[IC] Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

[POOHEAD189]

As the Count and his remaining Captains hashed out the details and inked the routes the enemy would most likely take, Cyrdic couldn't help but grin at Camilla outfoxing these learned, military men. The Count was not too surprised, having heard of both of Cyrdic and Camilla's exploits, but the lesser commanders and sergeants looked at her as if she was a halfling that had just refused a free lunch. However, Cyrdic's mirth would soon be gone.

"Herr Cyrdic?" The Count asked, imploring the scarred young veteran to speak.

"We cannot assume they'll act solely as a normal enemy. There will be plenty of Norscans, and as tough as they are, they're men." Cyrdic declared. " and they'll move as we predict. But they could have allies of the dark powers. We'll need sentries and huntsmen along the routes to warn us of any mutants or unpredictable witchery."

The Mercenary officers took it to heart, and the surviving commanders of the last ill fated expedition nodded, having seen such horrors first hand. Only the Count seemed unperturbed. "Agreed."

Count Gausser dismissed his officers, closing the map and telling his men to wait outside before he approached Camilla and Cyrdic. He wasn't the largest man, but he was stoutly built, and he nearly rivaled Cyrdic in height. He studied Camilla past his golden eyebrows, taking her measure with a steeled gaze. "I suppose you have it in mind to go onto the expedition to flank and burn the ships, ay?" He asked her.

"Assolutamente," she said.

"Granted." He said, and turned to Cyrdic. The Count had the look of a hard man, much like Boris Todbringer. Their Ulrican faith not withstanding, Cyrdic could see why Middeland and Nordland had always had such close ties. "You've quite the woman, soldier. Now, I'll show you to your column tomorrow so you can get acquainted with them before we move."

Cyrdic narrowed his gaze, confused. "Sir?" He asked.

"Sir what?"

"You just...told us we were to go to the ships. I'm leading the expedition?"

"No, I told the lady here she was to go to the ships. You're staying here and leading a column of the line. I need good commanders, and if the stories are true, you'll do."

Cyrdic shook his head, giving Gausser a look he never would have thought he'd have the inclination or balls to do so back when he was an Ostland Sergeant. "With all due respect sir, but I go with Camilla."

"No," Theodric Gausser said. His voice dropped like an anvil, sealing Cyrdic's fate and his role in the army. "And that's final. As long as you're in my outfit, you follow my orders or I'll hang you. I don't give a damn who you are. Understand?" If this were any other man, Cyrdic would simply refuse again. Both Ostlanders and Nordlanders were known for their stubborn ways. Probably to Camilla's eyes, it looked like a stern father and fierce son at odds. But after a moment, without breaking his gaze, Cyrdic simply asked. "When do we move out, sir?"

"Tomorrow." The Count replied, and then his glanced Camilla's way for a moment. "I've a tent prepared for you both. Get a meal and get some rest. After breakfast tomorrow, we break camp and head north." Once he felt his words had hit home, the Count awaited Cyrdic's salute. He gave it, and the Count left them to retire within his own tent.

When they were alone, Cyrdic was silent for a few moments. He didn't want to appear overly protective or overly clingy, but not having her by his side...he'd feel naked. He'd worry more about her than the battle at hand. At least tomorrow he would have time to tell her how to deal with Norscans, but...

Cyrdic didn't meet her gaze initially. Instead he reached for his mother's necklace. The one he'd given to her. "Keep this safe, remember?" he asked her. His iron eyes lifted to look into hers.
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. The steam of her breath in the frozen winter air would have given her away regardless. The horses plodded along through the icy morning, snow crunching beneath each hoof fall as they headed north under the glowering sky. Ivan Petrovich rode beside her, mounted on a stallion that his hulking size made look like a pony. The Kislivite chuckled as he took a flask from his belt and swigged.

“Not much sleep?” the big man rumbled with a pie eyed innocence which fooled no one. Camilla snorted at the poorly concealed jibe.

“I don’t know how long it will be before I see him again,” she pointed out reasonably. There was no need to clarify who ‘he’ was to an old comrade like Ivan.

“You could at least try to be a lytal qwuiet abou dit. We worry it might start a ri-ot,” the Kislivite went on. Ivan’s three companions chuckled at the quip and several of the close by Imperials laughed nervously also. Ivan and his men were a good deal more rough and tumble than most of the Imperials, even if the force accompanying Camilla was largely mercenaries.

“I WAS trying to be quiet about it Ivan Petrovich,” she said with a wicked smile. The Kislivite’s roared with laughter that startled ravens from the nearby trees. Camilla had bidden farewell to Cydric in the early hours of the morning, with the stern admission that if he got himself killed she would kill him. She didn’t pretend to be pleased about being separated, both from fear of what might happen in the battles to come and from a less articulate fear that Cydric might ultimately be happier in the respectable service of the Count. Such a life might not have room for a disreputable sellsword such as herself.

They rode at a steady trot, abandoning the road for less defined paths through the ice crusted woodland. Camilla never saw Ivan look at a map, but the veteran scout never showed a moment's hesitation in choosing this fork or that. Camilla wondered where the beastmen who usually haunted the Empire’s forests were. Perhaps they traveled southwards like birds, or perhaps they had their own villages in the dark secret places. Worse yet was the notion that something had drawn them off, and they were gathering in a horde bent on slaughter and destruction.

Ivan claimed it would take them two days to reach the high bluffs above Windbighter’s Bay. The Count’s force, larger but moving along better roads would reach Krondstat in a day and a half. There was no way to judge how long the Norscan’s would take to respond. Camilla was keenly aware that if the plan failed, she would be the woman who led a Count into disaster. Worse yet Cydric might be killed. Success had a thousand fathers, but failure a single author.

“You drink da?” Ivan said pressing a flask into her hands.

“It isn’t vodka is it?” she asked suspiciously, sniffing at the flask. Ivan made a disgusted noise.

“Vat is vrong vith vodka,” he asked defensively, it was an unfortunate sentence with his accent but it was probably on par with Cydric’s attempts at Tileian. Pride did not allow her to admit that her Reikspiel might be equally questionable.

“Last time I drank it we wound up lost a sea as I remember it,” she replied. Ivan threw up his hands in exasperation.

“It vas just da wan time!”
@POOHEAD189

[POOHEAD189]

The north wind howled through the ranks as the army marched. The forests of Nordland were known for being utterly claustrophobic with how dense they were. Every so often he would see a bit of movement to the flanks, though it wasn't cause for alarm. The army's woodsmen and scouts were known for their skill, very useful in harrassing chaos incursions before they met with the stubborn Nordland field armies.

Cyrdic had some horse hide wrapped around his neck, something most of the men used to stave off the cold. In this soldier's case, it was to hide the love marks Camilla had given him the previous night. He usually wouldn't mind people seeing them. But to have the men under him jealous of their commander was not good leadership. It was why he led his horse along rather than rode, preferring to march with his column. Of course the Count rode his Griffon, but that was a different matter. They expected him to be a larger than life commander. Cyrdic was unknown to these men. Many of them were mercenaries, and some of the Nordlanders that followed him saw his Norscan shield and knew he was a veteran.

