The Dark Host-My army Fluff.

[Lodark]

Wow, my first post here in a while...

This is the first instalment in my latest project “Druchii” which will recount the adventures of the Asur and the Druchii during the current invasion of Ulthuan from the perspective of the warriors on the front line and the great leaders at the back. Note this is my version of events and so it may not all strictly follow the fluff depending on how I view the fluff. :ninja:

Comments and criticisms are always welcome and looked for.

Chapter 1

The wind whipped up around Tarleth's robes as he surveyed the enemy line. Scores of spears glittered in the evening sun for a moment, casting an aura of light over the battlefield before the blood red clouds chased the dying light off the field. The wind was strong and Tarleth planted his feet firmly into the ground to keep his balance and to keep in line with the Druchii to either side of him. His shield in one hand and his spear in the other, and with noble Druchii surrounding him, he felt invincible.
This is truly where we belong. With thunderous drums in the distance to match the thunder in our hearts, a worthy enemy to challenge our unparallel skill.
Even as he watched the Asur warhost began to slowly move forwards towards the waiting Druchii line. It was cold, very cold in Tor Yvresse but none of this mattered to Tarleth right now. Indeed, he hardly noticed, the anticipation of his first real fight, his first fight against the Asur at hand. The fires in the hearts of the Druchii as they considered the prize so close they could almost touch it was enough to keep the whole warhost warm, and the beasts silent as the grave.
A lone trumpet could be heard from the other side of the battlefield. It was mournful, and played a sorrowful memory which reminded all present of what had been taken from them. To the Asur, it represented their lost brethren, to the Druchii, their homeland. Warriors on both sides bowed their heads. A moment later a drum pounded and the Asur line broke into a run without breaking ranks at all. A moment later it was answered by the call of the Druchii:

Khaela Furdiek Mensha Farmiek Khaine.

The cry was filled with malice and came from a lone khainite warrior halfway down the battle line. Tarleth knew him by name as Kheltrai, an anointed warrior of the great god of murder. A moment after his cry ended the Druchii line repeated it in unison, matching his malice.

Khaela Furdiek Mensha Farmiek Khaine!

It was unnerving. As one the warriors lowered their spears. Glancing behind Tarleth glimpsed a dragon moving in from a great distance away before the elf behind him struck him sharply on the back of his head and he turned back to the Asur. The high helmed riders were cantering towards the druchii line spear tips held high. Tarleth knew they would take a bloody rag out of the Druchii line and him, he thought grimly as he locked arms with other in the front line. However, he found himself unafraid.

He'd seen one of the dragon riders, possibly even Malekith. With such power behind him what could stand before him?

A second Asur Horn called, this one more powerful and more angry than the previous one, and the Silver Helms lowered their lances and broke their steeds into a run.

Khaela Furdiek Mensha Farmiek Khaine!

Tarleth could see the whites of their eyes and caught the gaze of a rider heading straight for him. The elf had icy blue eyes which hid his fears, and from the ornate helmet he wore Tarleth guessed he was someone of renown to his enemies.

Khaela Furdiek Mensha Farmiek Khaine!

As Tarleth and the rider locked eyes, Tarleth bowed his head but for a moment in a mark of respect. On the battlefield all elves were equal, and all unparalleled warriors. They all demanded respect. A moment passed, and the rider nodded back. A sad smile crossed his face.

Khaela Furdiek Mensha Farmiek Khaine!

