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The END OF THE END TIMES Short Story Competition! 
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Killed by Khorne
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The END OF THE END TIMES Short Story Competition

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This is The End. The fields of Naggaroth have been salted, the towers of our once impregnable citadels thrown down and our estates and cities abandoned. The Vortex has finally unravelled and ancient ancestral Ulthuan is now gone beneath the waves. Morrslieb, the ill-moon itself, has fallen from the skies in catastrophic fragments, showering the world with warpstone conflagrations and laying apocalyptic waste to what once was verdant Lustria.

Far to the east, the last of Elves and Men and Dwarves fight bitterly against the ascendent powers of Chaos. It seems like the final chapter in the long saga of the Warhammer World has arrived
...and we are living it! !eek!

But what of the great unmentioned heroes? How have they struggled against this cruelest vicissitude of fate?
What of Beastlord Rakarth of Karond Kar? Drachau Maglan of Hag Graef? Mengil Manhide and his infamous Manflayers?


[*]What of the mighty leaders that head your Army?

Tell us the tale of your heroines and heroes in this, The End of Times.

...is it really the End?

...or is it actually a New Beginning?


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Solstice Short Story Competition

Competition Format:

Tell us a tale of these End of Days.

An untold story of a great personality, or the untold story of your General and Army as the comets crash down, the earth cracks, the seas churn, and a dimensional rift spreads...


[*]Open to all Warhammer fans, not only Dark Elf players.

Emphasis is on fun, so short and sweet is fine!

Word limit: 1000 words.

Competition is Open from 1st to 21st of June. Post your entry below in this thread.
On 22nd June this the thread will be locked and a new voting one created. Voting will close on 30th June.

Voting is an electronic vote open to the public, with ability to cast multiple votes.

Additionally, those who contribute stories can nominate their top three entries by posting them in the voting thread. These will count for 1, 2 and 3 additional voting points respectively. Total of public + contributor votes will be added up after voting thread lock to determine the ultimate Winner & Loser.


Prizes:-

Most Votes: Lord of the End Times custom forum title!

Least Votes: Inside Nurgle's Intestines custom forum title!
(two month forfeit!) :P

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Sun May 31, 2015 9:01 pm
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Malekith's Best Friend
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Very cool post and iniative, I will do my best to write a fitting end of Lord Drakons last march of the Khainites towards treator Malekith and his minions in Athel Loren.

EDIT: Done!


===================
The Last March of the Khainites
===================


The air was hot and full of pain. Never had Lord Drakon witnessed such amazing spectacle before. Athel Loren was burning. A magical firestorm raged through the wood, burning elf and spirit alike.

The word had spread fast, and the last march of the Khainites had transformed into the largest army ever assembled under Khaine’s banner. The first invasion into the mysterious realm of the Eternity King had been repelled as the enemy could benefit from the terrain, using hit and run tactics while preventing the deadly executioners and witch elves from reaching close combat.

So he surrounded the forest, combining Asur and Druchii architecture to build fortified pallisades and started his siege. Once the fortifications were finished and the enemy had no possible escape he gave order to push the War Hydra’s forwards. The fire had been burning for weeks now.

But it was not the elves that sallied forth.

Lord Drakon sat atop his fierce manticore and looked at the chaos horde of deamons and warriors arrayed before him. His force had deployed into battle formations. Four legions of executioners were positioned in the centre, flanked by two legions of witch elves at each flank. Atop the fortifications hundreds of reaper bolt throwers waited for his signal.

“So this is it men, these are the same unholy creatures that devoured our lands with only one purpose, to destroy the world of elves as we know it” he said, turning to his personal guard of executioners knights.

“We are with you sire, for death and glory” Kheal, the commander of the knights replied.

Drakon looked with satisfaction to his troops, khaines bloodlust envisioned through their eyes. The asur, positioned in the centre in front of the executioners would take the brunt of the attack, they were weak, and deserved to die. His plan was to push with the centre through the enemy horde, splitting the forces in two.

A bloodthirster of Khorne appeared, leading the Chaos forces forwards in a frenzied assault. Wave after wave smashed into the elven lines while thousands of barbed bolts from the fortifications tore into the centre of the enemy forces and Asur troops. Panicked by the heavy damage from both sides the Asur forces started to fall back.

“Drive them back, no retreat !” Drakon called out, and the executioners legions started to push forwards, cutting down the fleeing elves. Trapped between the deamon claws and executioners blades the Asur realized they had been used as sacrifice. Roaring cries of despair arose, replied by laughter of the Druchii.

“For Khaine !” he declared with a grin, causing his knights to erupt with a chorus of cheering. Kicking his wicked spurs into the flanks of the manticore, he led the advance, his knights forming up around him pushing through the centre. The executioner legions reformed and pushed forwards alongside the knights. As the Chaos forces had deployed their knights and skullcrushers at the flanks, the witch elves got overrun, but the soft Chaos centre had nothing to withstand the Druchii central charge.

As soon as his lance smashed through the first marauders head the bloodlust rage took hold of him. His blood coursed through his veins, he could feel his heart beating in his chest like the thunder of a storm. He was panting with exertion and anticipation as his manticore wrecked havoc.

