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Cult of Chroesh Fiction For Nemesis Crown 
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As I've not had many responses to my request for information on the Cult of Chroesh, I've written a short introduction to introduce the idea as I will use it to construct an army list. Please judge as you find.

The iron doors of the Inner Sanctum crashed asunder as the dark herald stumbled the last few steps of this most perilous journey. His wickedly hooked spurs rasped against the green marble floor as he collapsed at the feet of the ancient High Priest of Har Kython. Struggling not to vomit at the sight of the cultist’s deformed and scarred figure, the young elf stared intently at the ground as he marshalled himself to deliver his message.

Gorgoneth calmly regarded this youth that had so rudely interrupted his meditation. The High Priest had specifically demanded a decade of solitude to contemplate the last Festival of Pain, and felt sure it had been at most three years. The guards responsible would be blessed with exquisite suffering in the pits of Chroesh. A wry smile fleetingly crossed Gorgoneth’s lips as he sensed the terror in the young Druchii’s heart. It was an emotion with which the Priest was well acquainted. The rider had done well to complete his mission, and the cultist could only guess at how many had tried and failed before him. The Aspect Cult of Chroesh had long since learned to fear the ignorance of their brethren; the wilderness that surrounded the temple-fortress of Har Kython was infested with guerrillas dedicated to the service of the Serpent Lord. Many who entered their territory without warning or invitation were fortunate enough to perish to the unmistakeable song of a bolt fired from the darkness. Those whom fortune had forsaken were rounded up by the dark horsemen of Chroesh, raiders who plundered the surrounding settlements and trade routes for prisoners to be honoured with death in the snake pits and torture cells of the great temple. To have faced these horrors and survived, only to be confronted by Gorgoneth himself, the earthly incarnation of this most glorious aspect of Khaine, was enough to crush the spirit of the bravest of Druchii. The High Priest traced one of his many scars down the length of his naked body as he considered the farcical situation that was about to arise, for he knew the message this boy must carry.

Gorgoneth had once had the great privilege of tormenting the beautiful Morathi herself, back on the glorious shores of Nagarythe. It was soon after the birth of Malekith when the bored consort of Aenarion became the most honoured patron of the Cult of Chroesh, and overseen the halcyon days of the movement. The High Priest shook with pleasure as he recalled the excruciating agonies he had inflicted upon her, and she upon him. He recalled the ecstasy of her violent caress, before descending into the black rage that so often threatened to consume him, for these wonderful times had not lasted. The rejection, the emotional torment for which the only cure was physical pain clutched at his onyx-black soul as he remembered the cult’s fall from grace. How he despised the whores of Slaanesh and all those who had sought to taint the great Aspect Cult of Chroesh with accusations of heresy. With a heavy heart Gorgoneth had overseen the flight of the cult to Naggaroth, where it had fractured. The majority, the weaklings of his flock, settled in Karond Kar, where to this day they suffered a maligned existence, hated by those around them who do not understand and do not wish to understand the ancient practices of the cult. Those who had remained true however had followed the great Priest here, to establish the great fortress of Har Kython, there to practice their rituals and worship in the name of the Serpent Lord.

Gorgoneth knew that for all his unnatural longevity, borne of hellish ritual and the consumption of poisons, he would never outlast the Witch King, and this was the greatest tragedy of all. He felt certain that it was Malekith that had turned Morathi from the Cult of Chroesh, as he could not bear to see his mother experience such pleasure at the hands of another. Malekith knew of this enmity, and hence the two had never spoken. Gorgoneth had amassed a well equipped and fanatical army drawn from his followers within Har Kython to defend himself from what he believed to be the inevitable assault of the Witch King, yet such an attack had never come. And now, kneeling before him was a herald from Malekith.