Idly he reached up and fix his makeshift scarf. Hid mind drifted to Camilla, mostly because this was the first time he'd been without her for months. Whenever he and his companion had the chance to relax for a night, she always gave him that impish smile the next morning. This morning was replaced with her threatening him if he didn't come back alive, and him giving her a crash course in Norscan battle tactics. She had faced her fair share of Chaos spawn and dangers, but after two campaigns fighting them, Cyrdic knew they couldn't be underestimate. They were as ferocious as Greenskins, and many of them had mutations that made them far swifter or hardier than a normal man. He gave her particular warnings of the skinwalkers, the bastard brethren of the children of Ulric, only instead they transformed into great Lupin beasts from their taint of Chaos. The Hellhounds, skinless beasts that could only be truly hurt by magic weapons. And with this large of an attack, he feared they would have war mammoths and shamans to summon Daemons.

He felt the hilt of his Sword of Ulric, a small reassurance. Cyrdic was not impressed with their army, even if most of the men in it were veterans. They simply did not have the numbers to halt the force Count Gausser had described. The Ostlander commanded a paltry force himself. Some thirty halberdiers and spearman, who's leader was Lance Ulfson, along with a score of swordsmen, and 10 handgunners under a sergeant named Johhan Wilhelm. He had to admit he was glad for the dozen Greatswords under his command. They weren't as famous as Middenland Greatswords, but they were still the most superb fighters in Nordland.

"So, did you really kill your own Baron?"

Cyrdic turned to see Lance Ulfson catching up to him. A striking man with a scar that clefted his chin. It left a parting in his greying facial hair. Cyrdic raised an eyebrow. "Does that give you ideas?"

The man laughed. "You just don't seem the type."

"I did not kill him. But I beat him."

"You lived the dream."

Cyrdic laughed, and couldn't help but feel a sense camraderie. "Yeah, I just had to break the law and survive ratment, chaos spawn, and a Dragon. But it was worth it."

Lance's joking manner died and his face turned to confusion and even shock. "W-what?"

The Ostlander blinked, catching himself. "Nothing. I was just joking with you." He said, clapping Lance on the shoulder. "There's no ratment."

"Cyrdic Becker, as I live and breathe!" yelled a voice that sounded like stone grinding. It sounded suspiciously similar to Cyrdic. Then again, he'd not known many Dwarfs in his life. When the mercenary turned, he saw the last person he expected to see north of the Middle Mountains. It was Skaldi Forgehammer, the Dwarf soldier and cook from the Imperial Pride what seemed a lifetime ago.

"Skaldi!?" Cyrdic declared in disbelief, grinning feircly. The Dwarf approached him as swiftly as his stout legs could, and they clasped arms. Despite his short height, Skaldi's arm matched Cyrdic's in strength. Dwarfs had a very odd way about their physiology. They were thickly muscled and stout, and yet somehow they had an innate strength and weight that surpassed expectations.

They pulled back from a quick hug. "I heard ye were here, lad."

"What are you doing here? You cooking for the Count?"

"Ha! I never stop cooking, manling! But I'm a hired axe for the expedition. Where's the lass? Heard she was here."

"She's with the vanguard. She's far safer than we are," Cyrdic said, trying to convince himself.
@POOHEAD189

[Penny]

Araby, Camila thought, or maybe the new lands across the see that the Tilean’s claimed to have discovered. Any place that had never heard of an accursed snow flake seemed fine to her at this particular moment. She as picking her way up the snowy bluff, stumbling and slipping with each few feet on the ice sicked rock. Above them from the top of the bluff she could see the storm of sleet being blown in by the Sea of Claws. It was a mad season to make war, but these were mad times.

The weather had turned foul the afternoon of the second day and even with such a small force progress was slow and painful. There were only thirty of them but they were all veterans whom Ivan had selected personally as much for their stealth and wood craft as for their abillity with weapons. Three of the group were sallow faced hunters from Hochland and each of them carried a long rifle. The weapons were nearly as long as Camilla was tall and each had the look of a hand crafted piece, lovingly maintained by generations.

The Tilean herself was the most out of place in the company having no particular knack for the outdoors, but she was small and quick and smart enough to follow the lead of Ivan Petrovich and his band of hand picked killers. She was glad of the trio of Kislivites. Only one of the men was from the Count’s force, the rest being made up of mercenaries and she didn’t doubt that their uses for her without Petrovich’s backing would be few and predictable.

At Ivan’s suggestion they had picketed the horses a half mile south of their objective in a small sheltered ravine. With the air of a man who was an unquestioned authority on the subject, he explained that horses were easily spooked by Norscan’s and their strange magics. Camilla couldn't help but sympathise with the beasts on that point.

With a groan she heaved herself the last few feet onto the top of the bluff, feeling the cold cut into her as she lost the shielding that the rock had provided from the insidious wind. It was already darkening though not long after noon, the northern days were short at this time of year, but the vista of Windbitters bay was nonetheless impressive.

The two arms of the by rose into steep rocky bluffs that jutted out into the sea forming a natural harbor. The gray choppy waters still roiled in uneasy white caps, but without the titanic violence of the ocean beyond. The bluffs were topped with unhealthy looking bushes and low stunted trees which clutched at the rock with grim determination. A rind of ice clutchd at the rocks in the bay but these grew less frequent as one came to the center where a long beach of gray gravel and broken shale spread like a stain. It as a long way from the sandy beaches she knew from costal Tilea. As yet the bay was empty, no forrest of masts or hell-sworn reavers had arisen. It as too early to expect it, it might take days for the Norscan’s to learn that the Duke had taken his force to Kronstat and sail to this forlorn landing spot.

Instinctively Camilla cast an eye eastward towards the Town, she didn’t know what she expectd to see, it was over a days march from here, but as it happend the darkness and poor weather obscured anything more than a mile or so distant. SHe clapped Ivan on the shoulder and began securing a rope to a large boulder.

“Set two men to watch, we will camp in the ravine below, no fires but at least we will be out of the wind.”

[POOHEAD189]

The longboats slipped into the waterway as silent as death. The brutish crews were masters of sailing, having spent half their lives traversing the waves and taming the seas as their own. Even their landing gave the barest hint of scraping along the sand to announce their arrival, and off the first boat stepped a monster of a man. A hulking Norscan brute, a full head taller than any of the other warriors, with a musculature that looked cut and carved from granite. He was bare chested, immune to the bite of the harsh winter, and in his hands were dual broad-bladed swords. Upon his shoulders were spikes protruding from them, and his eyes were yellow. Ulkjar the Terrible, Manslayer and Beastkiller felt the soft sand beneath him. Even the land itself was weak and easily cowed. No mortal weapon had killed him yet, and after he had devoured the corpse of the Frost Troll, he healed as they did. The Norscan had not been south in many years. He looked forward to drinking the blood of Nordlander men.

Next off the boat was a rather diminutive figure, hidden within a dark cloak, save for his red eyes and a gnarled hand that reached out to grip a staff of Oak, at its top was the perpetually frozen eye of a Chaos giant. Sarhashis hissed like a snake, his every breath a sinister whisper of ancient curses beyond knowledge or reckoning. Truthfully, he hated Ulkjar and all of his kin. But the Lord of Changes had led him to this one. Ulkjar was to be the herald for the end of days, and Sarhashis would see it through. They had already sacrificed two hundred Nordlander captives from the last incursion not a week before, a gift from the vanguard force.

The Daemon Prince of Khorne had promised victory and blood. It was all Ulkjar had needed to hear.