“My lord, watc... !” one of the knights screamed to warn Drakon for the counter-charging bloodthirster, who ripped off the knights head with ease. Just on time, Drakon deflected the deadly flaming axe of the bloodthirster but it smashed him out of his saddle, unarming him. Wounded, Drakon raised his shield to accept the challenge.

But that challenge never came.

The earth started to tremble, bursting open with large explosions. He felt hot rays of lava erupting from the ground flooding and burning his forces. So this was it, Drakon realized in agony. The end of the world had come.

The end of time.

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Sun May 31, 2015 10:16 pm
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For us, there is no longer the druchii, the asur and the asrai; now there are only the Asdra; The Laughing Ones.

For us The Season of Doom is ended, now The Season of Opportunity is begun.


Tue Jun 02, 2015 3:05 am
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@ Lord Drakon

That's the spirit! :D

@Makiwara

Posting in this thread = Participation. You are already in the running for at least one of the titles ;)

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Wed Jun 03, 2015 1:50 pm
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For us, there is no longer the druchii, the asur and the asrai; now there are only the Asdra; The Laughing Ones.

For us The Season of Doom is ended, now The Season of Opportunity is begun.


Last edited by Makiwara on Wed Jun 10, 2015 10:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.



Wed Jun 03, 2015 10:15 pm
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...

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For us, there is no longer the druchii, the asur and the asrai; now there are only the Asdra; The Laughing Ones.

For us The Season of Doom is ended, now The Season of Opportunity is begun.


Last edited by Makiwara on Mon Jan 23, 2017 12:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.



Wed Jun 10, 2015 5:13 am
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Shadowblade

Sharp intake of breath.

Pain rose up in Shadowblade’s being like the keening morning wail of the Harpies.

Will triumphed over instinct. Still motionless, he scanned the surroundings with his preternatural senses. Sounds of the forest enveloped him, which meant that the battle and its scavengers had shifted elsewhere. He reached down. His hands felt what the siren of agony had been telling him; legs broken and shattered.

So, this is what defeat feels like?

He had expected to feel the rapturous welcome of the halls of Khaine, propelled by the sacrifice of his earthly body by the exploding shards of the Heart of Woe.

But he was alive. Alive and defeated.

Hellebron had replaced his suicide talisman – ineffective against the Armour of Midnight -- with a Seed of Rebirth; the mission to kill Malekith so important that his mistress wished for him to rise from near death and re-double his efforts should he be defeated.

Shadowblade felt in his pouches for the crystal. Unbroken. The spell it contained was to be used to transport Malekith’s severed head to Hellebron. Alas, he, the Master of Assassins, would have to bring news of his own disgrace.

He crushed the crystal.

The peace of the forest dispelled as the wind rushed and the air crackled with a sparkling nimbus. A portal formed, its inner walls shimmering mercurial; depths stretching to infinity.

Shadowblade crawled through …and his agony disappeared as his body and mind shattered, atomised and stretched through time into oblivion…

* * * * * * *

He came to consciousness once more.

He felt good. Really good.

He was not in the newly consecrated temple of Khaine. He was somewhere else. Suspended in mid-air in a mist filled room of metal and pulsing lights. Shadowblade flexed, and found his arms and legs bound by what looked like lightning. Magick? He was prisoner. But he was also whole once more.

Where am I? Am I dead? He had not expected the halls of beyond to be so …corporeal.

A door opened, in blazing light. A great horned helmed figure strode purposefully towards him. Shadowblade’s nous detected great cunning, great intelligence and great power behind the brass helm. Could it be?

“I am Khaine. And you have done well.”
The voice reverberated around the room.

Khaine!? Shadowblade felt a rush of rage and bloodlust wash over him.

“Do not worry of your defeat. You have played your part, and time and again proved your greatness as my servant.”

“My Mistress?”

“My other servants are none of your concern. All is following my will.”

Shadowblade was heady with emotion as he felt the waves of power radiating from his captor.

“I am bound?”

“Not bound, but in my mercy, and whole again. What is death without rebirth? Do you not feel how strong you are?”

“…yes!

“Once you enter beyond the doors, my servants will treat you as the stories of your youth promised. The afterlife is not so different from the worldly life, and we have much work to do.”

Blinding light once more as the door opened, and the towering figure departed. A thousand questions came to mind for the Master of Assassins, but the smoke grew thick, and again unconsciousness took him…

* * * * * * *

The massive horned figure of brass, a very incarnation of wrath, paused in the hallway and pressed his fingers to one wrist.

The hologram shuddered, and a much smaller, but no less impressive figure was revealed.

Asdrubael smiled. He had not been so thrilled with success in memory.

A hunchbacked figure resembling a cybernetic spider sidled submissively towards him.

“Lord Vect?”

“Very good, Draheinous. The prize was well manipulated by your craft.”

Draheinous leered at his master, the uncommon joy of praise from the Archon causing spittle to run down his face as he talked.

“I synthesized all the stimuli master; combat drugs in line with your speech, infrasound, a booming forcefield …and even the psychic waves from a Medusae.”