The dark rider gathered his last reserves of courage and brought himself to look up at the High Priest. He desperately fought the urge to stare at the scarred, naked body of the cultist, and instead focussed on the steel mask that permanently encased the evil creature’s head. He had heard of the vile tortures inflicted on those who chose to dwell here, and the even worse afflictions forced upon those who did not. Uttering a brief prayer to Khaine that he would not join them, the young elf steeled himself:

“My Lord, the Witch King summons you to Naggarond”…


Last edited by Gooner on Wed Apr 25, 2007 5:55 pm, edited 2 times in total.



Mon Apr 23, 2007 12:11 pm
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Nice, I like it, particulaly the bit about Morathi being his mother presumably on the quiet. I would just like to know why the cult of Chroesh would be out cast when he is an aspect of Khaine. Admitadly the Temple probobly wouldnt like one faction gaining to mutch power but not to that extent.

The only problem I have with the story is the bit about Morathi sponsering the cult in Ulthan, she wasnt a Khainite then she was fully Slanneshii as far as I know it was only in Naggaroth that she became the first whitch elf.

By the way how are you planing on having your army, whitch elf heavy? Executioners? How can you give the Khainite feel when its an exiled army and so unlikly to have such units.

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Mon Apr 23, 2007 3:25 pm
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Thanks for your feedback Drainial Shadowhart. To answer your first points

1)The whole idea is inspired by this page. The article suggests that on Ulthuan Morathi was involved with the Cults of both Pleasure and Chroesh. She twisted the Aspect Cult and corrupted it in her own image, to introduce more slaaneshi influences. The cult was eventually banished from Ulthuan due to its excesses, but became caught up in the Cult of Pleasure/Slaanesh purge, despite actually being Khainite. As a result it is now cast out from Druchii society. For a much better summary, you can read the article itself (scroll to page 17).

2) I'm going to have to use alot of "counts as"rules I think, along the lines of a khainite list, as I see no room for magic in the Cult. I want the army to follow official lists. I'm thinking Shades and Dark Riders for the guerrillas and horsemen of Chroesh, blackguard as temple guard, warriors as the general debaucched followers, then witch elves or executioners as the priests/priestesses. I've not decided. All models will have to be extensively converted to fit the theme, its a long road ahead!


Mon Apr 23, 2007 4:20 pm
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Oh ok, thats me proved wrong then your background makes perfect sense. Good luck with the army.

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Tue Apr 24, 2007 3:18 pm
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Thanks Dranial. Just a question for the mods and those in the know, I'm hoping to develop this character/story in the run up to the nemesis crown campaign, should I post pieces in this thread or start another one?


Tue Apr 24, 2007 5:26 pm
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I think not starting another thread, there are already many threads on the Nemesis. Alternatively, you could add something like "for the nemesis Crown Campaign" to the title of this thread.
BTW I liked your story, I hope you're writing more...


Wed Apr 25, 2007 5:40 pm
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Cheers Draknir Helgar, I've altered the thread title. Here is the next, brief instalment. To whet the appetite while I craft Gorgoneth's meeting with Malekith really! Enjoy (hopefully)!

The High Priest’s arrival would have gone largely unnoticed had it not been for the harpies. A light shower of black blood followed by the more startling "thud" of a decapitated harpy hitting the crowded streets caused the elves of Naggarond to peer into the night sky. Silhouetted against the only visible moon was a great winged serpent, its rider flailing wildly at the tiny figures that accosted him. The onlookers took shelter as the visceral downpour continued, intrigued by the aerial combat being played out before them. Rumours began to spread through the crowd as the commoners began to speculate over the wyrm-rider’s identity. It was no secret that the Witch King had been gathering his forces for the renewed assault on their homeland, but now new stories were being told, whispers of an ancient artefact their Lord greatly desired, an artefact to be found among the feebleminded creatures of the Old World. Just as those who claimed to know of such things were warming to their theme, with no small disappointment the crowd saw the skirmish was coming to a close. Howling with bestial fury the harpies were retreating from the whirling blade of this mysterious visitor. A voice in the crowd loudly mused that the harpies’ hunger would merely have been sharpened by the bloody combat, and the mob swiftly dispersed. The winged beast glided unseen towards the tower of the Witch King.