---

Cyrdic chipped the small block of wood with his hunting knife, methodically cutting at its edges as he carved. Beside him, Skaldi was proving he could name over two hundred names for Gold in Khazalid like he did the last time he was in Karak Kadrin. So far he hadn't faltered. He was on his one hundred and sixteenth. Beside the two of them were the officers and higher ranking sergeants of Cyrdic's and the Count's columns. The other two columns, headed by Heinrich von Lebowitz, and Harald the Stout-Arm were east of them.

Cyrdic had rested earlier, but he found he couldn't sleep. His dreams were vivid and filled with untold fears. He didn't know if it was the battle ahead, the fact Camilla was out in the wilderness without his protection, or the Chaos taint he could smell in the air. The past few weeks, the dreaded moon Morrslieb had grown larger every night. Even with the firelight dancing upon them, the sickly green glow of the moon filtered in.

He tried not to think of it. He simply wanted to finish the Dove he was carving. He was hoping to give it to Camilla once this campaign was over, and he thought that Ivan would appreciate the symbolism. The scarred soldier had not carved in years, but he used to before he joined the baron's service in Ostland. He remembered the day his father taught him how to hold the knife to better utilize his technique. He wondered if the old man was still alive.

"Oi, are you even listening?" Skaldi asked the mercenary.

"I'm trying not to," Johan of the Handgunner's said. Cyrdic snorted a small laugh, and then placed the half finished carving down and patted Skaldi on his too-broad shoulders to keep the Dwarf from challenging the man. Truthfully, the entire crew that sat with them were thankful Skaldi was here. That had been the best meal they had all had in weeks. "Of course." Cyrdic said. "How many is that now?"

"Oh, ye've not heard the half of it manling!" Skaldi boasted, grinning. His teeth were a splatter of yellow and white that gleamed out of his thick, brown beard. "But at my count, about a hundred and twenty five."

The men raised their mugs in cheer and grunted, pretending to care so they could humor the Dwarf. He didn't seem to notice their lack of enthusiasm and was just about to continue when Cyrdic placed a hand on him to stop him, telling him to be quiet for a moment. Skaldi was about to protest, but he heard it too a moment later. The other men were considerably confused, and they only saw the scout enter the small clearing only a moment before he emerged from the bushes.

He had a bloodied scalp and he breathed heavily, but the huntsman was very much alive. He stumbled and hit a log, catching himself. Cyrdic helped the man up, taking in his wild eyed gaze. "What? What is it?"

"They've landed." the man breathed, and he hacked into the snow. The white was suddenly flecked with a deep red. "Chaos hounds are on their way. Now!"
@Penny

[Penny]

The fires were burning wrong. Camilla lay amidst the brush watching the norscan encampment. Fifty great ships were pulled up onto the beach, their prows carved like snarling daemons who seemed to snap and hiss in the wavering fire light. Over a thousand Norscan’s had headed inland within minutes of landing, straggling off in partis of fifty or a hundred led by their black armored champions. The sight of them filled her with fear. The count had gone to Krondstat on her advice, if he and worse yet Cydric were overun by the tide of northerners she would never forgive herself.

What was wrong with the fires? The color was wrong, pale whites and purples, reds to vivid for the piles of driftwood she had watched them build. It was mesmerizing and sickening in equal measure but somehow she couldn’t pull her eyes away. The Norscan’s hadn’t left the ships undefended, there were over a hundred of the burly warriors left and a pair of the black armored warriors. That pair paced back and forth without pause, ceaselessly glaring eastwards after their fellows. Perhaps they felt cheated of the slaughter they felt certain to follow.

Camilla wanted to rush down on the encampment now. Each minute she waited only made her worry more about Cydric. Her hand unconsciously strayed to the necklace he had given her, willing him to be ok. If she struck now she would be early but there would be less chance of him being killed defending the town. She cursed the count for demanding they seperate and herself for agreeing to lead this group.

“What have we here,” ground a voice which was equal parts the squelching of mud and the purring of cats. A hand grabbed her by the tunic and hauled her into the air. Terror flooded through the courtesan like ice water and she grabbed for her weapons belt. The massive Norscan slapped her hand away like a child and yanked the weapons belt free with a jerk that bruised Camilla’s hips. The Norscan was bigger than Ivan with protruding brow ridges and a nose that had been broken many times. His eyes seemed to wide and luminous and each was nearly the size of tea cups. Arcane designs were inked onto much of his skin swirling unpleasantly as she watched them. In desperation she pulled a knife from her boot and plunged it to the hilt into the giants bicep. The giant gave a bark of harsh laughter and then the world went dark.

@POOHEAD189

[POOHEAD189]

Cyrdic's runic sword cut across the skinless beast's collarbone, causing it to howl and crash into the ground. With a fluid reverse he stabbed through the Chaos hellhound's chest and into the blood soaked earth, killing the last of the enemy's scouts. Behind him, over half of the Count's officers were slain. Johan's throat had been torn out, and Lance's entrails were strewn across the snow, his dead eyes staring into the approaching dawn. They had tried to fight, but the hounds had been supernaturally quick and lithe, and the men's bullets and swords had simply been repelled by the magics of the Hellhound's skinless hides. Only Cyrdic and Skaldi (who's axe must have had Dwarfish runes) among this group had managed to slay them. Luckily, such monstrous scouts were extremely rare.

The Ostlander needed to rouse the full brunt of the army. The trees and the distant mountains still obscured the rising sun, but Cyrdic knew Norscan movements. They came just before dawn, when soldiers were rousing.
"Damn them to hell!" Cyrdic heard in the distance. The Count roared as fiercely as any troll, and past a few copse of trees, Cyrdic saw him mount his fearless Griffon steed, his runefang glowing. "Get the troops moving! We must fight them in the town, Urlic willing."

Skaldi ripped his axe out of a Chaos hellhound and spat on its corpse, the ichor of its blood acidic by nature and eating into the ground wherever a drop hit the snow. "Foul Varfdum!" he cursed in Khazalid, and kicked it for good measure. "Interrupting my gold stories!"

It took close to an hour before the word filtered through the camp that only Cyrdic, the Count Gaussar, and Harald Stout-arm were the only leadership left alive in the ramshackle Imperial forces. Cyrdic called the Greatswords to him as the army began to move, telling them the battle plans he hastily made, instinctual tactics he surmised based on an almost imperceptible intuition only borne out of experience. He already knew the landscape before them. He simply didn't know when they would get there to fight the Norscan army.

The Count did a forced march, moving them out without breakfast and barely enough time to rouse and re-equip. It was by Sigmar's grace they happened to have a force that was experienced enough to don their arms and armor quickly, and within minutes the cavalry sallied forth out of the woods as fast as they could in the deep snow to scout out the enemy's movements. It was not needed... It was just after half of the main force of infantry emerged from the woods that the Norscans revealed themselves.

Krondstat was already in flames, and the barbarous warriors were hacking apart whatever townsfolk remained. Even as Cyrdic watched from the southern column, a screaming woman was thrown off the top of a three story building with her child clutched in her arms. The men of the town were being impaled on spikes, the bases of the spikes had the shapes of crows, eagles, hounds, and snakes, signifying their symbols of Tzeentch, Slaanesh, Khorne, and Nurgle. To Cyrdic's dismay, the hounds were far more common than any.

