tilted her head to one side, “However do you mean?”
“A lady of noble bearing is usually much less open with her…gifts.”
She smiled, “Some of us prefer to live this life, given to us by the Gods, to the full.”
The succubus walked to the bed, every step a thrill to her new thrall, “But there are many pleasures in the world, and wouldn’t you like to see them?”
He ran a hand down her unblemished arm, “We shall experience them together, m’lady!”
“We will need men and provisions,” she whispered.
He ran his hands over her breasts and down her smooth hips, he sat up to kiss her full lips, “Anything…”
Good…

*

The Supreme Lord Rork vaulted from his steed, hitting the hard, uncaring land below. Voices moaned on the wind, the souls of the damned crying out for anyone in this dark, uncaring land. It was regarded poor form by the mortal, daemons and anything else that classed itself as intelligent to scream “Mummy!” at the hordes of the north. Pulling his helmet over the dark, unkempt hair upon his head, he began to stride towards the campfire ahead of him. There was no option but loyalty for those who once followed him.

Although he didn’t need to, Phaos Khar, exalted champion of Khorne, bit deep into the cooked manflesh they had caught themselves on this day. Around the fire sat the warriors, knights and marauders of the Blood God – each and every one ate heartily. They sat on the hard, cold ground – the marauders sitting on skins of indescribable beasts of the land, while the chosen of the Gods situated themselves wherever they pleased.
“I hear something!” called a voice of one of the marauder sentries. Metal scraped harshly against metal as the followers of Khorne prepared themselves for whatever was approaching in the darkness. There was a fine line between a warrior of Khorne being prepared and being unprepared. It usually hinged on whether he was in the mood for a challenge.

There was a brief clash of metal upon metal in the gloom, and something landed with a sickening squelch at the feet of the Champion of Khorne. He looked down to see the severed head of one of the marauders, the blood flow from his neck only beginning to slow now that his head no longer sat on his shoulders. Looking back into the gloom, the rage began to rise within him, the thirst for death becoming all consuming once more; he charged towards his unseen foe, raising his axe to crush his assailant. With a crash, sword met axe in a shower of sparks, "Blood for the Blood God,” they roared simultaneously. The warband began to form a circle around the combatants, beating bloodied weapons on mighty shields.

The Lord Rork batted aside a blow from Khar, and lunged out at his former servants’ body, who, in turn twisted to avoid the crippling strike from the Lord of Khorne. Khar jumped back, regaining his stance as he did so, and taking a swipe at Rork’s head. The Lord Rork ducked with supernatural speed, seeing his opponent unbalanced, he threw himself at Phaos Khar from his crouched position. The pair crashed onto the solid earth, their roars of hate and rage sucked into the cold, lifeless sky above them. Rork rolled over the exalted champion and propelled himself back to his feet. Turning faster than the surrounding crowd could register the motion, he placed his blade against the neck of his prone opponent.

The crowd fell silent.

“Now, Phaos, there is only one question you have to answer – Who is your Lord and master?”

*

A mighty storm rolled over the Iron Mountains deep within the lands of Naggaroth. As befits such a harsh and unwelcoming environment, neither flora nor fauna could be seen on the mountains in this place. Yet life had come to this empty place, seeking refuge from those who could not understand the delights their master had to offer. Deep in the valley below lay a squat, yet darkly elegant looking tower, to some it is the Palace of Infinite Pleasure, but as befits a temple of the Dark Prince, it goes by many names to many people. The dark walls emitted a warm, acquiescing glow in the driving rain, as though attempting to calm the savage beast that roared overhead, for there is nothing that is truly immune to the desires of Slaanesh.

Deep within the warm, sweetly scented interior of the tower the inner circle of the Cult of Slaanesh was holding a rare meeting. The room was decorated in various pastel silks designed to thrill and entertain the eye; magnificent debauched tapestries demonstrating hedonistic practices thrilling and shameful by the same token. Five elegant and beautiful elves, each with their right breast uncovered, sat around a polished, black table. Upon which a naked devoted danced slowly to some unheard music, her every move a sensuous delight to cabal.

Lady Morathi leant closer to her High Priestess, Lonicera, and whispered softly, “Where is he?”
Lonicera licked her inviting lips, “Who can say, my lady? He often puts his personal pleasure over the delights that the cult can offer all of the Druchii,” her eyes still directed towards the lithe dancer.
“Wise mistresses,” ventured another of the cabal, herself a powerful sorceress, “I believe he was heard along the corridor not long ago.”
Morathi nodded gently, “That would be most likely.”

