Long Time no see, Progress Journal!
With the profiles of Undead Scourge and Undead Legion now completed (even if progress is taking its sweet time) and with Christmas Break now officially beginning, I will now hopefully have more time to work on this project . So, thus, I am listing out my tentative goals for Christmas Break.
-Finish Crusader Era Levant profile
-Further add to WC Alliance profile and start tentative notes on the Horde
-Edit Chaos profile with quotes, read more books
-Read All Nova, of Starcraft, Sources.
-Finish as much of the UL vs. US battle as possible, with idealized goal of writing it all, and semi-realistic goal of going up to Part 3.
-Eventually, start exhaustive process of going over ESO lore.
-Probably help a certain someone work on Skaven profile, as I am also a fan of them. Help with elves when needed.
So Far I have
-Completely beaten 2/5 Alliance WOD zones, adding notes
-Am 9k words in UL vs. US battle, finished part 1
Preview for today:
3 days later, in the
interior of a floating black pyramid, Saharan Desert
It was an army that much was clear.
From his view, high in the sky, the army stretched from horizon to horizon,
entirely encircling a native walled settlement. To the observer’s eyes there
appeared to be no rhyme or reason to horde below, and various shapes, creatures
and more were interspersed haphazardly throughout the force. Many were familiar
to him, if warped in style; he recognized a mass of well-armored skeletons,
cadaverous ghouls, multitudes of milling zombies and hovering ghosts.
Others were strange and exotic.
Intermixed periodically in the disorganized horde were creatures that looked
like they had been sewed together from the dismembered remains of a dozen men.
They looked like something that could have only been conceived in the demented
minds of W’orsan’s brood, with arms, legs and even heads all seemingly randomly
attached to a single, massively bloated mass, all affixed with an assortment of
giant knives. However if they looked demented,
the fleshy colossi that towered above them looked even more so. Though
fortunately rare in number, only in the Chaos Wastes could one find a more
mutated creature.
Long fingers – scholar’s
fingers – stroked the murky surface of the blood that filled the ancient
bronze bowl before him, causing the vision to fade and reappear anew. For
another moment at least he could lose himself once more in the scenes before
him. For one moment more he may yet be able to forget about the monster that
was always in the back of his mind. A monster that was as much of his own
creation as he was of its.
The scene centered on the walls,
and for a moment the scholar’s eyebrow raised. At first glance it appeared
similar to what might expect to see when a Vampire army marches, but as his
keen eyes focused he could pick out details that turned the scene from familiar
to alien. The bats of this force, for example, were not bats at all but rather
giant spiders insects! Or, more specifically, giant flying spiders. As he
focused on them these spiders swooped down, stabbing at men with talon-claws
and long pincer-fangs. Several in view
fell, their throats pierced by the talons or else succumbing to what was
presumably fast acting poison. Others were able to adapt quickly and form a
wall of points to skewer the creatures as they fell. Yet the flying spiders
were not without tricks themselves, and as he watched a few of them hacked up
poison or, in an event that raised the observer’s eyebrow, a fireball.
Other inhabitants joined in. A
felbat made of stone darted in and in a single vicious blow wrenched the head
from the guard captain. Before the rest of the company could react the felbat
picked his cowering attendant up and hurled him bodily from the walls. Before
it could grab a third twelve crossbowmen from across the wall took aim and
fired. The scryer fully expected it to be shot down but, to his surprise, it
suddenly straightened and fell. Before his eyes skin hardened and turned to
stone. Bolts clattered harmlessly against it, leaving the shooters gazing at it
in a mixture of puzzlement and horror.
A new picture formed, this one
centered on the skies. At this sight
eyebrows raised and the scryer’s mouth even went slightly agape. Filling the
skies before him were not only flying spiders and mysterious stone-bats but
more dragons then he had ever seen. Some of the smaller ones were clearly alive
and ridden by exceptionally tall humans while other, larger, wyrms left no
illusion to their fate. These enormous skeletal creatures were in numbers
unseen by the scryer since the time of Vanhal, and even that great Necromancer
may have been surpassed here.One of his loathsome companions repeated the fact
out loud. Dwarfing this all was a giant
stone fortress, large enough to house fifty such dragons with room yet to
spare. How it flew the observer could not fathom, and was still pondering the
question when the scene switched yet again, this time showing the settlement
courtyards.
Even as
men were racing reinforcements and supplies up to the beleaguered defenders on
the wall, the earth itself quaked and shook. In some places it sunk as a scene
seen already in Dozens of Tilean and Estalian cities replayed itself once more.
In one area, a runner sank up into his knees into the ground. Even as he
righted himself and attempted to climb out, something grabbed him below. A
moment later the runner screamed out in utter pain and horror as blood burst up
from the hole. In desperation his friends reached down and pulled him out, only
to recoil in panic. The runner’s legs were completely covered in a carpet of
flesh-eating insects that left nothing of the leg visible. Only the crunching,
flesh tearing buzzing and fading screams left a clue to the fate underneath.