The silver Helms crashed into the spearmen with a crash of steel and the screams of elves. Tarleth stabbed forward with his spear and caught his opponent's horse in the chest. The weight of the beast impaled it and Tarleth smiled and dug the spear deeper into its chest. The horse didn't cry out, nor did it widen its eyes in terror. It was an elven horse and so had the resolve of its elven masters. It was unafraid of the terrors which would make grown men give up all hope.
It continued charging and with a flick of its neck broke in half the shaft of Tarleth's spear before sending him flying ten feet backwards as it pitched into him, killing itself and its rider. Tarleth landed hard and lost conscience.
Tarleth didn’t know how long he’d been out when he was awoken by a sharp burst of pain on his chest as an armoured foot dented his chestplate. He opened his eyes to find another Druchii lying beside him rubbing his head and shouting a curse at him. Groaning he got to his feet. His head was ringing and his ears pounding and for a few moments he couldn’t hear a thing. To his left a throng of spearmen were now moving forwards once again, away from his position. After a moment the rining ceased and the screams returned and Tarleth realised the battle had not ended. He drew his sword and threw off his helmet, which was once again bobbing over his eyes, and headed back into the melee taking place between the children of Aenarion. He pushed past two warriors dragging an injured comrade out of the fray and shuffled forwards until he was once again in the midst of the enemy. He was expecting to see the cavalry before he reached the Asur but to his surprise he stumbled out almost into the Asur battle line before he realised they were there.
Spearmen had moved in to take the place of the failing cavalry and breach the gap and now they were giving the druchii a run for their money. many of the elves in the front rank had discarded their spears for wickedly curved short stabbing swords similar to that Tarleth now held in his left hand. They gasped for air as the ranks behind them forced them onto the spears of their enemies in a desperate attempt to gain ground. Elves suffocated in the intense heat and pressure and no one had the energy to shout defiance. Instead they fought in silence to hold the line and keep their lives.

They were losing.

For every elf killed another took his place, but the Asur were replacing men quicker and taking ground. Tarleth knew that it the line broke the Asur would flank the rest of the army and fought all the harder for it, but he prayed for a respite from the repetitive thud of spear against shield. This wasn't fighting as Tarleth had come to know and love.
Suddenly someone fell over to his left and the man behind him fell over his flailing body. The line fell into disarray as the men tried to entangle themselves and others avoided being knocked over by those behind as well. The Asur saw their chance and with a last burst of strength pushed back. The Druchii line parted and many elves died immediately under the fierce attack, but as the lines lost co-ordination the Druchii counter attack hit home.
With room to swing their blades to true skill of the Nagarythe elf for elf shone through as each showed off their skills. An elf rushed at Tarleth as the line broke and thrust with his spear. With the room he now had Tarleth easily parried the strike before laying waste to the elf’s dismayed features, spinning his sword and smashing his skull while the other elf realised no one was now holding a shield to cover his side. Another ran at him and smiling, laughing, Tarleth ran to meet him forcing his opponent’s sword into his shield and then disarming him with a flick of his arm and slicing across his neck with his own bloody sword. A fourth came at him but was cut down by a bolt pistol before he’d moved more than a step.
The Asur gave up their hard won advantage and then, and the shadows unleashed by a hidden sorceress began to engulf them and a cloaked figure to Tarleth’s right appeared from nowhere to butcher their champion with ease, broke into an all out retreat. The Druchii, screamed for more, this was their calling, their purpose, given to them by their Witch King, and while Malekith remained uncrowned as Phoenix King it would remain so.

Khaela Furdiek Mensha Farmiek Khaine!

[Deadlydeception]

A fourth came at him but was cut down by a bolt pistol before he’d moved more than a step.

Err... aren't bolt pistols more of a 40k thing?

Minor nitpicking aside, it was quite the enjoyable read. Looking forward to seeing more.

[Lodark]

Yes, this was mentioned somewhere else as well. It was my confused mind trying to remember what repeater handbows were called...

Anyway, I'll be doing some minor tweaks to it later and trying to get the next chapter out later in the week.

[Lodark]

Took me a bit longer than a week I'll admit. Here's the next installment. As always, C+C welcome.


