#gargent? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zmasters · 3 months ago

Text

A Place Without Honor

Based on these polls

Zokas silently walked the battlefield, their metal greaves sinking into the jewel-speckled mud with every step. Like many warriors of chaos, he was a tall figure, the gods' blessings granting them the strength to rip a normal man in half with no issue. They wore a black robe, dark green flame flickering across their body. A white, horned helmet covered their head, with glowing green eyes. In one hand, he carried a polearm ending in a curved blade, serving both a melee weapon and magical focus. The other hand held a silver shield, emblazoned with the mark of Tzeentch, the Chaos God of change and magic.

They paused, pushing aside a dead grot with their bladed staff. Below a few inches of mud, and other fluids, carved into the stone floor was a symbol. He sensed faint magic emitting from the rune. With a gentle touch, they saw a vision of roads long traveled. This place was once a part of the underways for the Khazalid Empire, a highway to the entrances of greater holds lost to time. This tunnel, now overgrown by moss and fungus, and crawling with beasts and lunatics, was large enough for a gargent to fit without needing to bend their head, and wide enough to fit to hold an entire host of duardin phalanx and artillery.

It was a miracle that it still stands.

“Lady Avescaati.”

“What is it, sorcerer?” A gruff voice growled back. Garbed in a brass plate, and wearing the helmet taken from a slain stormcast, came the leader of this expedition. Avescaati, stalked forward on the back of karkardrak, her reptilian mount.

“There is a secret passage to the left around twenty-seven minutes down this passage.”

“Is that where the prey is?”

“You see this rune. It’s a rune warning travelers not to go there. As well, these tunnels were amongst the first to be abandoned during the Age of Chaos. If it’s warning travelers not to go this way, then it means it’s been here for a long time. I can’t confirm it’s the target, but it’s definitely something powerful.”

“Good work. Everyone, we move!”

Avescaati’s mount scampered off down the tunnel, its claws crushing the dead grot’s skull. The remaining armored warriors followed, leaving the dead from the skirmish against the greenskins behind.

Zokas marched next to the leader of this expedition. They weren’t surprised about being press-ganged into this hunting party. A Tzeentian sorcerer is always a useful, if dangerous, asset, especially one knowledgeable in the lore of metal. But why Lady Avescaati? She bears the mark of Khorne, the Blood God. By all right, she should be killing them right now for being a coward.

“Sorcerer.” She interrupted Zokas’s internal pondering.

“Yes Lady Avescaati?”

“Tell me about yourself.”

The order nearly caused Zokas to trip. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re my sorcerer now, I want to know what I have.”

He was unsure how to answer.

“I can tell you’re confused why I recruited you.”

“You’re a Khorne follower.”

“I’m a varanguard.”

“That doesn’t answer my questi-”

A green blur screamed past the two, landing face first into the dirt around three feet behind them.

“More grots!”

“Defensive positions!”

More screaming projectiles were launched through the air. With a flick of their wrist, Zokas fired a metallic spear from their palm. The spear struck a flying grot, piercing it to the wall. A red spear, dripping with viscera, followed it, striking a second living projectile. The sorcerer tracked where the red spear came from, and saw Avescaati with a bleeding exposed palm. The wound sparked with golden electricity.

“Is that magic?” He silently questioned. “Khornate magic? I can use that.”

Speaking a prayer under her breath, Avescaati launched blood from her wound. Where the sparking droplets landed, a crimson tornado began to form. The hot liquid tore and burnt the skin of the charging squig riders, but it didn’t stop all of them.

The calvary of orange bouncing balls meet the shield wall of black steel, slobbering sharp teeth crossing with magical blades.

“Cyla! Get in here!” Avescaati roared. “Now!”

Where the squigs were attempting to clamor over the chaos warriors, burnt roots and vines began to form. Like pikes, these vines pierced through flesh, creating a twisted tree of squig flesh and blood.

Zokas watched in confused awe as from one of the branches crawled out what resembled an aelf. This aelf had ebony black skin, with dark wood twisting around its body. Brass horns sprout from a dark helmet, with a glaive and shield not too dissimilar to the sorcerer ready. But what drawn Zokas’s attention the most was her blood-red insect wings.

“Hear me sniveling fools!” The creature growled. “I am Cyla, favored daughter of the Father of Darkness, future tyrant of Ghyran, and I will show you your rightful place! Under my heel!”