Then, as if on command, they retreated back into the hole, leaving only ribbons
of flesh below the waist . The runner took one look at his wound and promptly
passed out, with luck never to awaken.
Even as
the man expired creatures out of some primordial time swarmed out of the
tunnel. Unlike their flying kin these were a mix of spider and man, if man and
spider were bred to create something truly abominable, like how Chaos mutated
horse and man to create the bestial Centigor, or a melding of all the worse
qualities of man and rat to create the tunneling Skaven. These, “Spiderkin”,
brought along with them massive swarms of beetles, scarabs, locusts, and other
flesh eating insects, along with dwarf spiderlings that darted between their
legs. Men shrieked in pain as enemies
too numerous to fight with mundane swords swarmed over them like a giant wave.
Others tried to flee, only to be trapped or crushed in place as some Spiderkin
turned around and shot sticky webs out of their thorax, immobilizing them.
Fight or Flight, in moments the outcome was the same. As the horde moved on, a
tall Spiderkin, presumably a leader, paused. After a muttered incarnation the
fleshless skeletons rose once more, joined now by more undead from the overrun
walls. The scryer would have preferred to watch a little while longer however
the monster in his mind- and at his back- hurriedly beckoned him on. He sighed,
but reluctantly realized that the voice was right, as the images decreased in
clarity.
Now the
vision focused on a building located in the interior of the city, a crude
hospital by the looks of it. Dozens of soldiers lay miserable in their cots,
covered in strange boils that leaked pus and blood. Quite a few of them had already expired and
now lay half-covered in sheets, having bled every pustule and orifice. For a
moment, the scryer suspected the Plaguefather’s involvement yet even as he
pondered, some of the bodies began to twitch. One surgical assistant, perhaps
believing these men were still alive, rushed to provide whatever medical aid he
could. With a growl and surprising dexterity two of these men leaped from their
beds and tackled the man to the ground. His screams swiftly turned to gurgles as
the two zombies ripped out his throat. Around them other bodies began to rise
and stalked the halls of the hospital, ignoring the mortally ill but preying on
hapless medical staff. From outside the bowl one of his companions laughed and
chuckled to himself.
As the
scene changed a final time the scryer once again cursed his recent fortune. In
just a year he had gone being Lord of the most powerful realm in the Old World
to a lowly lieutenant of unworthy tyrant. The Scryer cursed them, cursed the
one that had been his ally in the endeavor, cursed the rest of his cade of lieutenants and in my particular his two
sires, the Queen of Mysteries and the arrogant “Elector” of his realm. To the
scryer, or, as the man insisted on referring to himself, Mannfred von Carstein,
it seemed like the entire world conspired to thwart him. Perhaps, had there
been time for passions to fade, he might have conceded the possibility that his
own overwhelming hubris, sense of entitlement and ambition were the greatestfactors
in his current predicament.
The
image was blurry, a sign of the blood ritual wearing off. What appeared before
him was man, or possibly an animated suit of armor. As the man walked ice
seemed to collect and spread around him, along with some other energy that
sucked the life from the vegetation. Such was the potency of the ice that, for
a moment, Mannfred wondered why the
scrying pool had centered him in the Chaos Wastes. Then the man turned,
revealing both a sliver of exposed face- enough to identify the species, and
deep, glowing blue eyes. For a moment the man seemed to stare straight at the
scryer. Mannfred shook his head and snapped at one of the voices at his back.
Such a feat was impossible, he assured them, and none could pierce the veil
behind the wards.
Turning
back to the pool Mannfred could have sworn the man smiled briefly before
turning towards the wall just ahead of him. The image continued to blur and
grew darker, but to a creature capable of night vision such as himself it was
still perfect visible. The man walked slowly but deliberately towards the wall
and, upon getting within two meters of it, pulled out an ornately crafted
sword. It was clear even to a peasant that this weapon was unnatural, and, as
runes glowed bright blue, of great power. The man thrust it into a hereheto
unbroken piece of wall.
In all
directions ice raced through the stone, and following it was a peculiar form of
decay that seemed to eat away at the building underneath. Those at the ramparts
stumbled and slid off the icy surface , with some falling on their faces and
other, less fortunate ones, falling off the wall. Or perhaps more fortunate, as
a moment later those that fell to their faces turned into giant ice blocks
themselves. Down at the bottom of the wall, the swordsmen pulled his weapon
from the walls, and with a lazy gesture, shattered it. In a loud crash the ice
blew apart in all directions, with some on both sides of it being skewered by
large icicles. Those on the human side screamed and wailed, while those on the
undead side merely accepted it stoically or, depending on where it hit, fell
silently to the ground.
The man
turned once more, and this time Mannfred felt a glare upon his very soul. A
telepathic voice, as cold as an arctic winter, reverberated in his mind and,
from the looks of the others, everyone else in that room.
This wretched world
will burn and remade in my image. Let
none deny the True Master of the
Undeath!
The bowl shattered, sending droplets of blood
everywhere. Mannfred brought his hand to his face to wipe the blood off- and
then licked it for good measure. Needs must, as Neferata was fond of saying.