There was no feast the night after the battle, save for the Witch Elves, who ripped the corpses of the mournful dead asunder even as the ghosts cried in anguish from the stars above.
Such a sight seemed unnnatural to Tarleth, and so like many of his fellows he turned away. The light from their fire was cold, having been created through sorcery and so not truly being a fire at all, but it was the best they had. Some of the elves who should really have know better, cursed it and the rotten luck. Tarleth was unsure whether to agree with them or not though. While their punishments seemed harsh, he was at the same time awed by the sight above him, the night sky of Nagorythe, something he had never dreamed of seeing. In his mind it made the whole trip worth it.
The reason for their discomfort was the cost of the battle they had fought the day before. While the armies of the enemy had been driven off and much ground taken, one of the enemy commanders, Polief, had withdrawn from the field to safety. Naturally, when questioned with this faliure the Dreadlords had blamed their subordinates, and they in turn blamed their subordinates, until a compromise was reached and the entirety of the blame was placed solely on the shoulders of the spearmen of the 8th banner of Kai'Shal's army. Tarleth's banner.
One of the spearmen to Tarleth's left, an elf named Vash spat into the fire, amusing himself with the fact the flames briefly turned blue. He chuckled to himself and did it again. And again. And...
"Stop that before I cut out your tongue and make you," muttered Tarleth. The man stopped for a moment and studied the flames, then a moment later turned and spat on Tarleth, before tunring back as if nothing had happened.
Tarleth smiled and refrained from jumping on the man, instead making a mental note that Vash stood two places to his left in their battleline, and that a lot of things can go wrong during a battle.
The night was quiet and no sound could be heard from outside the Druchii camp, from the line of the Asur, not a sound came. Every so often Tarleth thought he saw shadows in the distance flitting around the camp, but he could never lock onto them, and in the end dismissed them as figments of his imagination.
That was until a figure cloaked entirely in black sat down on the ground beside him before he had even realised he was there.
Tarleth jumped, and several others noted the creature for the first time and immediately reached for their swords. None of the men dared move, and strangely it seemed to Tarleth, none of them called out. They just sat there in anticipation as the elf pulled back his hood to reveal tightly pulled back black hair, and a face covered with blue tattoos which depicted a roaring Manticore.
"Pah! Do not think to sneak up on us Autarii, next time we will take your ear as compensation." The newcomer smiled at the threat, and eventually, muttering to themselves all the while, te spreamen sheathed their weapons and returned to watching the fire.
Tarleth turned to the elf. He had never seem one of the shade clan before and wondered what one such person would now be doing in their midst. The elf had softer features than Tarleth would have thought, having heard the storied of Autarii rituals, but as far as Tarleth could see his skin beared no scars, and there was mirth in his eyes, and Tarleth decided that he was amused by the rashness of his fellow Druchii.
The silence lengthened until to clear his boredom (and to take his mind off what he'd do to Vash if he spat in that fire just one more Khaine cursed time) he spoke up to the newcomer.
"Have you any tales to tell us lowly city folk of your people, or any news of how the war goes Shade? Have you anything of interest to us, or are you here simply for our company?" Some of the other elves looked expectantly at the Shade, waiting for him to answer, but he just smiled and stared at the fire, and soon they gave up.
However, as soon as they had all looked away The shade cleared his throat, and in a singsong voice that cut like a temple dagger, began to recite a tale.


Back in the days before this invasion, around three hundred years ago, so before Many of your long lives began, Malekith placed a reward for The Autarii on the head of every Shadow Warriors slain, and land for any taken from the Asur. Naturally, many brave druchii passed over the oceans to carry out their lord's will and win fame and glory for their clans.
"Amongst these came a warrior known as Zariel Nightwatch, whose clan name was Kras. He was a member of the Hidden Fox clan, who were known throughout the other clans for their skill at remaining hidden, and hunting in the dark.
Kras lost favour with the others of his clan after he killed another Druchii for being disrepectful, although this other Druchii was ell loved by the rest of his clan. Therefore, Kras, who always loved to be loved, set out to claim more heads than the rest of his clan, and so here we find him travelling alone as Shades often do and in enemy territory.
While Mannslieb waxed and Morrslieb waned he came upon a nightly traveller upon a dusty old road, and believing him an easy target, burst out of his hiding place and shot twice at his advesary. The Bolts struck true but the traveller stayed standing, and in the light of the moons Kras could make out the face of an old elf. So old was he that his back was stooped and wrinkles crept up at the conrners of his mouth.
Kras was taken aback by the fact his adversary still stood, but before he could mover the old elf lifted a frail hand and cried out, "You may kill me young Druchii, but if you choose to do so your death will come in a week's time to greet you, and I will be your only salvation."
Now, Kras was fiery of temper, and the tone of the old elf angered him further, and so he called back "My life is my own, to do with as I please, and you will not decide when I die," and with that he beheaded the elf.
Having finished the deed Kras returned to the clan, with many heads, including that of the old man, and was greeted with joy by his brothers for the havoc he had wrought.
That night there was a feast hich the whole clan attended, and as per custom the captured heads were stuck upon spears outside the camp. The Druchii set upon their task and Kras set more heads than any other and won their respect, but as he pierced the head of the old elf upon the pike he was taken aback as it smiled at him. In his terror he grabbed a torch and burnt the trophy, before throwing the skull down into the depths of the sea.
However, that night Kras was awoken by the ghost, and crying out in fear and anger, asked the old elf how he could rid himself of his spirit, and the old elf replied that he knew not. Then the apparition disappeared.
These events repeated themselves the next night and the next night, until the end of the week, at which point driven to madness Kras killed himself.
Kras had died within a week, and Kras had spoken truly, only he could have ended his own life. But the ol elf had done likewise, for Kras certainly as dead within the week, and the old elf had been his saviour, for he had saved him from the pain and sorrow all Druchii endure trying to regain their homeland.