Wed Apr 25, 2007 8:22 pm
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Hmmmm, not a bad little extract, and although the harpies are mostly conected with Karond Kar but I would imagine that there would be a few else where as they are in wide spread use in Druchii armies. Was the snake thing a dragon or something else?

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Fri Apr 27, 2007 5:37 pm
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I did consider the fact that harpies are associated with Karond Kar, but I figured they turn up in so many armies there must be some flying around elsewhere! Plus I just liked the idea of airborne combat! The snake thing is a dragon yes.

This next bit took quite a while to put together, so I hope you like it. Its hard to capture the Witch King's tone!

The ice cold wind ripped across the exposed balcony, causing rune encrusted pennants to tug manically on their fixings. Amid the frantic fluttering of the ensigns the two great dragons seemed like statues, each standing frozen to the spot at the command of their fell masters. Only the glimmer of cruel intelligence in the creatures’ eyes suggested any sign of life. Seraphon was clearly the larger of the two, and as if to accentuate the fact the great beast slowly stretched its wings and yawned with a gape that could engulf an ogre. Ahbrek nonchalantly hissed at the perceived challenge before slowly turning to gaze through the opaque window at the blurred figure of his beloved master.

Inside the vaulted chamber a similar stand off was occurring. The two elves stood glaring at one another, each radiating resentmen. Gorgoneth stared into the black pits of Malekith’s mask, searching for some clue as to his ruler’s mood or intentions, but found no such comfort. The High Priest despised this elf that he held responsible for stealing away the affections his beautiful Morathi. His hatred was only tempered by pragmatism, and a Druchii is nothing if not pragmatic. This elf alone held the power to restore the glorious Cult of Chroesh to its rightful place in society, to bring it out of the shadows. The black stone walls were carved with the most exquisite images of death and debauchery, the hanging tapestries were of the highest craftsmanship and the whole room resonated with a lurid splendour. The city of Naggarond stank of power, and that was something Gorgoneth greatly coveted. Enough power and influence maybe to bring Morathi back to him…

The cultist’s musings were cut short as finally the Witch King spoke.
“You’re rather heavily armoured for a meeting with your own king, don’t you think Priest?”
Gorgoneth smiled beneath his steel mask, before slyly responding.
“You are quite heavily armoured yourself, my lord.”
Malekith bridled at this crass impertinence, every elf knew of the sacrifice he had made for all the Druchii, the sacrifice that now imprisoned him in his own armour. The Witch King knew of the grotesque scarring and deformity the High Priest’s layers of armour and cloaks were disguising, the body his mother had delighted in describing to him in gruesome detail. His first urge to have the perverted dog tortured to death returned to him, but with a great effort of will the son of Aenarion controlled himself. Besides, the freakish creature would only enjoy it.
“Indeed.” The Witch King replied. “Do you know why you have been summoned?”
Pleased with his earlier barb, Gorgoneth’s confidence began to return. This withered old fossil had called all of Naggaroth into servitude in yet another doomed assault on Ulthuan. The Witch King needed the forces of Har Kython and they would answer the call, should the conditions be suitably beneficial to the Cult.
“I do my Lord; you wish me to lead my armies to battle against the treacherous Asur, so we might by combined force of arms drive them into the sea and retake our sacred homeland.”
Malekith laughed mirthlessly, scattering the High Priests new found confidence to the wind. As if the Cult of Chroesh would ever be permitted to return to Ulthuan, the Witch King thought to himself. Gorgoneth and his sick brethren would never be allowed to once more taint that hallowed isle. How he hated this elf and his presumption
“I am afraid you have been misinformed.” the Witch King’s voice betraying nothing of his emotions. “My generals shall sweep the Asur aside without your assistance, although I appreciate your sentiment. I have a different task for you. There is much excitement among the ignorant creatures of the Old World surrounding an ancient Dwarven artefact, a crown imbued with immense power. I greatly desire this relic and all the good it may do for our nation, but as you are apparently aware the timing is somewhat… inconvenient. My nobles are committed to the final assault on our homeland. I cannot spare a single elf. Therefore you are going to retrieve it for me. Succeed and I shall bring the once great Aspect Cult of Chroesh out of the wilderness and back into the hearts of our kin. Fail and I shall raze Har Kython to the ground and erase every memory of you and your brethren.
“Go now and gather your forces. I have arranged a fleet for you transportation. The flag ship’s captain will tell you all you need to know.” With that Malekith turned and stalked out the room. He had despatched many nobles after this fabled crown. The killing fields of the Old World would serve as a most useful cull. Only the strong would survive, and maybe one would even return with the crown. Either way Har Kython would burn, his mother’s protests be damned.