A great horn was blown from within Kronstat, and as one the northern warriors gathered. A few berserkers wielding double axes were too eager to sate their bloodshed, and charged down the small decline in the snowy ground, undisturbed by the cold and howling for blood. They were gunned down by shot and bolt before they could span the ground, though they died hard. Behind them, Norscan warriors with ritualistic blue tattoos began to grab at their own skins and rip them off, tearing at their outer layer to reveal not blood but fur. Out of their human forms, bristling Wolfish beasts tore through the tops of their necks and revealed themselves in monstrous fury, as tall as Ogres and fiercely lean.

Snarling, they began to lope down the hill with a predatory grace that belied their terrifying strength. They were the true vanguard of the force. Behind them, the muscled, berserker Norscans followed in a wave of fury unmatched by any civilized men. They tried to beat the Skinwalkers to the Imperials, now arrayed in classical formation. Pikes and spears in front, and by Cyrdic's orders they were lowered and ready. Swordsmen and Gunners just behind to fire or surge through any gaps in the pikewall. Crossbowmen at the flanks, along with the cavalry to provide support. At the Center, Cyrdic stood with his Greatswords, with Skaldi at his side, giving a Khazalid warcry.

When the Skinwalkers made it to the lines, many of the beasts were spit upon pikes, while others, too large and strong to be cowed, barreled through the spears with great leaps and hacked apart men with terrible frenzies of armor rending claws, only for they themselves to be hacked apart by the swordsmen. Next, the Norscans, brutes and mutants alike, crashed into shields and pikes with inhuman strength and zeal. At their center was a Norscan champion that stood as tall as a Skinwalker, with horns protruding out of his shoulders.

The Greatswords beside Cyrdic moved in perfect rhythm, their swords going up and down and blocking expertly, hacking off limbs and heads and guarding one another. Cyrdic faced off a mutated Norscan that had made it through the Greatswords, with a face obscured by a helm but a left arm having been corrupted into a brutal hacking weapon of its own, while his right hand held a handaxe. On his breast was the mark of the Changer of Ways.

In eerie silence he swiped at Cyrdic, who sidestepped his arm and blocked the next axe chop with his Norscan shield. The sergeant stabbed forward and then instinctly blocked an arm cut by hacking at the base of the limb, severing it. The Norscan seemed more confused than hurt, and his life ended a moment later when Cyrdic cut him in half with his formidable strength.

"Good killing isn't it?" Skaldi cried. The Dwarf seemed to have a strange frenzy close to the Norscan's, only a bit heartier while not as uncontrollable. Cyrdic usually didn't understand Dwarfs or their ways, but this he could empathise with. Cyrdic had always felt at home on the battlefield, and had an enjoyment of slaying foes that he sometimes found disturbing after the fact. He knew he shouldn't. If Theodric the Chosen's words were to be believed, Khorne had plans for him that Cyrdic shuddered to think about.

As the battle raged on, the Imperial line wavered more than a few times, and the Cavalry engaged with Chaos wardogs at the flanks. But with heroic advances by Cyrdic and his Greatswords, along with the Count and his Griffon tearing apart any resistance, they were at least holding. But the flanking party was late, and Cyrdic felt a worry in his breast that he couldn't shake. Soon, there was a chill up his spine as his fears grew.

"CEERDIK!" he heard from the left. To Cyrdic's relief and surprise, Ivan Petrovich and a few of his hussar riders waded through some of the disorganized Norscan lesser warriors, hacking at them with sweeps of their sabers. "To me!" Cyrdic called, the Greatswords and mercenaries that found themselves with him surged forward, cutting a path toward the riders and letting them through. But as they rode in, Cyrdic realized there were too few of them, and they came from the west, not the North.

"Camilla!" he called over the din of battle as the riders passed. Ivan's face dropped, and he dismounted his horse. "Ceerdik..."

"Camilla!!!" he cried again, and knew she wasn't with them. Ivan placed a hand on Cyrdic's shoulder. The Ostlander turned his sword on Ivan and placed the blade at his throat, his fears and bloodlust having mounted since battle began. "Where is she?" he demanded. Ivan made no move against him, and was in fact a bit disturbed by Cyrdic's wolfish eyes for a moment. "Ve ver found out Ceerdik. She vas taken...I don't noe vere zshe iz."

It took a few moments for Cyrdic to react, and he grabbed Ivan's shirt harder, pressing the blade closer for a few moments until his body was sapped of strength, and an utter horror took over his face. He dropped his runic sword into the snow, and the dozens of bleeding wounds and the lack of sleep suddenly felt like an anvil on his shoulders. "No..." he breathed, shaking his head. Unable to accept that she was gone.

By Ulric, Cyrdic wouldn't let that happen. He would tear apart the entire Norscan army and sail to Norsca itself if he had to.
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla awoke in the shifting aurora of the flames. Her neck as sore where her tunic had bound when the Norscan had seized her but she otherwise felt no pain. Whatever he had hit her to knock her out had obviously been more than physical. She was inside a tent of some unfamiliar grey leather. A brass manacle encircled her wrist and connected her to a heavy iron bound chest with a surprising length of chain. The only other items within the tent were a pile of bear pelts, obviously serving as bedding, and an altar of greenish soap stone carved with runes that were both seductive and disturbing in equal measure. Purplisly light from the fire outside poured through the single flap that served as an entrance. Hastily she patted herself down. Her clothing remained intact but her weapons were gone. She didn’t care to speculate how some of the knives she had secreted about her had been removed but her sword and both her pistols were nowhere to be found.

It was uncertain how long she had been unconscious but Ivan must have known she had been captured by now. That he hadn’t attempted a rescue was no surprise, she doubted he could have convinced the mercenaries to try such a plan, but she still felt a twinge of betrayal. It was possible that they had been discovered and massacred of course. Her hand went instinctively to her neck where she found Cydric’s necklace, the cool silver metal calming her sudden panic. There was no point in getting worked up before she had more information. She glanced at the entryway again and the hateful purple firelight that poured through it like glowing oil. Well at least she wasn’t likely to make her situation any worse.

Stepping through the flap, Camilla pulled her chain behind her with a metallic rattle. There must have been twenty feet of finely forged brass links. A hulking figure, the same Norscan who had captured her, squatted on the shale beach, far too close to the shifting purple bonfire. He was naked from the waist up and sweat ran down his tattoed musculature in rivers.

“You are awake, that is good,” the chaos worshiper rumbled. In his hand he held a vast oyster shell and a tooth that Camilla thought must belong to a shark. A flash of intuition struck her.

“It is shark skin, the tent is,” she said. The reavers luminous too large eyes flicked to the tent. He drew the tooth over the oyster shell with a slow unpleasant scritching sound. There was a pile of them at his feet, dozens of the things, covered in indecipherable scrawl.

“Yesss,” the reaver crooned, eye pinning her with feverish intensity.

“We hunt them in the Bay of Fins, Beloved of the Skull Lord sharks are,” the Norscan went on. As he spoke he thrust a hand into the purplish flames. The oyster shell smoked and cracked with an audible pop, though the hand that gripped it as unharmed. After a moment he withdrew the shell and traced a finger along the cracks, frowning as though they held great portent, then he dropped the calcified ruin to the pile before him and took up another.