The story ended, and the shade lent back. The Druchii sat silently for a minute and pondered the story. The Shade hooded his head again and settled down as if planning to spend the night with them, but then as Tarleth rubbed against the Shade's robes, they fell in on themselves, and left behind no other trace of his passing.

[Lodark]

Some more of my army fluff, this time focusing on the Druchii behind it.

Cor’Lon smiled at his three sons from his deathbed, his eyes glazed over and dull in the flickering candlelight that lit the room. It showed no mirth, only hatred, and madness for near the end he had lost much more than his life. No longer did the great Dreadlord command legions of Malekith’s soldiers to glory or death, and no longer would he mingle with the affairs of state.
He looked pathetic now in the eyes of Ah’Lon, his 2nd son. The poison had taken a terrible toll on his body and he was only an empty husk by the end. His hands were so thin Fir reckoned he could crush them in his gauntleted hand. He wished that he had had a chance to do so in his father’s lifetime, to repay him for all that he had endured under his tyranny, but he had to think of the future.
On either side of Fir were his two brothers, Ah’Lon and Ha’Via. Ah’Lon was the eldest and the next in line to inherit his father’s estate until but a few days ago, when through an irregularity in the Lord’s funds Cor’Lon had found reason enough to take this honour from the youth. It was a great dishonour, and the reason Fir’Lon now suspected that it was his brother who had poisoned Cor’Lon.
Ah’ was a very tall elf, and unusual because he had blonde hair in contrast with his empty Druchii eyes which revealed nothing of his character. He wore more intricate armour than the other two sons and was much richer due to the money he’d swindled, but he had in the process lost a lot of friends in very high places as Cor’ had been a highly respected figure in the citadel, and one who would be sorely missed by the other members of the aristocracy. Fir’ doubted that he himself would ever have to deal with this particular brother, the hounds of the court would tear him up and leave him a bloody rag in the pens of the Nauglir before the year was up.
His other brother however, may well have seemed even less of a problem to Fir’Lon’s goals than his brother. Ha’Via was the only one of Cor’Lon’s free sons who had not been gifted the right to use the family’s second name “chief.” Legally, this meant that he could never gain access to his father’s land, soldiers or money. He was fully aware of this, and despised the fact. He may have had right to do so as well, since he was certainly the most able of the three sons to manage his father’s estate. He had proved himself early on in life to be good with numbers and the sword and seemed like a perfect candidate for the position. Why exactly his father had forever placed it out of his reach was a mystery that may well never have been solved. The most prominent rumour however, was that he was the only son who could ever best his father, and so he had had to be isolated.
Fir’Lon himself was a strategist, not a fighter. Many wondered how he had managed to rise to such esteem within the Druchii community without learning to use a sword. No one knows, but Druchii who cross him tend not to do so twice, and many find that they wake up the next morning as twisted grotesque spawns of chaos. Of course, it was out of the question that he practised magic, but Ha’Via had always maintained when questioned that “no, my brother does not practice magic. He has no need, he’s mastered it.” Fir’ was always the most liked of Cor’Lon’s sons and the most spoilt, but he was by no means complacent with that which had fallen into his lap, he was more ambitious than the sum of his two brothers. He knew others had power over him and he hated it, but now there was one less of their number.
Deep down, Fir’Lon was glad of his father’s demise, and thanked his brother silently for taking care of the “business” for him. Stupidly, Ah’Lon had given Fir’ power over him and Fir’Lon, the “Dark Chief” of the Lon clan, fully intended to exploit it. But first he had other pressing matters. Namely, the war in Ulthuan, and his father’s forces that now found themselves under his control. The war which had sent Tarleth deep into enemy lands.

c+c welcome. I hope to add to it again soon.