Gorgoneth leaned on his great axe and stared out over Naggarond. The burning torches that struggled to light the city twinkled like stars, a stark contrast to the oppressive blackness of the sky above. It had come to this; he was to obediently charge across the waves and risk his life for the elf he hated above all others. There was however a great possibility presented by this crown. If it was as powerful as Malekith had suggested then there was no reason to hand it over to his enemies. Through glorious murder and bloodshed Gorgoneth would earn his rightful place in society, and with this great crown he would wield such influence as to rival Malekith himself. The Cult of Chroesh was going to war.


Mon Apr 30, 2007 11:15 am
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Very nice characterisation, I particulaly liked the part about the dragons and there amnimity reflecting there masters. As a story it makes sence, it would certainly be a very Malikithish thing to do.

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Mon Apr 30, 2007 3:11 pm
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Here's another "place holder" piece, while I write some fluff about the journey to the Old World. Would anyone object to a battle on the plains of Naggaroth between the Cult and a disgruntled noble? I know there are some laws in Naggaroth so maybe this would be a little far fetched. Let me know what you think.

Beneath skies as black as pitch the gates of Har Kython groaned as hooded acolytes slowly worked the ancient mechanisms. With a shower of rust and the tortured rasp of centuries old hinges the armies of the Serpent Lord sallied forth from their dark citadel. A single road cut through the barren plains leading to the secret pass through the Petrified Hills, the first road of many the army of the Cult of Chroesh would have to walk before their sacred crusade would be done. At their head strode their priestesses, the poisoned ones, revered by all who worship the Serpent Lord. These near naked zealots marched in total silence as they sliced at their own flesh with their envenomed blades. Their hearts beat wildly in their delicate chests as poison coursed through their veins, blinding them to fear and imbuing them with unnatural strength and agility. The priestesses lived brief and agonising lives for the glory of Chroesh, always hoping to master the toxins in their bodies as their lord Gorgoneth had, and to live forever as his bride.
With a deafening roar the great sacred beasts were lead through the gates on golden chains. First came Ahbrek the great dragon, then the hydras. All were resplendent in guilded saddlery, their flesh scarred with foul prayers to the God of Poisons and finely embroidered cloths hung from their flanks. The many heads of the hydras snapped at their minders, cultists swathed from head to toe in lurid green robes that goaded their charges forward without a word. Behind them marched the mass ranks of the cult, aspiring priests who twitched manically and frothed at the mouth trying desperately to cope with the first poisons they had ingested, Spellbreakers who had dedicated their worship to the dissipation of the heretical winds of magic, grim temple guards mailed in green scaled armour and wielding heavy blades and behind them the congregation of Chroesh, believers and followers hastily armoured and bearing spears and crossbows. All advanced in the deadliest of silences.
With a hatefilled howl that pierced the quiet like a blade thrust through a a pane of glass, High Priest Gorgoneth himself burst from the ramparts atop Quirick, his armoured war-pegasus. He surveyed the column with barely suppressed glee, focussing his mind on the blood to be shed. The pain and suffering wrought on the battlefields of the Old World would bring such glory to the Serpent Lord as no ritual ever had. Yet the traditions had to be upheld. Where once there had been silence he could now hear cries of anguish as the sacred Altar of Pain was wheeled through the gates, a recently caught captive strapped firmly to its blood-soaked surface. It had taken weeks of work to move the Altar from its resting place in the Scaled Temple and to place it on its horse drawn carriage, but it had been worth it. Now the glorious worship of the God of Pain could be taken across the sea, and those enemies that did not die in battle would do so slowly and creatively on this most hallowed Altar. Shaking with pleasure the High Priest ordered Quirick into a steep dive and swooped low over his army, as black clad riders swarmed from the surrounding country and galloped to join the column.