Camilla considered charging the man. If she put her full weight behind a diving kick she could probably topple him into the fire. To what end though? He didn’t seem overly concerned by the flames. The camp sprawled around her, she had spent enough time watching it from the bluff to orient herself as on the south western corner. Other Norscan’s watched her from their own fires with hungry eyes. Off to the north stood a pen in which a score or so of raggedly dressed figures, mostly women, shivered together for heat. A leathery chaos hound patrolled the edge of the flimsy pen, a barrier far more formidable than ropes and stakes.

“I am Gorn Son of Gnarn,” the Norscan declared with portentous formaillity.

“Who are you?” he demanded as he picked up another shell.

“I’m Hilda, a fish wife from Barchaussen,” Camilla lied effortlessly. Gorn through back his head and laughed uproariously.

“I’ve raped enough fishermans wives to know what they look like and what they smell like,” he told her with playful cruelty.

“What they taste like as well,” he leered, the smile revealing teeth too large and too sharp. He flexe a bicep, the bloody wound cracking open and spiling down his arm.

“Then there is the small matter of your weapons and armor,” the Northman went on, oblivious to the blood sizzling in the heat of the flames. Camilla cowerd slightly, an affectation of the persona she was constructing for her self rather than her own inclination. Though Ranald knew she was scared enough. Gorn strode from the fire, thin wisps of smoke rising from his flesh like a dark halo. He seized her by the front of the tunic and lifted her bodily into the air bringing his face close to her. There as a scent to him that took her by surprise, incense and spices beneath the smoke and animal scents of his clothing.

“Who are you really, and by the Dark Prince if you lie to me I will slit your belly open and devour your entrails while you are still alive!” It wasn’t much of an act to curl up in terror at the threat but she managed a gasping sob none the less.

“I am Countess Valentina Von Gausser,” she half sobbed, “Please my father the count he told me not to come, he will give anything for my release!” Camilla had no idea of the Count of Nordland had a daughter, but on the back of such an obvious lie played far stronger than had she tried it from the outset. It also had the seductive quality of something the reaver wanted to be true. It was also backed up by the fine quality of her equipment and clothing, a detail that he would be congratulating himself for having notice.

“Aha!” Gorn roared in delight, hoisting her higher so she could look into his eyes.

“Give anything would he! Well his severed head can watch as Gorn son of Gnarn puts his sons inside of you! We will feed you his fingers as…”

Camilla flipped her leg up and over her shoulders in a contortionists tumble, using the Norscan’s grip as a pivot. The tunic tore three quarters of the way through the maneuver but she had enough momentum to land on the Chaos worshippers back, griping on with her knees. The reaver cursed in some unknown and horrible language but before he could grab her Camilla wrapped a foot of the chain around his neck, planted both feet in the small of his back and hauled with her full strength digging the brass links into his throat. The reaver twistd violently trying to throw her off but he couldn’t dislodge her. Wailing silently she drove the toe of her boot into the roaring mans temple working to keep him from formulating a plane. White knuckled she clung to the chain until the big warrior sank to his knees and then toppled to the rocky beach.

She gave him another thirty heartbeats to make sure he wasn’t shaming and then came shakily to her feet, brushing away pebbles and pieces of shell. No one had yet noticed her for the roar of their own fires and the screams of their own slaves. She crouched down beside Gorn and ran her wrist through the lathered sweat that the fire had covered him in. Groaning in pain she forced the bones in her hand to grind as close together as she could and then yanked hard. Her wrist slipped from the brass cuff and she relaxed her hand with a painful pop. The Chaos worshipper was too heavy to drag into the tent and, much as she wanted too she didn’t dare search for her weapons. She needed to get out of here and back to Cydric.

As she thought of her love her eyes fell on the lowering shadows of the great ships. Was he even still alive, did he have any chance at all if the Norscan’s weren’t distracted?

“Ranad curse me for a fool,” she murmured and slipped off towards the ships.

Away from the fires the few sources of illumination were large bowls of some sort of oil. Fish or whale oil by the maritime reek te stuff gave of as it burned with sooty enthusiasm. Carefully as she could she made her way to the southern tip of the encampment where the first ship was drawn up. She looked up at the bluff only a few hundred yards away, if Ivan and his men were up there all she had to do was run to them and she stood a good chance of getting away. Cursing herself she turned back to the ship and leaped straight up, catcing the gunnel and pulling herself over the side with acrobatic grace.

The interior of the long boat was open, with most of the space given over to rowing benches. At the rear of the craft she found what she was looking for, a crudely made cask not unlike those the Imperials used to store beer in. She pulled the bung free and poured a generous portion of the stinking oil over the ropes that were used to raise and lower the single wollen sail the vessel used, then taking some of the oil soaked rope as well as the keg, leaped the five foot gap to the next vessel.

Camilla had four vessels linked together when she realised she could no longer play it safe. At any moment one of the Norscans might stumble onto what she as doing. She dug around one of the sea chests until she found a flint and steel wrapped in a dirty leather cloth.

“Mannan,” she whispered quietly as she knelt at the end of one of the ropes.

“Mannan help me,” she whispered, invoking the sea god’s aid against those who defiled his waters. Then, drawing in her breath she struck flint to steel and showered sparks down on the frayed and oil soaked rope. It light with a quiet chuff and flames began to spread both on this deck and across the ropes to the other. She dipped a piece of rope into the oil and wrapped it around a wooden haliard as an improvised torch and ignited it from the flames.

“Mannan help me,” she repeated and leaped across to the next ship.

Gorn son of Gnarn woke to the insistent thrum of his God in his temples. His throat was horribly bruised and he head pounded like a drum. The flames licked towards him, the heat of their displeasure blistering his skin. The woman! Curse her in the name of the four! The camp was in chaos, Norscan’s shouted and cursed in a dozen tribal dialects and slaves screamed and died as frustrations were vented. Gorn pushed himself up and immediately saw the cause of the convolution. The ships were burning, nearly all of them. Men rushed to their own vessels, desperately trying to extinguish the devouring flames, but a wind had come up, whipping the gray water to white caps and fanning the fires into infernos. Gorn’s witch aided vision caught a spark of flame near the end of the line of boats. A slim feminine form leaping from ship to ship. Thus far she had been aided by advancing ahead of the flames while attention was drawn to the ships most full engulfed. The purplish fire pulsed insistently and Gorn felt his lust rise. It was the woman, the Count’s daughter. He would put such an end to her as would be written about in the sagas.

Camilla’s muscles burned as she set another ship on fire. She had lost count of the total, perhaps thirty five or forty? It was more than she had ever hoped for but she knew that it couldn’t last. Men ran for the fires yes, but the smarter ones, knowing that the disaster was by now beyond their control and the only hope lay in salvaging ships not yet caught in the conflagration, were running for the unburned ships to save what they could. One more ship, she would light the last ship and then dive into the ocean, perhaps swimming she had a chance to get out unscathed. With a running jump she leaped for the next ship. Even as sailed through the air, Gorn straightened from behind the gunnel of the next ship. She twisted awkwardly but there was no way to redirect her momentum. The Norscan teeth gleaming in savage vengeance caught her by the shift and yanked her from the air, slamming her down overhanded onto the deck. Breath exploded from her chest and the word went white for a moment as she lay on her back trying to force her lungs to draw breath. Gorn shouted something to the other Norscans climbing aboard the vessel. She felt the keel grind against the beach as strong back shoved the vessel free onto the whiping waves. Men were sitting at benches and unshipping oars.

