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Ronin's Tale Part 7 
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Highborn
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Joined: Fri Oct 19, 2007 4:49 pm
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"Role Call! Spearmen."

"Here."

"Crossbowmen."

"Here."

"Shades."

...

"Right. Bolt Throwers."

"Here."

"Assassin."

...


"With the Shades. Sorceress."

"Here."

"Skink Slaves with my drink?"

"Here!" They hissed as they scurried over to Ronin. They handed him a golden goblet with a drink consisting of hot water, five varieties of peppers, and coco extract. The boy figured this was doing more harm then good as his throat burned from the heat, but he needed the pike-me-up for the threat that lay ahead of them. He handed the empty glass back to the reptiles and motioned them to do what they do best: Run away!

Ronin rode up to the front rank of his warriors. He couldn't help but notice that they were all much older then he was. He also couldn’t help but notice the sinister scowl that they wore like their armor! "Let's keep this brief. We only have a hundred a thirty able men and women, including the shades, harpies, the Sorceress, the assassin, and my self. We were sent here to hold off and distract the enemy. To die in battle till the main fighting force accomplishes their goals is our lot in life at the moment. Right now, that means we have over four hundred Chaos Rat Men that need to be skinned!

"All of us are here for one reason or another. The Few of you that had 'volunteered' did so due to the shame of a previous defeat, a death wish, and among other things. The rest of us were sent here to die, to grow up, our attitudes, lack of respect of authority, lack of success on the battlefield, or are commoners whose only crime is that they are not rich enough to buy our way into a better battlefield. If any of this be the case, let us prove something to our superiors: That we are worth something. That we are as good of warriors as they are. That we are the cream of the crop! The odds are against us, I won't lie about that. There is a good chance that we'll die here today.

“But you are the greatest fighting force in the entire world! You are the only ones who have been able to attack every nation in the world, and hold their own! It is you who have caused the most destruction among the Asure. Are we going to let a little thing like being outnumbered four to one by something slightly taller then a Goblin stop us?" This got a laugh out of the troops. "The enemy will not back down. Our only hopes is that the sorceress and the Dranach squads can whittle them down to even the odds, while the shades, assassin, and Harpies will take out their leaders, and lead their elite warriors into our traps! We will not stop fighting till every one of their foul, filthy, disease ridden bodies have been piled high in our fires tonight! We will not stop till all of our bolts are spent, our spears and lances have pieced their hearts, our swords have gluten themselves on their flesh, and our knives and daggers have drunk every last drop of their filthy blood!" Every one of them raised their weapons into the air in celebration of the beautiful victory that they would have. And even if that was not to be, there was till no higher honor then to die on the field of battle.

But there was still one who did not celebrate. "Good speech. It makes me want to rip his throat out!" Said Derrelictose, crossing his arms.

"Well, then you better make sure he lives then." said the horn women to his right.

"What?"

"Who would you prefer to kill him: Your self, or a overgrown rodent?"

The Lordling was silent for a moment, but then an evil grin grew on his now mostly un-scared face. "I like your thinking. When I kill him, and take over this poor excuse of an army, would you like to be one of my mistresses?" He asked her.

"But sir," she said. "If you don't remove that hand of yours from my rump, you won't need the service of a woman from this moment on!" The women made sure her superior got the "point."


***

Elsewhere, Lord Squeaker the Terrible was basking in glory, and rot of his forces. Mother Nature and the Dwarves took the lives of many of his brothers last night. But vengeance would be his! Nature served no master, and had helped him many a times, so he forgave her. But the dwarves would never have there sins washed away till their dead filled that strong hold, and their secrets had been brought back to his Pathosis Monastery. Until then he’d have to wait. At least now, only the strongest, quickest, and if anything else, the luckiest had survived. Even the slaves he brought along seemed to fair better then the denizens of Skaven Blight.

As he smiled at this thought, he did not feel superior. Far from it, he knew he wasn't above his troops. He new full well he could have died, but he didn't thanks to the quick and unusual heroic act of another Plague Preist. This strange behavior may have been the reasons why so many of the clan rats flocked to him for this battle. But it didn’t matter now. Only victory did.

Three clan rats scurried as fast as their little legs could carry them, stricken with terror of what they have seen. "Father Squeaker!" They yelled "Father Squeaker, we have terrible news! The dark Elves have come!"

"What?" the general growled out. "The Witch King thinks he has more right to the plunder ahead then us? What has he sent? Hydras?"

"No."

"Dragons?"

"No."

"Black Guard?"

"No."

"Executioners?"

"No."

"Half naked women?"

"No, wait, no, wait, ugh, do beast women count?"

"Damn." he squeaked. "Cold ones?"

"One."

"Anything worth my time?"

“They have 45 odd smelling spearmen."

"They're elves. They all smell odd. We'll have some of the clan rats deal with them. What else?

"They have the same number on a hill with crossbows."

The Preist put a scabby paw to his moth to cover a yawn. "I'll think of something for them. maybe my fellow Monks will make short work of them."

"They also have two bolt throwers."

"Two?"

"Two."

"Two?"

"Two."

"Two?"

"Two."

"Two?"

"Two."

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Asked Squeaker holding up three fingers.

"Two."