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Tue May 22, 2007 10:20 am
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Well I am always pleased to see good descriptive writing and I think that this is definatly in that catagory. I particulaly liked the way your army is defined, it is in charactor but at the same time clearly shows the units of the army. One point, if the sky is black as pitch then its so dark that no one can see this great column and they are all going to fall over.

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Tue May 22, 2007 6:09 pm
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Haha, that's a very good point! Perhaps I should of written in some flaming torches!

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Tue May 22, 2007 7:10 pm
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Here is the first of a number of pieces I intend to write in the build up to the campaign as the Cult travels to the Old World.

Taaj Blacktear scraped his sodden hair from his steel grey eyes as he surveyed the host arrayed before him, and felt a shiver creep through him that had nothing to do with either the wind or the rain. Three weeks he had spent chasing shadows and ghosts on this damned plain, three terrifying weeks that had utterly broken his once proud spirit. He had felt so bold and stout-hearted as he had sworn to wreak vengeance on the cultists of Har Kython, so intrepid as he had told his wife of the great army he would lead. This was all for her, all so he could make her believe he was still the dashing general he had been in his youth. The crushing humiliation gripped at his mind as he recalled the foolish promises he had made, promises drawn from his lips by the seductive form of his wife’s body beneath silken sheets. Now he would die without ever laying eyes on her again. The thought of the warm embrace of his exquisite bed chamber and of all the luxuries he had left behind briefly fluttered tantalisingly past his closed eyes, before he opened them and looked at the forsaken heath that was to become his eternal resting place. The plain stretched for miles, and Blacktear no longer had any idea which way would take him home to Hag Graef. The black heather that grew here was deadly poisonous, and the rock outcrops that punctuated the otherwise naked landscape concealed all manner of lethal creatures. Even the soil was said to be toxic to elves. With a resigned sigh Blacktear hauled his cold one round to inspect the tattered remains of his once great army.

When they had marched from Hag Graef his force had glistened such was the quality of their arms. This was the retained army of one of the wealthiest mine owners in Hag Graef after all, and no expense had been spared. Taaj Blacktear had sent many expeditions to assess the mineral deposits in the hills that surrounded Har Kython, and none had returned. The few survivors that ever had made it home had told of their comrades being rounded up by horsemen swathed in black cloaks who had led them in chains to the impenetrable fortress of Har Kython. Blacktear had stoically bore these losses until the news had reached his ear that the cultists had left their safe haven, and were marching en masse to the ports of Clar Karond. He had set out with rank upon rank of spears, cross bows and cold ones, pennants fluttering in the breeze and trumpets blowing.

Where were the trumpets now?

His remaining men were sick and tired. For three weeks they had marched, trying to scratch sustenance from this accursed wasteland. The days had brought frustration and exhaustion in equal measure as ephemeral armies of enemy scouts and horsemen melted away before ranks could be drawn, and the nights had brought only terror. Bolts from unseen assailants rained into the camp from the cover of darkness and elves were snatched in their sleep, their flayed corpses discovered some days later. The cold one’s water had been poisoned two nights ago, and most of Blacktear’s surviving knights now marched on foot like commoners. Now finally the enemy had revealed itself, standing disciplined and in perfect rank and file on the crest of the horizon. Some were almost naked despite the freezing winds, others were heavily armoured and leaning on enormous double-handed blades. All wore vivid green armour, making the battle line seem like a vast scaled serpent lying across the field. Casting one last baleful look at his tormentors, Blacktear spurred his cold one to where Karrick, his second in command, was standing.