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Vect smiled. “Excellent! This one is intelligent, and I do not expect for him to fall for the after-life ruse for long. We must indoctrinate him slowly and steadily so that he is fit for his new position. How are the statistics?”

“Off the scale, master! Off the scale! We have downloaded his cerebral cortex and ran the simulations. His dexterity, agility and combat knowledge are ahead of even a Solitaire! None of us have seen the like!”

“And how goes the harvest as a whole?”

“The portals are holding and the ships returning with cargo after cargo!

“Perfect. Ensure the plan continues to be fulfilled.”

“Yes, master!”

As the Haemonculus departed, Asdrubael allowed himself to feel the swelling triumph of satisfaction. There was no greater prize in the galaxy than the harvest of a maiden world, and his Kabal were once again responsible.

Trapped behind warp storms for aeons, knowledge of this particular world had been lost to all save those who had lived through the fall. Vect had brooded for millennia on the secret, and slowly spun plans to profit from its inevitable destabilisation by the forces of Chaos. His agents had infiltrated the world, and acted in the roles of various Elven 'gods'.

…and at the very End; portals had opened all over the dying world. 'Eldyra' and 'Araloth' had appeared to the offspring of ancient pre-fall Eldar, shepherding them into webway portals. Those that called themselves 'Asur' were a fallen race, and a great feast would be had on these sweetest of all souls. Those that called themselves 'Asrai' were possessed of a bestial taint; they would be handed over to the moulders to create a new strain of Wracks. And the Druchii?

The blood and numbers of Commoragh would be infused and swelled with this fierce warrior strain of naturally-selected Eldar. The Eladrith Ynneas would reach new heights of power, and 'Shadowblade' would become his perfect agent of terror.

Yes, the harvest was good.

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Last edited by T.D. on Sat Jun 20, 2015 12:47 am, edited 1 time in total.



Sun Jun 14, 2015 2:47 pm
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:P Lots of potential.
You're teasing us!

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Sun Jun 14, 2015 3:01 pm
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***Authors note - This is set at the very beginning of the End Times, and is written having not actually read any of the End Times books. Still, I tried my best to encapsulate a story that picked upon an obscure Dark Elf hero who fought against the tides of Chaos pouring down from the north into Naggaroth at the beginning of that terrible period. Also, thanks to T.D. for creating and running another fascinating writing scenario.***




Druchii until the end


"We have been betrayed."

Drakarth hissed the words and spat upon the ground. He raised his eyes away from the yellowed scroll that he gripped between his fingers and angrily threw the offending parchment upon the ground. Turning on his heels, he pointed at his nearby servant and beckoned him close. "Assemble the knights," he instructed, his voice trembling with fury, "bring them all to me immediately."

As the courtier scurried away, Drakarth closed his eyes and tried to channel his wrath into a constructive thought pattern. Why had Malekith forsaken them? He had promised them reinforcements against the Chaos invaders, just two weeks past, yet now he had reneged upon his promise. Instead, and the thought filled Drakarth with torrents of vitriol, the Witch King had abandoned them to flee across the seas to seek comfort with the cowardly and weak-willed Asur. How dare he turn his back upon his loyal followers and throw his lot in with their eternal enemies? Still, at least now he knew the origins of the earlier decision to allow the magical study of Light, Life, Beasts, and the Heavens - Malekith must have long since sold out his own kind, as only the most disgusting of vermin could have done.

Drakarth's angry musings were interrupted by a timid cough. Turning, he noted that his squire had returned. "My liege", the servant began, stooping low onto the ground to show the proper display of humility and devotion, "your knights are gathered as you instructed."

"Good" Drakarth responded, too preoccupied by Malekith's treachery to even give his servant the customary slap around the head with his mailed gauntlet. Instead, he strode past the miserable wretch and advanced from his spartan quarters into the crudely constructed courtyard to address the assembled throng of Druchii nobles. As he stepped out into the light, he ran his eyes along the group - there were not many, far too few in fact. The warring of these past weeks had decimated their ranks, and there were few recruits remaining to fill the hemorrhaging gaps. He shook his head in a moment of passing sadness, before rage filled him again.

"My knights," he called out to them, his voice reverberating across the undecorated paving stones, "I received today the long awaited message from Malekith." A mood of hope and relief filled the open air atrium for a long second, but was quickly replaced by looks of concern as the knights noted Drakarth's icy expression. "Our venerable lord has abandoned us," he continued bitterly, "the promised reinforcements will not be coming!"

The gathered knights exchanged looks of fear and horror with one another. Drakarth shook his head, knowing what they must be thinking. With no reinforcements, their outpost was doomed. They had endured months of hellish warfare, defending their isolated position against neverending waves of Chaos monstrosities. Their only hope had been that Malekith had pledged that if they could endure for long enough, he would lead the hosts of Naggaroth to their aid and bring the nightmare to an end. Now they were alone, beleaguered and hopeless.