A figure sauntered slowly into the room, his polished armour glinting in the torchlight. Morathi raised a sharp eyebrow at his entry, “It is our pleasure to entertain you presence, Kaledor the Enraptured,” she said, cuttingly.
“Why, thank you, most magnificent Morathi,” the Anointed managed without sarcasm.

Kal-e-dor.

Kaledor shook his head. The most recent group of devoted had been particularly…delightful he had found. The cult had improved so much since the Sundering, all those years ago. But was it that long ago? To him, the thrill of experimentation and such new, wondrous experiences were still fresh in his mind.

Kaledor, your master needs you.

He looked to the devoted, still moving gently upon the table to concentrate his mind. Morathi’s eyes thinned as she turned to address the group. Lonicera, with vast experience of the loyal Elves of Slaanesh remained unfazed, the years of perverse pleasure rendering her near immune to the oddities of Slaanesh’s chosen ones. “Let this assembly begin,” were the confident, yet cold, words of Lady Morathi.

Yes, Kaledor, let’s begin.

He could see their mouths moving softly and slowly, yet no words came out.

Kaledor…the Dark Prince has a task for you. A particularly abhorrent Lord of Khorne has offended the honour of Slaanesh.

Kaledor was confused, what did the brutish barbarians of the north have to do with him? The soul of the Druchii nation was at stake, and his master wanted a single Lord of the brutish god Khorne dispensed with? This is a trick.

Such a loyal follower of the Decadent One would not normally be so doubting, would he?

A shocking pain ran down his back, followed by a feeling of pleasure and warmth along his long, elven legs. What? What could the elves possibly do differently that the Warriors of the North could not? Such internecine, petty warfare was the trademark of the tribes, the Elves were above such things.

There are some things the elves do not see…or have not found. All we need to do is fuel his impetuousness. We can only…dispose…of this Khornate fool in a particular way. If you lead him to me, every pleasure you dream of can be yours. No one will be…above…you, if you so desire it.

Kaledor screamed in ecstatic rapture, every inch of him aflame with pleasure and pain. And in the briefest of moments, it was gone.

“It would seem we have decided as much as we can without Kaledor’s…input,” Morathi whispered, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “We shall conclude this when it is less…painful…for all of us.”

He glided through the dark corridors with a sense of urgency, the sensation still tingling throughout his body. His black heart pounded and his lips were dry…the prize could be his if he so desired. He entered his sumptuous quarters, soul-destroying to the uninitiated, to find the same two devoted he had left here earlier that day. Their lithe, disrobed bodies, only marred by the occasional scratch or long, thin welt entwined with each other. They loosened their embrace, each holding the others waists close to their own. They turned their beautiful faces to look at him, a look of lust edged with razor-sharp sadism in their eyes, “Care to join us?”
“Always…”

. *

The warriors and knights of Khorne trudged across the bleak wastes towards the fortress of their (once again) master, the Lord Rork. As was to be expected, long marches did not suit the followers of Khorne particularly well, even after a short period of time mumbles of “We should be there by now,” and “That howling monster of Nurgle was a pathetic challenge,” could be heard amongst the ranks.

While the biting wind forced the few marauders in the formation to pull their furs tight, Rork and his elite remained oblivious to the inhospitable landscape. The Supreme Lord Rork, along with Phaos Khar and the chosen knights rode at the front of the column, eager for a daemonic beast, or marauding army, to cross their path.

There was a distinct lack of armies.

“We shall spill blood together once more, Khar,” snarled the Lord Rork.
“What did you have in mind, Lord?” was the equally bitter reply.
“I will have my revenge on the elves of Har Ganeth. They thought that I would submit to their pathetic justice? The fools know not the power of Khorne. The might that I wield will crush that city and all those who dare oppose me!”
Phaos Khar attempted something approximating a laugh, “A worthy foe…I look forward to snapping their backs across my knee…”

The handful of marauders on horseback trotted forward to the front of the column, their faces and shoulders set as to give the best impression to their new master. Whether trying to look powerful in front of a paranoid Lord of Khorne was good idea, of course, had yet to occur to them.

“Oh bloodthirsty and masterful lord,” began the marauder who could be considered their ‘leader’ – “We, your loyal servants, have yet to have the privilege of hearing your name.”
The Lord Rork looked at the aspiring warriors of Chaos from the corner of his eye, while still facing forward, “I am the Supreme Lord Rork, Lord of Khorne, Master of the Screaming Death and Deliverer of Ultimate Judgement,” was the superior-sounding reply.

The marauders looked at each other, a rising murmur of discontent among them. “The cursed lord of Khorne? Your saga is well known amongst the tribe, you are not welcome among our kin - It is said you bring the ire of the Gods down upon those who follow you. Aye, we shall take our leave of you now.”