“Well captain, what do you suggest” asked Blacktear, expecting nothing of worth in return.
“We are doomed, my Lord. All we can hope is to take as many of these foul creatures with us as we can.” Karrick replied. A military elf of common birth he had made his way in Druchii society through proficiency of arms and the illusion of loyalty. He was neither surprised nor dismayed that his life was to end on the battlefield. It was certainly preferable to the torture chamber he would be cast into if his dalliance with Blacktear’s wife was ever discovered.
“Crossbows to the rear, spears to the front and an all out charge is all I can suggest. What knights we have left can intervene at whatever point my Lord deems appropriate.”
“You have served me well Karrick, it is a shame you shall never be rewarded.” Blacktear replied, before fastening his family helm to his armour and turning to ride to his pitifully small retinue of knights. Taking his place at the head of the line the noble bellowed his last words to his weary troops.
“Finest elves of Hag Graef, you have nothing left to hope for but a clean death. Fight hard, sell your lives dearly and pray not to be taken alive.” With that he waved Karrick forward and the line of spears began to stagger towards to the enemy.

A pathetic drizzle of crossbow bolts flew from the rear of the lines landing ineffectually among the silent ranks of the cultists. Blacktear ordered his unit forward as he tried to spot an area of weakness in the enemy lines where he could wreak the most damage. The near-naked female elves were the obvious place, but he knew all too well of the dangers of the witch elves of Khaine and these cultists looked mightily similar. His troops were about to fall upon the modestly armoured spearelves forming the enemy centre, and Blacktear wheeled his cavalry to support. Suddenly cries of shock and pain echoed in his ears as the knights flanking him were whipped from their cold ones. Turing in the saddle the noble saw that where moments ago there had been nothing but air there now stood a small group of elves sniping at the rear of his unit with crossbow fire. Cursing as a bolt bounced off his breastplate he turned back to where his infantry were attacking.

To Blacktears utter disbelief the enemy centre was collapsing! The spear armed cultists were turning to flee in the face of his own spearelves, and Blacktear urged his last few knights forward to press the advantage. As soon as the glimmer of hope had emerged however it was ruthlessly extinguished. Charging through the breaking ranks of cultists was a scarred and enraged hydra, bellowing furiously and belching flame. Blacktear’s elves turned to run but found a line of horsemen had formed behind them. In a cacophony of ringing armour, the bellowing of the hydra and the crackling of burning heather the last of Blacktear’s troops were slaughtered, extinguishing all hope as they fell. The noble barely had time to contemplate the scale of the butchery before he realised how hopelessly exposed his knights were. In the blink of an eye the armoured cultists were upon them, cleaving his elite retainers from their saddles. Blacktear and his comrades fought ferociously, and for a moment the fight seemed to hang in the balance before with appalling inevitability yet more horsemen fell upon the rear of the unit, and the naked she-elves charged into their flank. Blacktear hacked manically at his opponents, all coherent thoughts forced from his mind by the murderous will to survive. He howled as he felt a blade slash across his unarmoured leg, and he turned to dispatch the offending female. As his ancient sword penetrated her naked flesh he felt a sudden excruciating pain in his stomach. The she-elf fell to the floor as Blacktear doubled up in agony, the fangmoth venom coursing through his body. Burning with hatred that surpassed even this most awful pain he drew himself up and raised his sword for one last flurry at the massed cultists. The first he knew of the pegasus swooping in behind him was as the point of Gorgoneth’s lance erupted from his chest.