Raising his head once more, Drakarth addressed the crowd again. "Malekith may be without honor," he spoke, his voice raising in both volume and intensity, "but we are not! Though we may be betrayed, though we may fight this battle now alone, we will fight it as true Druchii nobles; we will resist the enemy with our steeds and lances, with our swords and shields, with our very hands and feet, until we can resist no more. We will go down in the annals of history as heroes, not as cowards!" His eyes roamed over the crowd, daring any of them to oppose him, but none did so. Instead, they met his gaze with the steely determination of the bold who know that they are damned. His darkened heart filled for a moment with pride and respect, before his mind turned to the task ahead of them. "Assemble your men," he instructed, "our fight goes on."

--
Weeks later, Drakarth's forces had been depleted down to nearly none. He stood, surrounded by the corpses of three of his most loyal knights, pressed up against the charred and broken remains of the outpost's central tower. The blood flecked tongue of a giant slobbering beast, with a dozen bloated eyes and a terrible barbed tail, lashed out at him and he sliced out at it with his Draich, cleaving the pustulating organ in two. Yet even as he did so, two gigantic pincers from an adjacent fiend caught him in their grip and closed around his waist with irresistible force. As his last act of resistance, Drakarth refused to scream, instead forcing a grin upon his cracked lips. "I was Druchii until the end." And with those immortal words, he died.

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Mon Jun 15, 2015 11:00 pm
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Rage of the Beast


A natural attunement to beasts honed over hundreds of years meant that Ilyana had attained many of their gifts – great hearing being one of them – so she heard the drums first. She looked down from her great manticore Mildraghir at Senzar Skullseer, the color bearer. The knight seemed far below her even as he rode atop his huge, ancient Cold One. The lumbering hulk he rode was one of the most venerable in Hag Grief, and had killed hundreds of enemies with tooth and claw. As the tale goes, on one occasion, the creature had killed with fear alone. She smiled. It was no wonder that the Dark Elves felt a kinship with the creatures like that. The nature of both was to kill in order to nourish their hunger. Because the beast's hunger stemmed from the stomach, while the Druchii's was from the mind mattered not – Khaine would be sated either way.

As Ilyana mused, Deimos Starstrider suddenly appeared beside her. The general was joined by his uncle, Nanir Dragonrage. The latter, while the elder, bequeathed command to his nephew because of his inability to speak. Years ago, before Deimos was even born, a hired assassin buried a dagger in Nanir’s throat. Through sheer will and the help of healing magic from his lover, he survived. His family attempted to end his maimed existence on several occasions, but Nanir destroyed all who sought to kill him. His legend grew in parallel with his rage, and soldiers now take heart when fighting near the silent elf.

“King Malekith has sent word,” said Deimos. “We are to hold position on the forest’s edge until the Asrai arrive.”

Nanir’s eyes made no expression. If another part of his face did, it could not be seen under the shadow of his helm. Ilyana however, spoke:

“As the King commands. Have your riders scouted the approaching host?”

“Yes. A great horde of the Skaven comes from the south. Prepare the army.”



Ilyana silenced Mildraghir with a comforting hand, temporarily quelling the rage inside him. “Soon, my old friend,” she said. The rat men were working on a makeshift camp just outside the forest, and slaves had started towards the ambushing elves position, seeking lumber for their fires.

She turned towards the direction of Deimos and whispered, the wind magically carrying her question to the commander. Waiting a few seconds, the wind gently whipped back with a drawn out “yeessssss…” and Ilyana’s eyes rolled back as she raised her arms to catch the winds of magic. A low frequency boom echoed through the wood, followed by a period of silence. Soon, however, a rustling was heard, and on its heels the slow crescendo of cawing. A noisy, dark shadow appeared from overhead – a murder of crows nearly a mile wide. The sound became deafening as the cloud emerged from the edge of the forest. In fear, the laborers dropped their axes and ran back towards camp, birds on their heels.

With all the noise from the crows, the Skaven could not hear the chant from the Brides of Khaine, their mud caked bodies camouflaged in the brush. “Kaela, Mensha, Khaine…Kaela, Mensha…” rising louder and louder as they all drank from the blood chalice. When the last witch had drank her fill, their leader, Kali, poured the remnants into her own face and screeched. Deimos could hold them no longer, and why would he?

The hags charged, frenzied, from the forest, and no rat noticed. They were upon them in an instant, but the first kill belonged to Mildraghir, who descended from above on a rat mage casting wildly on birds. The explosion of gore and bones in full sight of the Brides caused them to enter a state of ecstasy that even Ilyana had never witnessed before. Mildraghir stomped out the life of several more rats, who began to notice that there was a threat far greater than crows upon them. But as they turned, their eyes met the grim gaze of Senzar and his legion of Skull-Knights, charging and only yards away.
In mere minutes, the Druchii had destroyed or broken thousands of rats. Ilyana quickly noticed that the real rat-soldiers had marshalled nearby and their elite guard alone outnumbered the elf host 100 to 1 at least. The Brides were already there, and dozens of well-armed rats fell each second. Ilyana called upon the power of the Wild, hardening the troops. Cold Ones killed blindly, tossing broken bodies away. Deimos fought beside his uncle, both slaying scores of rats with help from Ilyana’s enchantments.