“What the fuck is that?” Zokas yelled.

“She’s mine!” Avescaati yelled back in a jealous tone, joining the charge.

Zokas was quiet for a few, agonizingly long seconds, needing time to process what was just said.

“WHAT!”

The two warriors ignored the question, breaking through the line of short fanatics. Or one did and the other flew over them. Grot after grot were burnt by burning blood, electrified by lightning, and strangled by roots. A magnificent display of slaughter and violence. Avescaati jabbed her trident through the chest of a shaman, sending her eclectic blood through its tiny frame and splattering its crazed comrades in gore. Her mount slashed its way through flesh and fungi. The winged creature flew above the crowd, her glaive slashing through skulls with little challenge.

Zokas had noticed that their more violent compatriots had drawn the attention of the raving horde. The two doom diver catapults were launching more and more winged suicide bombers in their general direction, kill more grots than Avescaati and Cyla combined. He was tempted to just let this play out, as it was likely that the greentide would eventually swallow up the two. But being the sole survivor of a varanguard lead expedition would look poorly in the Everchosen’s eyes, and he was too curious about Avescaati’s lightning blood to just let her die.

He reached into their satchel, and pulled out a glass bottle filled with a light green liquid. A light toss was enough to cause the bottle to smash onto the head of one of the grots. The black robed figure was set ablaze with green fire almost instantly, the flame quickly spreading to whatever the screaming mess touched.

With a flash of red light, Avescaati vanished from the horde and reappeared right next to her sorcerer, the flying Cyla following her and landing right on her armored shoulder.

“Zokas,” the lord asked, watching the pit of fire slowly growing, “what was that?”

The mass of gibbering maws screaming from the fire was enough to answer her question, but Zokas still responded. “A captured flamer. Exalted flamer to be exact.”

“You managed to capture a Daemon of Tzeentch in a tiny bottle and weaponize it?”

“The concept’s not new.” The new member of the party interrupted. “But I like the style.”

“I’m sorry, but what are you?” Zokas asked.

“I’m Cyla.” He felt the creature’s smug grin under her horned mask.

“But what are you?”

“I’m Cyla.”

“I know, but you look like a sylvaneth, you fight like a sylvaneth, but you’re clearly not a sylvaneth. Avescaati, what the fuck is this thing?”

“I’m Cyla-”

“She’s a companion of mine.” The gruff voice of Avescaati answered from behind her stormcast helmet that Zokas no longer believes was just looted off one of their corpses. “Trust me when I say this, but she’s a very useful asset that you don't have on your bad side.”

He glanced back at the winged… thing. Despite being masked by a dark helmet, Zokas felt her glowing purple eyes glare directly into their soul. Despite carrying a shield with Khorne’s symbol on it, this thing radiated pure magic.

“What are you?” Zokas asked one more time, feeling the urge to bow before this creature echo in their mind

“I’m Cyla.” She hissed one more time.

“Come on.” Avescaati interrupted. “We’re almost there.”

Any hatred Cyla held instant vanished as she happily hopped behind the chaos lord, the remaining warriors quickly falling in line. With a huff, Zokas returned to their position at the front of the convoy. He was the map after all.

The party weaved through the tunnels, the rubble becoming more and more prominent. Signs of battles long forgotten lined the overgrown halls.

“So… Zorkas.” Cyla giggled. “Why did you join this team?”

“I was asked to.”

“No you weren’t~”

“I was threatened with death if I didn't help.”

“That’s Avescaati for ya.” She swooned.

“Are you two, like, fucking or something?”

“Ye-”

“No.” Avescaati barked.

Zorkas and Cyla continued walking in silence for a few seconds, before Cyla asked another question. “Why did Avescaati pick ya?”

“Did your cot buddy not already tell you?”

“I was busy for the past few days. Piloting a sylvaneth corpse is harder than it looks.”

“I grew up in these - wait what? Never mind.” Zokas sighed. “I grew up in these tunnels. I come from a long line of scavengers who looted these abandoned holds for generations, and I’m one of few people that were in the Eightpoints that can read these runes. You see those runes.” He said, pointing at a nearby wall, the flickering green flames on their robe lighting up a wall of carved text. “It warns that something dangerous has appeared in one of the holds, and tells you that whatever was left in the hold isn’t worth facing it.”

“Does it say what it was?”