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Sat May 26, 2007 4:19 pm
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Nice, the enemys point of veiw was well writion and he seemed to be quite a belivable charater, the charactors sugest deapth and to be quite frank you could almost think there was already a book writion about this Blacktear guy.

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Sat May 26, 2007 7:19 pm
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Great fluff, I am glad Gorgoneth is going to be on my side for the nemesis crown. One minor question, why did gorgoneth stop riding his dragon?

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Thu May 31, 2007 5:35 pm
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Honestly? because the conversion turned out very badly and the army list works better with him on a peggie. Plus the new "Gorgoneth on peggie" conversion looks awesome.

I know the fluff reasons seem somewhat tenuous, i'm basically thinking that if I occassionally mention the dragon's presence (note that it is lead out of Har Kython in the "column" story) then I can still use it in big battles.

Cheers for the compliment!

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Sat Jun 02, 2007 10:05 pm
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Here is my first bit of Nemesis Crown fluff that is actually relevant to our newly formed goals:

With a gargled scream that caused the captain of the Sublime Malevolence to turn and gag the captive finally succumbed to his torment. For hours the Cultists aboard his ship had stood in enthralled silence as two priestesses had their way with the bound human slave. When the Cult’s leader had first told him of what was to occur on his foredeck, it struck him as a waste of a slave but nothing especially unusual. Many of the nobles he had transported across the sea had entertained rather odd pleasures, and this ritual seemed nothing out of the ordinary. How wrong he had been. Never had the captain thought himself capable of compassion for such a lowly beast as a human, yet the nauseating creativity with which the priestesses had gone about inflicting the direst agonies almost caused him to vomit. To think he had fancied bedding one of these alluring creatures when they first boarded… Whoever these Cultists were he uttered a prayer to Khaine that they might never return from the Old World.

Gorgoneth nodded in serene satisfaction, and his priestesses unshackled the lifeless corpse and tossed it into the sea. It hardly looked like a human anymore, his acolytes had performed exquisitely. The High Priest had been giddy with excitement at the port of Clar Karond, it had been so long since he had seen a slave market. His self imposed incarceration at Har Kython had kept him from such joys for too long, and truly he had forgotten the satisfaction that only a human pleading for mercy could bring. He had bought plenty of the beasts and distributed them among the ships to provide spiritual sustenance for his flock during the long journey to the Old World. Today’s had been a great success, and it pleased the ancient Priest to see the horror on the ship’s captain’s face. There would be an orgy of such rituals in the Great Forest.

As promised the Witch King’s orders had awaited him with the captain of the fleet. In a terse letter he was told that he alone had the great honour of retrieving the Nemesis Crown, and that it was to be found in a great forest known as… the Great Forest. Typical absence of ingenuity on the part of the mindless races of the Old World Gorgoneth had thought with a smile. The Cult alone held responsibility for finding the artefact, as the rest of the Druchii forces were preoccupied with Ulthuan, and it was through the fulfilment of this sacred mission that the Cult of Chroesh would return to power in Druchii society. The High Priest watched his priestesses carefully replace the tools of torture in their ancient chest and considered that if enough such rituals were performed the will of Chroesh would surely bring them success.