A stray bolt of lightning surprised Ilyana and while she was able to deflect it, it knocked her from her mount. She spoke to her beast with her mind, urging him to fight on. The rats were beginning to envelope the Elves, though she knew that Deimos would never withdraw to the forest. She threw her head back and laughed. She couldn’t stop. The laughter grew louder, more maniacal, and her eyes turned yellow, pupils giving way to slits. Her outstretched arms grew and twisted, expanding and becoming leathery wings. A tail emerged and a tide of red scales enveloped her skin. The now hysterical laughter turned to a roar of fire, and Ilyana fully gave herself to The Beast. The great fire dragon spoke in a low, booming voice:

"RUN, RAT DEMONS...FOR I AM BECOME DEATH, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS!"



From the edge of the forest, Glade Lord Sundamar watched with a warrior’s respect. A manticore, the great beast from the northern wastes, fought wounded over his fallen master against a tide of rats. An armored figure on foot still held a banner littered with skulls, refusing to move even an inch if it wasn’t forward. Crows feasted on mountains of dead Skaven – estimated in the tens of thousands. Seeing warriors like these, he no longer had any doubt that the Lord Malekith was truly the Eternity King.

He turned to his Waywatcher Sentinel. “Fire at will.”

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Tue Jun 16, 2015 4:15 pm
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@Makiwara, Red..., Lord hajjij,

Nice work!

@Everyone Else

Only a few days left. Last chance for an official Druchii story...

...before we go Inneadim or something :P

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Tue Jun 16, 2015 6:33 pm
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Explanations:
I’m hardly playing games anymore.
But I’m roleplaying!
Caraoc has been a part of Gr22, then Gr41 then Gr42. He is a Heavens mage, a corsair pilot and a scald.
Here is the story of what he became through the End Times.
Fluff coming from: http://1d4chan.org/wiki/The_End_Times



A pilot to remember.

Prologue:
The whole Fleet was summoned under command of Lokhir, the masked admiral who never got the promotion to dreadlord he deserved. It was a time of an exceptional Chaos invasion. Karon Kar, damaged by an earthquake, was surrounded by Chaos and attacked from below by Skaven. The desperate order was given to abandon the city to its fate, salvaging only its formidable monsters for later battles. But excitement resumed when the destination was unveiled: Ulthuan, once more, once for good!

Vortex ends.
Months later, Malekith had established himself as the Eternity King, rallying some Asuryans and Asrai. However, war sustained as many Druchii betrayed him. Some pretended that Khaine himself sided against him. The frustrated masked admiral switched allegiance too, followed by half of the Fleet. The final battle was fought on the Blighted Island. It was just hours before the Night of Mystery, one of the two nights in the year when both moons were full.

Caraoc, the scald pilot, was left alone to guard "The Hungry Gaze", and old beleaguered cutter that only his skill had managed to keep afloat. He was not even so sure about to which side he belonged. He witnessed how ghost kings joined forces against Khaine to help the Witch King to ultimately prevail. A saga of dramatic content.

Then the Winds of Magic turned mad.
The pilot was an alert Astromancer, he knew how to tame the Azyr energies. But this time, it was a real tsunami of pure arcane force.
The Wave! The legendary Wave had come! A simple board would suffice, the pilot jumped on it and started to surf, pushed upwards by the dangerous rolls of Heavens components. The rolling motion seemed never willing to end. Only the pilot’s instincts allied with his training in Azyr arcane allowed Caraoc not to fall into oblivion, crushed by the mighty waves. One last formidable push to zenith, then suddenly the Wind of Heavens changed course to the east, as if it had found its ultimate recipient.
For a moment, Caraoc floated in the ether, at mid distance between the island of Ulthuan, which was now sinking into a horrible maelstrom, and the pale aster above his head, now dangerously close. In a last surge of sheer will, the Astromancer managed to push himself gently towards a tangential course, which brought him on the edge of the Sea of Tranquility on the Moon. Exhausted, he managed barely to swim to the white shores.

Fate of Gods
Mathlann, the God of Oceans, had always wished to have a love affair with Lileath the Goddess of the Moon. He had patiently followed her track for millennia, causing tides in the process. But Mathlann was no longer. His avatar, Aislinn, had sacrificed himself into a tidal wave to wreck the avatar of Khaine’s fleet.
Lileath, the Goddess of the Pale Moon, had been the longest lasting of the Elven Gods. She had modelled a Heaven of dream for her lover Araloth and his daughter, who were to become the new gods of the future Elven race in a new cycle of rebirth after the coming destruction.

Pale Kingdom of Mannslieb.
Caraoc was alone in the Moon known as Mathlann’s love, which ignorant humans had abbreviated as Mannslieb.
Every 25 days, he could take advantage of the full obscurity to capture silver rays asleep in shallow waters and get enough food to survive another cycle on the cold rock.
The toughest was not to have anyone to talk with.
From his high position, the Astromancer had not much else to do than to observe the erratic course of the smaller moon.
He came to understand that a dark force was playing with the lower aster, and tearing small chunks from it to hurl them at the land below. Soon enough, the lesser moon had lost half of its size. Finally, some bizarre pyramids took off and vanished towards the stars, and the destruction of Morrslieb ceased.