“By the Dark Prince, you will suffer for what you have done here,” Gorn snarled, his eyes bright and terrible as firelight reflected off them. He hauled her up by the throat and turned her to view the harbor. The once quiet cove was a mass of burning ships. Seasoned and dried timbers blazed like dry pines and the heat was so great it drove men back from even those vessels not yet afire. The roar of the flames was an oppressie presence even as the Norscans hauled on their oars with all their strength, drawing them yard by yard away from the inferno, fighting the wind and sea for every inch.

“You, your children and your children's children shall be nothing but dogs before my hall!” the Norscan raged.

“They will tell of your fate to frighten children by Slaanesh…”

Camilla’s mind slipped at the mention of the forbidden name her body spasmed and her eyes rolled back for a moment. The crew, previously cursing and shouting in their own tongue fell instantly silent. Each of them aware of the reaction as their God thundered in their souls. Gorn, son of Gnarn, began to laugh. Behind him the flames consuming the fleet took on a purplish hew.

[POOHEAD189]

"Manling, you need to get yer wits about ye!" Skaldi declared, shaking Cyrdic with a rough, Dwarfish grip. But the Ostlander couldn't find the will. His mind left the battlefield, even as Ivan called to him that the left flank needed his help. But for the moment, he was gone.

He remembered.

He remembered when they had first met at the Baron's court. He'd been similarly attracted to her lithe, curvaceous form and her beauty as the other men. But he was intrigued by the intelligence in her eyes and the wry smile on her lips. He remembered when his conscience overtook his sense of duty when he smuggled her out, questioning himself the entire way on betraying his liege. He recalled the first few awkward nights they spent in the woods, where he could barely understand her even when she spoke his language. He remembered finding out she had a penchant for getting them into mortal danger, and to his horror he actually looked forward to such danger as long as it was with her. He remembered her at the court of Boris Todbringer, both fighting for their lives and her delight at Cyrdic's speechless expression at her courtly attire. And he recalled when he thought she was dying, and he realized he had fallen in love with her.

He remembered every adventure from then until now, and he decide it would not end this way.

The images had flashed through his mind for only a moment, but it brought back a resolve. His sword had been growling in his consciousness the entire battle, but its howl now filled his senses, and the runic sword glowed visibly. The Ostland sergeant stood to his full height, and gave Skaldi and Ivan a reassuring nod. They both grinned.

"I'm khaming vith you." Ivan said, the loss of his men not keeping him from going back for the little dove. Skaldi spat on the ground and said the same. "Stay close," Cyrdic said. He raised his sword, glowing like a beacon. The closer mutants shuddered.

"Pikeman, lower and advance!" Cyrdic roared Around him, the reserve pikemen advanced and provided a wall of bristling polearms for their allies to retreat behind. Norscans cut down a few swordsmen that tried to flee, but the rest made it and reformed. The Greatswords were thinning in numbers, but they paid for their lives dearly in barbarian souls. Gristle and blood spewing from severed limbs and cuts that opened chest cavities, just as the Greatsword's helms were rent by Norscan axeman.

"Crossbows and Handgunners!" He cried, and the order was echoed across the line. "Reload!" There was almost a lull in the battlefield as Cyrdic counted to 8, the amount of time it took a basic handgunner to reload, before he roared. "Fire!" The air was split with shot and quarrels, hammering into the Chaos line. A few beastmen that had managed to tag along with the raiders was riddled with missiles and killed along with their front line. "Pikemen thrust! Swordsmen! ...Charge! Greatswords with me!"

As the army followed his orders, there was a resurgence in the Imperial army's initiative, and slowly the Chaos advance was ground to a halt and even pushed back slightly. Cyrdic and his Greatswords, fifty men, hacked and cut through the throng of enemies with Ivan and his two Kislevites in tow, along with Skaldi. Within minutes, they burst out of the battle and towards the flanks, where the Imperial pistoliers and knights fought furiously and desperately against enlarged warhounds. Even fifty Greatswords was not a significant force against such beasts, but catching them by surprise and stuck in a melee was a different story.

As the hounds fed upon the corpses of horses and men, they were beheaded and cut apart by the flanking Greatswords that barreled into their midst. Cyrdic dodged a leaping beast and thrust his sword down the throat of another advancing hound. He held his Norscan shield up to block the next one, its claws scraping along the shield as Cyrdic withdrew his sword. His arm muscles tightened, and with immense strength, he shoved the beast back with his shield and then hacked off its front left leg, before cutting at its thick neck thrice to behead it.

The pistols and lances of the cavalry, along with the Greatsword's attack had reduced the warhounds significantly, and the whimpering beasts fled into the woods. Cheers arose at the sight. As Cyrdic cleaned his blade, a Knight rode up to him, recognizing the Ostland mercenary as one of the Commanders the Count had promoted.

"Well fought, herr Cyrdic," he said, sticking his bloodied lance into the ground and raising his helmet. He had a severe look about him, and he sported a muttonchop beard. "My thanks. But the battle is not over yet."

"I'm going to make sure the Longboats are burned." Cyrdic half-lied, breathing heavily and wiping his brow. A change of clothes would be preferable at the moment. Sweat in snow meant death often enough, but the noon sun would be up soon. He hoped it would be enough. "I need you to wheel round and flank the bastards from Kronstad. The army needs a flanking attack. The Greatswords will join you."

"What!?" The Knight balked, wondering if the Count had ordered Cyrdic to relay him such a message or if the man was deserting. No, he couldn't be fleeing. He just saw the Ostlander charge through blasted Norscans and cut down mutated warhounds. If he had wanted to desert, he wouldn't have helped the Cavalry. After a moment to consider, he also realized they did have the perfect opportunity to perform a hammer and anvil strategy maneuver with their Cavalry. "Very well."

"I need two horses." Cyrdic said, as he and Skaldi were without and he intended to make it to the shore with all haste. Ivan and his two friends were now trodding over, sabres slaked with blood.

"Five." Someone corrected, and a Greatsword Cyrdic knew as Olaf stepped forward, flanked by two others named Otto and Konrad. "We go with you." Cyrdic was a bit touched, for the Greatsword must have known what he was getting himself into.

"Done." the Knight said, calling over the steeds. "Sigmar knows we have spares now. So many good men have died today."

---

Ulkjar's twin swords cut men in half and sent them screaming to their false Gods. The Warrior reveled in the bloodshed and butchered whatever man challenged him. But at the edge of his mind, he knew the one he sought was here. And when he saw the sword rise above the battle, he knew it was him. The Sword of Ulric...he remembered it from the visions. The man holding it was one of the two he had been looking for. One of the few his master's sought. The Ostlander would not get away from Ulkjar's sight, even if he rode to the very southern tip of Lustria.
@Penny

[Penny]

The longship had cleared the bluff by the time Camilla regained consciousness. The wind as still whipping the sea to choppy grey white froth and an icy rain began to spit from the leaden sky. The Norscans, massive though they were, sweated and gasped for air from the effort of fighting the wind and the sea. She was tied to the mast, her arms bound behind her back and a noose around her neck, snugged up tight against the wind worn timber. No sail was flying in this wind though she could see the massive leather sheet rolled into a rough cylinder.

Gorn looked back at her from the prow with a feral grin. Sea spray ran down his powerful arms and for the first time he had a weapon, a large hooked axe tucked into the belt that wrapped his waist. Two prisoners, shivering Nordlanders knelt before him. Camilla guessed they were soldiers because they were well muscled and looked well fed, though their clothing was too ragged to betray any kind of uniform.