“No. The duardin weren’t expecting to be driven out of their holds. They may have had some sort of plan to deal with it that was scrapped during the Chaos invasion. Whatever it is, your varanguard pal wants to kill it.”

“She thinks it’s a daemon, one of the first to be summoned into the Realms, back when most people didn’t know what daemons were.”

“So why does she want to kill it?” They asked.

“I’ll answer your question with a question.” Cyla grinned. “What do you know about Avescaati?”

“She’s one of the Everchosen’s varanguard, a Khorn follower, and a-”

“You think she’s a stormcast, don’t ya?”

Zokas glanced back to the lady in charge of this hunting trip. The figure who wore stormcast armor and shot lightning from her fingers. He turned back to Cyla.

“She’s not a stormcast, but she is from Azyr.” Cyla leaned into Zokas, whispering into their ear. “She is the descendant of a stormcast eternal, a Lord-Arcanum.”

“Then why is she here? If anything, she should have a very cushy life in the Realm of Heaven with her wizard ancestor.”

“She wishes she can.” Cyla whispered. “She served amongst the stormcasts mortal auxiliary, fighting alongside her ancestor in expanding Sigmar’s empire. She has seen firsthand the failings of the God-King and his zealots. She thinks that the so-called forces of order are no better than the followers of the Dark Gods. She accepts the blessing of Archaon and bears the mark of Khorne because it offers her true goal. To kill a god.”

“Wanting to kill Sigmar isn’t unique to her. Why tell me this?” Zokas asked. “And what does it have to do with me and this expedition?”

“Because the true goal of the Swords of Chaos matches your goal as well as mine. To ascend above the very Gods themselves. No longer slaves to darkness, but the masters. Though your desire takes a slightly different method than Avescaati’s plan to stab a deity until it dies.”

Zokas clutched their satchel. He has to admit, runic magic is very effective in dampening the strength of daemons and other magical beings. While the thought has crossed their mind in the past, this has not gone farther than bending a lord of change or a daemon prince to their will. But to truly rule over the gods themselves, is that even possible? “And what of you?” He asked. “What do you get out of this?”

“I have a very simple philosophy.” Cyla giggled, her mask covering her wide grin. “Everyone has their place, the master or the slave. You and I are slaves, albeit to different masters. If you can over power your master and rise above them, then you are the master. If you can’t, then you are the slave. Tell me Zokas, are you the master of the slave?”

“What are you?”

“Someone who thought themselves to be a tyrant, but my true tyrant has shown me the truth. The Father of Darkness will happily rule over you too, as long as you kneel. And if you or I prove to be his better, then he will kneel without question.”

“Halt.” Avescaati ordered. “We’re near the prey.”

One of the black iron armored warriors approached the front of the group, handing Cyla a lantern. Using her blood red wings, she flew into the air, the lantern lighting up the statue that stood in front of them.

Towering over the party was a statue of a duardin, its eyes closed and mouth covered. Its hands were held up, with what resembled bones and broken weapons and armor filling each palm.

Zokas approached the base of the statue, using the faint light from the lantern and their own flames to read the plaque on it. The plaque is marked in multiple languages, though he could only read Khazalid and recognize one other language being Azyrite.

It also appeared to be hastily written, with some of the runes having either faded away or seemed to have been scratched off, but enough remained that he could decipher a message.

“This place is not a place of honor... no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here... nothing of value is here. What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us. The danger is to the body, and it can kill. The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb this place physically. This place is best shunned and left uninhabited.”

“Khazalid, Azyrite, Aelven, Goroan, Gargent, even Sylvaneth and Ogor runes.” Cyla pondered as she landed.

Avescaati smiled, red sparks filling the hollow eyes of her masked helmet. “We’re close.”

Cyla returned to her partner’s side. “Avescaati, I think we should set up a base camp.”

“No, we can’t let this beast catch us off guard! Split off into teams, find the prey! Yell if you find it, my mount will hurry to the challenge. Go!”

The warriors scattered across the abandoned hold, search teams being created by complete accident. Zokas found themselves wandering down a hallway with Cyla, the two following an ogor of a man wearing rusty looking armor. His name was Torglik, chosen of Nurgle.

The three walked down the stone hallway, scanning for anything that can be described as a “daemon.”

“Zokas.”

“Cyla.”

“How’d you get those flames?”

“Alchemy accident. How’d you get your soul into a tree?”

“We, uh, died. I’m borrowing it.”