Chaos Victory, and beyond.
One day, Caraoc felt his moon shuffle briefly. It had turned reddish for a couple of days. The Astromancer understood that Lileath, the Lady of the Moon, had been violently killed.
He examined his former planet, trying to guess where the last of the Elven goddess had died. Suddenly, a giant fault appeared, and grew so large as to join the two poles, and destroy the world.

Then nothingness. Even the last echo of Chaos had faded.

The world was no more.
Caraoc was the last witness, with nobody to relate the Fate of the Universe.

Nobody? Something had survived. It was faint. It had will. Was it a Man or an Elf?
Progressively, a new world emerged from the ruins of the former one.

In the beginning, the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of Caraoc moved above the face of the waters.
And Caraoc saw the light, and it was good!

Becoming Legacy.
A new world had reborn.
One day, Caraoc sensed that Araloth had made a connection with that new universe. A new race of Elves arrived through a portal. They came to be known as the Inneadim. And Caraoc was able to speak to their minds, during their sleep.
His voice was strong as the Moon was full, and faded with the Moon. The Inneadim noticed that the Oceans tried to follow that voice. And the voice told them how to navigate the Oceans.
Soon the seafarers among the Inneadim started to worship Caraoc.

He had become the next Mathlann. More than a legend, he was the new God of the Oceans.

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Wed Jun 17, 2015 5:45 am
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^^Good to see an RPG character making an appearance at The End. Nice 8)

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Wed Jun 17, 2015 11:10 am
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I like the idea of Caraoc becoming the new god of the oceans. If corsairs make it in to 9th I'm going to have to have some of the Shrike's Guard worship him in tribute to Calisson.

What's Caraoc's symbol going to be?

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Wed Jun 17, 2015 11:17 am
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Makiwara wrote:
I like the idea of Caraoc becoming the new god of the oceans. If corsairs make it in to 9th I'm going to have to have some of the Shrike's Guard worship him in tribute to Calisson.

What's Caraoc's symbol going to be?
I like that story too! :D
I'm not so sure about the symbol, the traditional one is the classic trident but I like the rose compass too. What is sure is that it must be blue.


Wed Jun 17, 2015 2:08 pm
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Haha :P Nice one Calisson! Of course, poor Caraoc is merely a Slave on the Altar for now... perhaps a fitting title for a newborn god :D

Now the only burning question remaining is... when will part II of Shadowblade's saga be arriving?

And then, it's on to Inneadim. *sigh*

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Wed Jun 17, 2015 10:57 pm
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Pfft Inneadim, not for me, someone has to keep the old ways.


Wed Jun 17, 2015 11:18 pm
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Once more, then - for the memory of Naggaroth, and to rage against the dying of its light.

Apologies in advance for covering old ground with this story. To honour the word limit, I felt this piece needed to stand on its own.


---------------------------------------------------------
The Sister’s Swansong
---------------------------------------------------------


Middenheim burned. Every part of the city was a charnel house, overflowing with the dead and dying. The battered and desecrated temple of Ulric atop the Fauschlag stood at the edge of a gaping wound in the earth. The orange-red skies were filled with smoke, while the flames of countless blazes cast the city’s carcass in a ghastly light. Amid the madness, there were still those who fought on, whether in blood-madness or in defiance of the death of the world itself.

Malendris and a handful of her acolytes of Eldrazor had been drawn to the city by the artifice of the last High Loremaster of Hoeth. Initially, they had been fighting alongside the Eternity King’s forces, dancing through shadows to bring impossibly graceful doom to the rat-men and their allies. Swept on towards the Fauschlag’s heart by the press of battle, she and her fellow masked warrior-women had peeled off to engage a cluster of Chaos warriors that sought to fall on the flanks of the Host of Shadow. Perhaps time had been too short, or perhaps the Eternity King reposed sufficient confidence in their skills – for whatever reason, they had been left behind the bulk of his forces.

In the hours that followed, Malendris and her charges had worked their way to the temple of Ulric through the streets of Middenheim, revelling in the chance to inflict their own terrors on the hordes of the north. She knew that her skills might have aided the Incarnates’ advance, but likewise, they could be put to superb use destroying forces that might otherwise have assailed the elves’ flanks and rear. And there were none in the Eternity King’s service who were better fighters in the cramped ruins of Ulric’s former city. Now, finally, they had arrived at Middenheim’s shattered heart... apparently too late to join the descent into the great excavation, but not to guard its advance.

A short distance away, perhaps the last pride of White Lions remaining in the world held the entrance to the pit against a disordered group of blood-mad northmen. Malendris recognised the Lions’ leader, Torhan, as well as their opponents. A shrinking circle of Chracians held the hulking Skaramor fighters at bay. The ground around them was littered with the dead of both sides. Though overmatched, the White Lions used the pit's edges to force the northmen to attack a solid line of heavy axes.