Raising his eyes to the horizon Gorgoneth was instantly snapped out of his reverie. There on the horizon was the unmistakeable ensign of the House of Darkwater. They were much too far away to assess their numbers or even the direction they were travelling, but there was no mistaking the emblem of one of the most fanatically loyal families in Naggaroth. This could only mean one thing, and as Malekith’s deception dawned on him Gorgoneth was gripped by fury. Rounding on the ship’s captain the Priest seized him by the throat.
“I was assured that I was the only Druchii despatched on this task! Am I supposed to believe that Darkwater’s presence in these seas is a COINCIDENCE?”
“I d-d-don’t know anything… it, it, it was all in a s-s-sealed envelope, I know nothing of your orders b-but to take you to the Old World” the captain stammered. He had barely recovered from the sight of the priestesses and those awful forceps and now he was being assaulted by their armoured leader, an elf whose face he had never seen and didn’t wish to.
“Maybe your telling the truth, maybe your not. We’ll know soon enough…” Gorgoneth hissed his terrifying threat as he tightened his grip on the captain’s throat, squeezing until he fell limp from asphyxiation. The High Priest turned to one of the ship’s officers who was looking on wide eyed. “You are now in command of this fleet. If you serve us well you may join us in the Old World. We are fugitives now, Malekith has forsaken you as well as us, we may never return home.”
The ship’s officer had never questioned his loyalty to the Witch King, but he was a Druchii first and foremost and he knew where his interests now lay.
“My lord there was word in the back streets of Clar Karond of ships setting sail in the night, fleets chartered by rogue factions no longer loyal to the Witch King. It is said that they are bound for the ancient ruins of Tor Thana, there to establish a new Druchii order under a mysterious exile known as Rackeith.” The newly promoted captain was unsure if he was saying the right thing, but his mind was soon put at ease.
“Very good captain, set a course for Tor Thana and bring me the maps, we must meet with this Rackeith”. With that Gorgoneth tossed the unconscious former-captain to his priestesses and turned to the assembled congregation.

“Today’s festivities continue” he bellowed.

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Wed Jun 06, 2007 10:37 pm
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I liked that, very charactorfull and I also liked the way the idea of Tor Thana came from the leutenint. I think I might write up one of these my self.

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Thu Jun 07, 2007 3:26 pm
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Yay I got a mention!

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Thu Jun 07, 2007 3:31 pm
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Gorgoneth was escorted into what was by far the largest tent into the camp by a group of spear armed warriors. He was alone, he had been forced to camp his army outside the main camp for the time being, no doubt they were surrounded by Rackeith’s spies. Gorgoneth wondered about what kind of elf this Rackeith was, so far he had only managed to get sketchy details about him so far. As far as he knew this upstart was young a mere two hundred or so, he was a mere lowborn who had risen to become Lord Yeurl’s favoured champion. However that had all changed when Rackeith had been convicted of practising dark magic. Somehow though he had escaped with his life and was merely exiled, some said the Temple of Khaine had been involved, others that the King didn’t perceive the lowborn scum as a threat. After that he had disappeared from all records. And know a decade later here he was at the head of a sizable war host.
Gorgoneth was interrupted in his musings by his arrival at Rackeith’s tent. It had a clear walkway down the middle which was flanked by the Druchii nobles that had pledged themselves to Rackeith. There at the far end of the tent was Rackeith with his own personal guard of executioners and witch elves. To his left was a young sorceress flanked by what looked like some kind of daemon. She was stunningly beautiful even to one who had once entertained Morathi, with a great effort of will Gorgoneth tore his eyes from here to gaze once more on Rackeith and his guard. Gorgoneth knew that Rackeith’s choice of retinue was intended to send a clear message, Khaine is with me too. Are Gorgoneth you have arrived , it is acceptable to call you that isn’t it? Or am I to call you The Avatar of Chreosh, maybe I am required to kneel?” Inquired Rackeith mockingly.
“Gorgoneth will be fine.” Spat Gorgoneth, “ I hear you are the leader of this rabble, my army and I were thinking of joining you, if offered the right incentives.
With a wave of his hand Rackeith dismissed his retinue apart from half a dozen of his most loyal retainers. “With a god on our side how can we lose. As for incentives, the freedom to establish your temple in Tor Thana, also I saw you were looking at Diana, my daughter, you desire her? Well this goes for all you lot, whoever serves me best in this war can claim my daughter to do with what they like.” With this parting statement he rose and left the chamber leaving it in uproar.

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Mon Jun 11, 2007 3:32 pm
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Cheers for writing that Fingol23, I like it a lot.

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Tue Jun 12, 2007 10:46 am
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