"Ok." (I guess a few of the dumb dumbs didn't die last night after all.) "Well, we'll just have to have what's left of our slaves in front of them. Who else wants to die?"

"They have some blue skinned chick on a black pony. I think she maybe a sor, sor, sor, sor..."

"A Sorceress."

"Yeah, yeah! OH! They have some kid running the army."

"What?"

"Yeah, yeah. He doesn’t look old enough to stop suckling yet. He rides on a red cold one, who's back scales are as blue as the ocean!"

"They send a child to fight me?"

"Should we send the.."

"They DARE MOCK ME! WITH A CHILD? Do they doubt my battle prowess? Where is my nephew?"

"Is there a problem father?" Asked the one who saved Squeaker the Terrible. He wore the traditional tattered molding robes of the Plague Monks, to hide the innumerable open sours and wounds on his body. His face, if you could call it that, mostly consisted of his skull. Any and all flesh remaining was slowly being eaten away by bacteria and viruses. His eyes even had to be replaced by the skilled technicians of Clan Skyre, who gave them bronze balls to place in them. Not only did it restore his then fading sight, but it improved it past the level of most elves.

"They send a child to fight me!"

"Who?" asked the Plague Preiste politely.

"The Witch King, Pusbutt Half-Tail! The Witch King!"

"Well, elves were never my favorite. Not enough meat on those anorexic whelps to last me five minutes. That and they taste like ogre shiz!"

"I thought you like shiz?"

"I do, but I don't even want to know what enters their mouths half the time!"

"You called for me uncle? Asked a well groomed Skaven. By his nicer, yet still torn up dress, and his whips, one could tell he was of Clan Moulder (the animal trainers and manipulators of beasts in the Skaven armies.) “I was just getting the Rat ogres and my fellow pack masters when you called."

"Scrat Tailbeater, I want you to kill a boy."

"Consider it done. But don't you want me to bash the rest of the Dwarves as well?"

"The Dark elves have sent a small band of warriors led by a child riding a cold one. You are to face him, and kill him!"

"Hmm, after this you and I will need to ask the council of thirteen for help then."

"How so?"

"Those Fowl Dark Elves have grown too arrogant recently. They need to be taught their place in the world!"

"At our...is he ok?" Asked Squeaker, pointing to a sickly green Skaven, no bigger then a small dog.

"Oh, him. Bulk is ok. He's just special."

"How so?" before the lord of decay could respond, and stupidly brave Skaven underling came running up to give praise to his hero: Squeaker the Terrible.

Tail Beater knew how much his uncle hated this, so decided it was as good a time to get on his good side. "BULK!" he yelled out.

"Yes Master?" Asked the timid green rat, shaking from fright.

"He called your mother a bad word!" he said, pointing to the clan rat.

Before anyone, or anything could understand what was going on, Bulk lived up to his name, instantly growing to the twice the size of an Ogre. With a loud shriek like roar, he brought his massive fist down upon the unfortunate soul, burring what was left of him five feet in the ground.

"Good boy. Here is your doggy treat, made from a real doggy! Said the Pack Master, tossing a rotting hunk of meat at the monster."

"Hmmm, Albion Setter! My favorite!" He said, returning to his normal size.

"He's a special project my father has been working on. Although not what we were expecting, he dose do his part."

"How in world dose he do that?"

"The get big thing? We exposed him to triple the amount of warp stone that is even too dangerous for our kind. The end result is this: When ever this runt gets angry, his testosterone instantly causes him to grow at monstrous proportions. Only when he finally calms down, will he return to his normal size.

"I see, and dose your father..."

"No. He is simply a flawed proto type. When he was done with him, we were just going to kill him, but I saw some potential in him. So kept him as my pet.

"I see. Tell the clan rats to move out. We got work to do. Half Tail, will you do the honors of leading my warriors?"

"My pleasure." Said what was left of the Skaven.

Only when there were no others around, did Squeaker speak again. But it wasn't to the voices in his mind that so many of his ilk were afflicted by. No, it was two glowing red eyes in the bushes. "And you have a very special order to fulfill!"


Last edited by Saint of m on Sun Feb 17, 2008 8:42 am, edited 4 times in total.



Tue Dec 11, 2007 3:49 am
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Angel of Darkness
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You need to spell check your whole story. There are some really bad mistakes plus the Skaven don't really sound like a Skaven would. Apart from that I liked the start and the middle of the story though the end was not really Skaven-ish.

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Equipment: Executioners Axe (Rune of Beastslaying - Heroic Killing Blow), 2 Scimitars (Rune of Speed - Always Strike First), Dagger, Rune Branded Leather Armour, Executioner Helm, Fine Set of Throwing Knives (x4)
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Gold: 163
Skills: Ambidexterity, Frenzy, Two Weapon Fighting, Ride
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Tue Dec 11, 2007 4:16 am
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Highborn
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Location: castro valley, caslifornia
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Just did.


Tue Dec 11, 2007 4:17 am
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Prophet of Tzeentch
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I agree you need to skaven it up quite a bit, plus most lower down Skaven leaders probobly wont be angry about being mocked by Malikith, they would probobly be quite worried at the prospect of a hundred odd elves. They are the bigest cowards in the Warhammer world. I do like the incredible bulk though.

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Fri Dec 21, 2007 3:49 pm
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