“Ah you are awake. I had plans for you but it seems the Dark Prince has greater ones. Don’t fear you may yet bear the children of Gorn Son of Gnarn,” the reaver laughed. Several of the crewmen looked nervously between Gorn and Camilla. One of them licked his lips, his tongue too pointed and prehensile to be entirely human. Gorn grabbed one of the men by the hair and hauled him to his feet. At full extension the man didn’t reach the Norscan’s shoulders. The soldier squirmed with pain but bit back any cry.

“You will go tell your Count that I, Gorn Son of Gnarn, have his daughter, and that if she doesn't forsake her weak southern gods, he will need to come to Norsca to see what grand children the bitch can whelp!” The reaver drew his axe and slammed it to the deck, severing several of the man's toes with a meaty chunk. The soldier screamed in agony as the Norscan pitched him into the heaving sea. Without further words he repeated the process with the second man, then gathered up the toes and tossed them over the side.

“Better swim fast, I’m told there are sharks!”

______________________

The shovel load of manure flew across the stable yard in a perfect ballistic arc. At the last moment, when it seemed fore ordained that it would splatter across the disheveled looking woman picking herself up off the cobblestones, a shield cut through the air and splattered the malodorous mass across the low stone wall that served as a barrier for horses in the inns carriage yard. The missileer, a balding bartender in a stained leather apron scowled at the the shield bearer but obviously thought better of a second attempt. The shield bearer was a tired looking man in his late forties. He wore a patchwork of armor, some of which would have been old when the man as born and he bore a (now) manure stained bucker. His face as craggy as only a man who spent years out in all weather can appear. The woman finished getting to her feet. She was a slightly plump, if not unattractive red head, though streaks of pale blonde speckled the auburn locks.

“Good sir,” she began, speaking with the exaggerated precision of the very drunk.

“I find the hospitality of your establishment…”

“Get your lying thieving ass out of here witch, or by Sigmar we will burn you no matter what they say in Altdorf!” The heavy wooden door slammed shut like a thunderclap. The woman started and looked skyward though her drink dulled senses rendered the action seconds too late to be of any practical help.

“Lightning!” she declared and began to slowly topple over. The man sprang to her side and grabbed an arm to steady her.

“You just had to play cards didn’t you Dietz, we had a warm bed lined up and everything,” the armored man grumped.

“Why Yantz, a woman has a right to pursue her subsistence!” The older man rolled his eyes and turned her towards the snow crusted road by one elbow.

“Well pursue it without getting us tossed out of another tow…” the sentence trailed of as the formerly pliant woman went rigid. Yantz looked back in surprise to find her starting at the pattern of splattered manure on the wall intently.

“For Taal’s sake what…” The readhead made a series of hissing shushing noises as she examined the excrement.

“It is a sign!” she declared dramatically, finger outstretched towards some of the filth.

“See there, it is Windbighters Bay, I see a tall man and something..” she paused to hiccup delicately.

“Something about boats,” she concluded mysteriously. Yantz crossed his arms unenthusiastically.

“Deitz,” he sighed longsufferingly, “that is literally horse shit.” The red head was already striding away, determined but with a definite list to the left which would drive her into the side of the stable in a few more feet. Yantz cast his eyes skyward imploringly and then hurried after the departing woman, muttering curses.

[POOHEAD189]

Cyrdic nearly ran his horse into the ground, his Sword and the Handgun he'd found bouncing along his hip and back. The beast he rode had been faced with warhounds and feet upon feet of snow, and Cyrdic felt guilty that he had to use up the last of its energy to make it to the shoreline where the ocean fed into the Nordland river systems. His companions were right behind him, though Ivan was a bit further behind. Skaldi had sworn he could ride a horse but fell off his steed after two miles, and Ivan had to wheel around and pick him up.

The ground soon lost snow, turning into a harsh and uneven ground filled with rocks as they left the treeline and descended down into the ford. Cyrdic and the others were taken aback at all of the burnt and burning ships, and the lack of Norscans around. He didn't know exactly what had happened, but he knew one thing due to all of this mayhem. Camilla had been here. No one else could have caused such destruction by themselves.

Cyrdic laughed at the thought, eyes welling up with moisture. It meant she was kept alive after she was captured, though he saw no sign of her here. "Fan out and search!" He yelled to those catching up to him. They didn't have time to properly reply before he had dismounted and smacked the rump of his horse, sending it galloping away. He had no intention of going back, and the sun would be setting in a few hours. He leaped down the small rise and made it to the lower ground, where the burning hulks of Norscan craft billowed smoke.

Cyrdic cried out for Camilla over and over, hoping to hear a groan or a whisper from somewhere within the ruins of the invasion fleet. The men had found a few intact ships, but there was nothing else. They had simply found no sign of Camilla, which means she had been captured or...

"Manling!" Skaldi called from a few burnt husks over, and with a force of will Cyrdic moved over to the Dwarf only to find him standing on an empty patch of moist sand. The Dwarf pointed at it. "Look here. D'ye see?" He asked, pointing at the ground. Cyrdic shook his head, but he'd learned how cautious and perfectionist Dwarfs were. "No, what?"

"A ship lay here, and it pulled out not hours ago. They had prisoners. You can tell by the grooves of the sand to the left where they were dragged." The Dwarf explained. Cyrdic looked closer, and soon he found he could see what the Dwarf was speaking about. Yet even now, he didn't exactly want to hope. It was not until Sigmar had bestowed a blessing upon them with the sound of a splash from the water. Cyrdic and Skaldi whipped towards the sea and drew their weapons, wondering if a sea beast had wandered too close to shore. But after a moment, there was another splash, and a very human head appeared in the water.

"What in Sigmar's name?" Cyrdic breathed, and waded out into the shallows to help the man ashore, for he was no Norscan. He had the look of a Nordlander, albeit bedraggled and half worked to exhaustion. Cyrdic had to haul him to shore to keep the man from drowning in knee deep water.

The others had heard the commotion and made their way over, trodding across corpses and kindling. They found Cyrdic kneeling over a soaking, prone solderly looking man who gripped Cyrdic's sleeve weakly. Cyrdic shook the man as gently as he could. "What did you say? Stay awake, man!" Cyrdic said, and ordered the Greatswords to get a fire going to keep him alive.

Unfortunately, the man had fallen into unconsciousness. They moved him near the fire and wrapped him in a dry cloak. It would be the two longest hours of Cyrdic's life, waiting for him to awaken. He didn't even know if the soldier would live. The Seas of Claws was a frozen wasteland of water, and was dangerous even without the beasts that lurked beneath.

The group had taken the opportunity to eat and melt snow for water as they waited, and take a small breather. Ivan lamented they had no Vodka, and the other two Kislevites agreed. Skaldi had offered to continue counting Gold, but a look from Cyrdic told him that now was not the time. The Greatswords slumped and rested, having cut through Norscans and mutants all day, their swords difficult to wield even for the strongest of men. Cyrdic would know.

The man coughed when he awoke, drawing everyone's attention. Cyrdic set his water down and walked over, fear and trepidation rising in his chest. "Easy, soldier. How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Better...Ulric thanks you." He said.