“Do you plan to give it back?”

“When I find somewhere to put the lamentiri I got in me.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a seed, that helps sylvaneth-”

A cough from Torglik interrupted the conversation. While that isn’t unique to a follower of the plague god, there was something else that caused Zokas and Cyla to freeze.

The two more magically inclined felt a sudden sense of dread fill them, all while Torglik continued to walk and cough. Something was telling them not to walk further, and Torglik collapsing to his knees only fueled their fears.

Blood dripped from his helmet with each cough, his hands clawing at his chest in an attempt to clear a pathway for air. He eventually passed, drowning in his own blood.

After recollecting the rest of the expedition, and trying to send two more warriors down the hall, the group was able to figure out where the aura is.

This hallway was completely separate from the rest of the hold, with the rest of the tunnels and halls leading in the opposite direction. This tunnel, which was made with thicker stones than other hallways, was the farthest away from the core of the hold, as if it was the last thing its old inhabitants had tunneled out.

“What’s the plan, Lady Avescaati?” Zokas asked, looking down at the three corpses that laid ahead of them.

“What is this sorcery?” She growled, a pair of hollow eyes staring into the dark hallway.

“It’s most likely death magic of some kind.”

“How do I explain this to them?” Cyla sighed, leaning in the doorway to this hallway. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“The Everchosen sent me to kill this daemon, I will not fail him!”

“Then you run into the murder hole.” Zokas said as he walked back out of the tunnel. “I am not going to hunt something that I can’t see.”

“And the Everchosen never said there was a daemon in here.” Cyla added. “All he said was there was something down here that caused the duardin to abandon this place.”

“This beast has no honor!” Avescaati roared. “Meet me in battle daemon! Face me and face oblivion!”

Raving and raging, she charged down the hallway. Avescaati felt her skin burn as she ran, but her rage forced her to ignore any pain. Blood filled her mouth as her vision faded.

“Blood… Skulls… for… Archa…”

Avescaati collapsed on the floor at the corner of the hallway, the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was what resembled a melted pillar of stone which glowed slightly in the dark.

Zokas sat outside of the hold, their only companion being the good lady’s scaly karkardrak.

“How ya feeling boss?” Cyla greeted as she joined the sorcerer.

“A little ill, but I’ll make it. How’s the rest of the party?”

Cyla took a seat next to Zokas. “No one has the balls to recover Avescaati’s body, so I can only assume she’s dead.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

She laughed a little before responding. “There’s no need to lie about your grief, you didn’t give a shit about the baby-eternal.”

“Didn’t you give a shit about her?

“I tolerated her. I fucked her because she was one of Archaon’s top dogs who was desperate to be his second.”

Zokas glared at her. “What the fuck are you?”

“I’m a backstabbing daughter of a whore who’s trying to put myself at the top of the tower to fuel my lust for power, and I plan to do that by backpacking on some easily manipulable sod until I can puppet them into a position of power and I can swipe everything from under their nose.”

“Ah.”

The two sat in silence, absentmindedly petting the karkardrak as the sounds of metal clashing in the background.

“What’s happening in there?” Zokas asked, breaking the silence.

“The others are fighting to see who takes command of this warband.”

“Fair enough. Daemon or not, the throne to a massive horde of wealth sits unclaimed.”

“Yeah.”

The two continued to pet the beast.

“Cyla, I saw we destroy the entrance and let these morons rot.”

“I like your thinking. And you know what Zokas, you have Avescaati’s body type.”

“What do you mean?”

“Buff, tall, big tits, the karkardrak likes ya. Just need the armor of a stormcast and no one could tell the difference.”

“I’m not a Khornate. Or can control lightning through my blood.”

“We can work on that. There’s a lot of blood being spilled in there, and I dabble in daemon summoning.” Cyla’s eyes met Zokas’s.

“Let’s summon a bloodthirster.”

“I was going to say bloodletter, but I like someone with massive balls.”

The two hands met in a handshake. Two tricksters without honor, in a place without honor.

“I am so going to betray you later.”

“You stole the words right out of my mouth.”

“And what of the aura of death.”

“Let me explain to you how radiation works. A metal mage like you can probably work with it.”

To be continued…

#warhammer #warhammer oc #warhammer fanfic #short story #warhammer chaos #creative writing #warhammer age of sigmar #wh aos #age of sigmar #age of sigmar oc

1 note · View note