As Malendris took in the scene, one of the Chaos worshippers wielding enormous blades took the White Lion next to Torhan in the left shoulder and right hip, shearing him into three pieces before using his movement to blindside Torhan and send him sprawling with a spinning strike that belied the brute’s great size. Without thinking, Malendris hurled herself at Torhan’s assailant. She’d saved him from a minotaur last time this had happened. Then, she’d asked him whether he would believe that Ulthuan’s death had not given her joy. No. But ask me again tomorrow, he’d told her. She never had. Perhaps there would be no more tomorrows, but she would not let a savage steal her answer.

Her whip snaked out, catching the Skaramor under his chin and cracking like thunder. The brute’s head twisted sharply, his own momentum and the sudden movement pitching him off balance for a moment and pulling him around to face her. Malendris lunged forward, breaking her opponent’s guard with a sweep of her buckler and tearing out his throat with the bladed hilt of her whip. Her sisters-in-arms fell upon the northman’s comrades, a frenzy of whip-strikes, bladed shields and instinctual battle-prowess.

Assailed from behind and finally facing foes beyond their skills, the Skaramor broke and fled. Most were brought down by whips and axe-strikes before they had run a dozen paces. Malendris smiled grimly behind her mask as she assessed the elves’ losses. Torhan’s Lions had suffered badly, but her own warriors had taken few losses. Not that it matters, if the Incarnates fall, she knew. Whip still in hand, Malendris helped Torhan rise to his feet. He was pale, tired and wounded, but he smiled tightly at her.

“How late are we?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Torhan replied. “The Incarnates descended some time ago, but I confess that the northmen disrupted my count of the minutes.”

Humour? Now, and from him?, mused Malendris. Perhaps this was truly the end of the world. Before she could voice her concerns at what such light-heartedness portended, cruel fate showed that it intended to have the last laugh.

Behind the elves, the earth lurched and screamed, and lances of unspeakable energy speared up through the ground. A boiling tide of madness and impossibility surged from the pit, leaping and shuddering into the tortured skies above Middenheim. As one, the elves knew the Incarnates had failed to stop the Rhana Dandra. Their battles, their sufferings and sacrifices – it had all been in vain.

Malendris let her weapon and shield fall, reached up to her mask, and pulled it free. Torhan did not know what he had expected to see underneath – he had never had time to dwell on the subject. It was an unremarkable druchii face, albeit flushed with the exertion of battle and lined with fatigue. Nevertheless, Torhan was struck by her eyes. Stripped of the daemon-mask’s exaggerated malice, the gladiatrix’s expression was that of a warrior finally done with battle... and despite their circumstances, he realised that he felt the same way.

His mind flashed back to Malendris asking him whether he would believe that seeing Ulthuan destroyed had brought her no joy. He remembered his answer, and what had followed it.

I suppose nothing remains to be done but this, he realised.

“You never did get around to asking me again.”

She smiled. “I didn’t need to.”

As reality buckled and madness screamed from beneath Middenheim, the lion and the gladiatrix embraced, eyes closed and lips locked together until the endless tides of Chaos engulfed them.

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Fri Jun 19, 2015 11:52 am
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Ah, Malendris comes back! Sweet!
Ending reminds me of Pompeii.

Also, T.D. has completed... quite unexpectedly :lol:

Six stories so far, all nice, and only two prizes... Can't wait!

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Sat Jun 20, 2015 2:40 am
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Druchii in Commorragh? Give it ten minutes before they're running the show and telling the pouncy deldar what to do.

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Sat Jun 20, 2015 3:38 am
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Voting thread now up here: http://www.druchii.net/viewtopic.php?f=157&t=76861

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Sat Jun 20, 2015 10:29 pm
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Hey, was the deadline not supposed to be today at midnight? :D

Does not matter, though. My story exceeds the limit by more than 100 words and I really have no idea where I could cut without it losing sense. So here I present a bonus story, not part of the competition but hopefully worth reading anyway. :)


The duel


A tall marauder smiled to himself and touched his lucky charm, a necklace from fangs of bears he had killed himself. Finally, the time for arrows and magic was over and weapons were to be drawn – and he was amongst the lucky warriors who were still standing, ready to shed blood. This will be a glorious day, the final victory of the Chaos Gods, and he will be part of it, if only in a distant part of the battlefield.
First, however, the champion of their band climbed on a nearby cliff, pointed his axe on the elves and shouted out a challenge. As always, first Göran kills their enemy's best and then they slaughter the rest, for the glory of the Gods, for the glory of them all.

The elven sergeant knew she would accept. Liara had always been the most ambitious, almost obsessed with proving herself against anything. She had always been the first to brave any challenge prepared for them on the training grounds; she did not hesitate a moment when a battle-crazed champion of Aestyrion was shouting insults at them; she stepped forwards when a demon singled them out and defended herself until help arrived; she did not lose a single moment now.

The marauder musician rolled his drum loudly, then broke the sound off. Two giant armies were clashing, but their regiments were standing silently in suspension as the two champions closed to each other.
There was a time when he was dreaming about this, about leading his own band and slaying opposing heroes. Then he met Göran, however, a strange man overlooked by all of Chaos Gods but still able to stand toe to toe with any of their chosen, and witnessed him chop down a tree with a single strike and cut a fly mid-air. Since then, he was his drummer and as proud as a man could be.