It was a brave, mighty or monumentally stupid person that insulted a Lord of Chaos, popular or otherwise, to his face. The Lords of Khorne were rarely noted for their pithy comments or hilarious one-liners.

The Lord Rork was no exception.

Rork pulled his sword from its scabbard, brandishing it at the dissenting tribesmen with psychotic menace, “You will join me…or die!” Foolishly unafraid, the marauders grabbed their axes in reply, “Death is it, then…”

…The cold wind roared in satisfaction…

*

The Lord Frederick had a small number of men to guard his property, patrolling the topiary and fountains in case of any thieves or would-be assassins (Though most considered that an unlikely option). Johann and Petter had just come on duty for the night, and stood talking before relieving the day watch of their duties. Although not paid particularly well, the free board and lodging offered by the richer members of Altdorf society, such as Lord Frederick, was usually ample compensation for a relatively low wage.

“It’s strange that we’re off around the world on some pointless expedition, don’t you think?” asked Petter, the younger of the two men their, sporting a beard that could be considered “fashionable” in some quarters.
Johann, older by a dozen years, nodded, “Aye, lad. But you must remember that noble sorts have more money than sense. They do it because they can, not for any good, honest reason like the army does.”

The older man had a stockier build; his thick, muscular arms making him look more like a pit fighter than a guardsman. His younger companion was tall and wiry, his strength hidden by the relatively baggy tunic he wore. Out of the gloom came the day watch, “All yours, gents,” said one of them, clearly tired from a long day of pacing around the high walls of the grounds. Johann and Petter headed off in different directions - their presence being more of a deterrent than an armed guard against any form of attack from anything other than the more stupid criminal elements of the capital.

Petter was walking past a square patch of lawn, surrounded by neatly trimmed rose bushes, when he heard a dull thud from the opposite side of the compound. “Johann?” he called out. In the cool night air, all he could hear was the occasional carriage and loud-mouthed drunk. He began to head off into the darkness when he heard Johann’s familiar voice call, “Don’t worry yourself lad, just tripped my old self up.”

*

It had taken most of the day, but the Lord Frederick had a body of men ready to join, and fight for, him on his little sojourn across the seas. Frederick and the Succubus walked down the line of soldiers, stopping at one man, wearing eyeglasses, in particular.
“Do you need those glasses to see?” asked Frederick, sounding disdainful of such weakness.
“Only to read, sir,” came the curt reply, “It seemed best to be able to read the details of your journey.”
“Clear thinking. I like that in a man,” was the more imperious reply.

Frederick turned to his beautiful lover, “It would seem we are well prepared, my Lady.”
“Oh certainly, my Lord, “ she said, playfully.

*

The Ultimate Traitor sat on his newly acquired bed within the mansion of the foolish Lord Frederick and his less than loyal lady. The room had the basics, but they were of a reasonable quality nonetheless.

His plan had worked perfectly so far, the lady of Slaanesh was playing the role she was destined for perfectly. This was his chance to tweak the nose of the Dark Prince himself, and that thrilled his darkly cursed soul.

*

The inappropriately titled ‘horde’ of the Supreme Lord Rork stood in front of the vast black gates of the Fortress of Screaming Death. Blood dripped from the armour of the Lord Rork, but such was the frequency (frequently his own) of this particular event that it tended to be regarded as another adornment to his dark armour.

Unsurprisingly, Rork wasn’t happy. He hammered one of the vast gates, his impatience rapidly spiralling into the ground state of vengeful rage. A small, bright inferno erupted next to the Lord Rork. “A problem, my Lord?” mocked the Advocate.
“Open the doors, fool,” Rork said, his voice wavering with barely constrained rage.
“I have arranged a surprise for you, my Lord.”
“A surprise? Your head on a plate?”
“No, my Lord, something I know you have missed during your imprisonment.”
The gates of the fortress mysteriously began to open on their own accord, exposing the innards of the dark castle. The Lord Rork began striding towards the inner keep, the Advocate not far behind him.

It took him a few moments to notice the warriors in polished black armour, armoured edged with purple trim. “More loyal followers for your army, my Lord,” mocked the Advocate.

The Champion of the Slaaneshi gave a little wave.

The Lord Rork seemed to shrink with rage for a moment, before drawing himself back to his full height. “Make sure they are ready, Advocate,” growled the Lord Rork, “They too will be fighting to exact my revenge on the Elves of Har Ganeth…”

In part 3: The Act of War - More nudity! More death! A combination of the two! And other things once I've worked out what they are!