A sorceress was slowly catching her breath after throwing too many fireballs too fast. The duel had already lasted long enough for her to gain composure again. How was that even possible? The two combatants were by no means holding back, their fight was fierce and intense from the first moment, but neither of them was scratched nevertheless.
Her look wandered over the other marauders, the half naked muscular men with wild beards who were all holding their breaths and watching the duel without blinking away. Who were those people, actually? Did they have mothers or lovers, did they carve wood and sing songs? Were there other gods in the ether beyond the cruel four they were fighting right now? If this realm of demons reflects all thoughts of mortals, who was born from loyalty or respect?

A hero of Chaos halted his monstrous mount and looked at the duellists better. It was a good fight. He would not expect such ferocity and strength from an elf – she was able to knock her foe back several steps more than once. He, on the other hand, was landing blows with a precision few northmen possessed and moved as fast as a lightning and only a slight bit slower than the woman. It reminded him of ritual dances that tell stories of great heroes or of the nights where warriors prove themselves to their chosen consorts. In this dance, life and beauty were being born from the imminence of death.
It was a good fight. The warrior hoped it will never end.

The elven trumpeter did not notice when the drums made themselves heard again as he was too absorbed by the duel in front of them. He just realized that the clashing of weapons and swift side steps were studdenly being accompanied by a barbaric rythm that was fitting their movements perfectly, a loud beat for a kick, a short pause for a jump, an artful deviation from the regular pulse for a deceitful feint. Without thinking about it, he grasped his own trumpet and added its sharp and bright voice to the emerging song.

Then, a blast of vile energy burst over the battlefield, first cracks appeared in the sky and even the duel itself halted.

The joy the Chaos hero had originally felt quickly faded. He had fought to create a world of a never-ceasing holy battle but instead, some horrible contagion was spreading unnaturally fast among the victorious marauders, flames flared up in distant forests and the ground itself was being torn apart – and moments ago, he had to kill his own mount as the gift from his God had turned on him. He was a hero of Chaos but he could not understand. There was no glory in an empty world, nor change, nor decay, nor passion. A warrior without enemies is nothing, and a god without worshippers even less.

Defeated. But not subdued yet. The sorceress looked above and destroyed a boulder falling at them with a strong outburst of magic. When defiance was the only thing left, she wanted to remain defiant till the very end.

He was fighting the thought with all his will but as the demons begun to devour their former allies, as great heroes were falling down in great pain and dying in agony, the bear hunter was quickly forced to acknowledge they were indeed betrayed. Whole lives of loyalty, generations devoted to worshipping the Four with all their strength, and still they got discarded once their enemies finally fell. He would gladly die for a great scheme but this was just mindless destruction.

On his elevated position, Göran the champion duelist threw away his shield with the Chaos star; he removed his helmet and put down his armour – and behind him, hundreds of marauders did the same. Now he was just an ordinary man, strong and handsome with pale skin and bronze hair, in a simple loincloth and wielding a crude axe, like a warrior of dawn.

The elf followed, she put aside the symbols of her King and Queen who had died moments before, freed herself of everything except a light tunic and her slender sword and finally allowed her opponent to look at her face, dark from the southern sun, and into her eyes where falling stars seemed to find a new home.

Without saying a word, they bowed to each other and resumed their fight, their dance.

Their regiments were still looking at them, the musicians still accompanying them with a lamentation for the dying world. Almost nothing was moving, it was a quiet place in the midst of the storm of apocalypse; and the dance was gaining on intensity and grace, the last sparkle of beauty before every movement ceases, a shard of perfection no one will see again. And all around, broken warriors were gathering their last strength to get closer.

A wild rider, long ago lost in the endless waves of demons, spurred his tired horse, because in that duel, there was life.
An injured hero, formerly in favour of Slaanesh, decided to make his last stand together with them, because he admired their defiance.
A swordmaster that had almost given up rised his head again, because the warriors in front of him understood loyalty as well as he did.
A pain-filled forsaken, long ago a proud warrior and now just a mutated wretch, crawled toward them because for the first time in ages, he was seeing hope.

And when the apocalypse ended and the demons flew away, they were still standing, just a small piece of ground filled with sad remnants of two armies. And above them, on a cliff high and sharp, the two duelists were still dancing, Göran and Liara, the bringers of life, defiance, hope and loyalty, the rulers of this new realm, the Eternal combatants, day and night.

Image Image
(A Reaper Miniatures Bladesinger Sister and a Darksword Wildling)

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Last edited by Marchosias on Sun Jul 19, 2015 8:39 am, edited 2 times in total.



Sun Jun 21, 2015 9:21 pm
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^^Very nice.

I got a little bit excited with the Solstice and made the voting thread early :)

Will update the voting thread :)

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Sun Jun 21, 2015 11:04 pm
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Well, now I have to change my voting, that was lovely.

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For us The Season of Doom is ended, now The Season of Opportunity is begun.


Sun Jun 21, 2015 11:06 pm
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