"You said you had a message. Tell me what you meant." The scarred Ostlander said, looking at the Nordland man intently. After a few moments, he spoke. "The Norscans...left hours ago. They look to ransom the Count's daughter." Cyrdic echoed the statement, confused.
"The Count has no daughter," Konrad the Greatsword said. "He's delirious."

"What did she look like, the daughter?" Cyrdic pressed. "Dark hair? Beautiful?"

"Aye sir," the survivor said. "Most beautiful lass I've ever seen. Like out of the stories. She burned the ships too..."

Skaldi laughed, and poked Ivan's stomach with his elbow. "Beautiful he says. Men have the weirdest tastes. The lass is too tall, and her hair's all wrong. She doesn't have the meat of a Dwarfish beauty."

Cyrdic felt a chord strike within him from the news, and he nodded his thanks to the man. He turned to the others, every inch the commander he was not hours before. "Olaf, I need you, Otto, and Konrad to find oars. Ivan, you and the boys find foodstruffs from the wreckage and melt more snow. They're less than a day ahead of us and if we hurry, we'll catch them tomorrow. Skaldi, find the most intact ship you can. We leave as soon as we're ready. Go!"

The Norscans were better seaman than any, but they didn't know they were being followed. They wouldn't be hurrying. But Cyrdic would...
@Penny

[Penny]

The company set to work with a will. Most of the ships were badly burned and even the surviving vessels suffered from shriveled rigging, or smoldering caulking. Skaldi filled the chill morning air with a stream of complaints about shoddy manling and Khazaki craftsmanship. The dwarf selected one of the long ships furthest from the center of the blaze. He stomped up and down the deck of his chosen vessel scowling like a thundercloud.

"Aye this is the best of a bad lot manlings, but she will still leak like a grobbi tunnel. We need to seal it or we will be swimming with the sharks! Cut down some of those pines and get a fire going!" the dwarf roared at the exhausted great swords. The exhausted soldiers looked up at the dwarf in weary incomprehension.

"We don't have axes," one of the men protested, as he unlatched his breastplate to cool off. Even in the chill of Nordland heavy armor became a furnace within a few minutes. Perversely it would be shiveringly cold within a few minutes. The dwarf gripped the gunnel with his sausage sized fingers, splintering the fire dried timber.

"The lass is out there in the hands of these Khazaki scum. I don't care if you have to cut them down with your teeth! And you'd better hope Cydric dosent..."

Both men sprang to there feet and started up the beach with nervous glances in the direction of the Ostlander sergeant. One of the pair found an abandoned Norscan axe and hefted it in one hand with a satisfied grunt.

"Riders!"

Men grabbed for weapons and shook out into a loose formation across the shale covered beach, locking shields into a loose wall. For long moments there was a silence broken only by wind, the slop of surf and the creak of shifting timbers. The look outs, two of the scouts that had accompanied Cydric, slid down the side of the bluff, weapons in hand, creating a small shower of gravel in their haste to join the formation. A moment later two figures on horseback came over the rise and began to pick their way down to the rocky incline.

One was a grim looking man in late middle age and patchwork armor. The other was a slightly plumpish red head, whose sour expression ruined her otherwise pretty face. Both horses were heavily loaded and just about played out judging by the amount they were blowing. Foam gathered at the corners of the beast mouths. The men relaxed, not abandoning their weapons but certain that such a pair didn't come with hostile intent. The man road forward towards the line, pausing twenty feet from the nearest swordsman.

"Morning!" he yelled in a lower class Altdorf accent. He reached up and brushed stringy greish blond hair from his face. The woman behind him cleared her throat pointed.

"My name is Yantz,"he took a deep breath as though he were about to do something he knew would be deeply embarrassing.

"And this is Dietrichia Von Grimmelhausen, we are looking for someone named Byrdic or Checker or something like that," he declared with an apologetic grimace.

[POOHEAD189]

Initially the group held their weapons at the ready, just out of form and appearance rather than any ill will towards the obviously Imperial newcomers. But they lowered their arms out of sheer incredulity of their greetings. Cyrdic had to admit he was confused as well. They couldn't have been soldiers or military from the Count's army. No official messenger would forget the name of the one they came to find, much less one of the commanders.

"I am Cyrdic Becker," the Ostlander said, stepping forward and sheathing his Runic sword. "I don't mean to offend but we don't have time to talk. The Norscans-"

"Yes yes, they have your woman." Dietrichia Von Grimmelhausen said. "We are here to make sure you're to make it to her, and that we head northwards. Believe me, herr Becker, you'll need our help."

Cyrdic looked at her and could not comprehend this turn of events. Yantz looked at her too, though he looked as if he had expected every word. He sighed, and leaned forward in his saddle. "I'm 'fraid we have our orders from the Imperial colleges of magic back in Altdorf. We were tasked with finding you and a fraulien Camilla, and to make it to Praag before the spring turns. The Nords a few miles back were kind enough to let us know the situation here."

"The army survived?" Cyrdic asked, though his mind whirled with possibilities. The colleges of magic? That woman looked as if she had something more to her than just an air of superiority, but he still would not have guessed that. It didn't sit well with him instinctively. Ostland was a superstitious province, and though he had fought alongside battlemagers, he had never gotten used to it. But he saw the emblem upon her breast, the sign of the Golden Order.

"Aye, and the Count wants a word from you. It doesn't look like he'll be getting it anytime soon." Yantz finished, and he dismounted his horse.

"We have a sick man," Cyrdic said, bemused at the situation but as always, never forgetting his duty. He saw the haughty, shapely woman hold her hand out as Yantz took it and helped her off her own horse. She hadn't even bothered to look at him as he spoke. "can he use your horse?"

"He can use mine." Yantz said, trying not to look at the disapproving glance of Dietrichia.

The group, with their two new members set sail not an hour later. Yantz helped the woman into the back of the longboat, clearing a space for her to sit. Her eyes fell upon Skaldi more than once, though it wasn't with any sort of normal interest. The Dwarf had told Cyrdic that Gold Wizards tended to try and coerce secrets of metal from the Dawi whenever they could, but the Dwarfs kept their secrets hidden. Even a Dwarf cook and soldier might know a few aspects of minerals that normal men did not.

Cyrdic ordered them to take shifts in turns. Six men rowed while two slept, and the woman had guaranteed that she could keep most of the chill off of them as they set sail further north. Cyrdic had never been much of a sailor, but he had fought in Nordland long enough to know when to open and drop sails, and he set it up as Skaldi kept his eye on the horizon. Around the group, a shimmering golden field enveloped the longboat, and though chill had set in, the northern wind seemed to miss the boat entirely for now. Cyrdic did not regret allowing them to join with them...yet.

Whatever it took to get Camilla back.
@Penny

[Penny]

The ship cut through the heavy chop like a plow through sandy soil. The wind was brisk from the south west, a foul wind for Norsca that forced the long boat to make long tacks to try and force its way closer to that forbidding coast. Skaldi had heated the new cut pines on a fire and collected the black resinous tar which dripped hissing from the end in helmets and then had the men smear the sticky goop on to the side of the ship. The resulting seal was better than caulking alone, but still allowed enough seepage that two or three men had to work at bailing to keep the level under control.

The crew made space for Dietricha at the rear of the ship a few feet ahead of the tiller bar. She sat cross legged on the bench humming idly to herself and occasionally muttering snatches of what sounded like an argument though with whom she argued was a mystery. Her robes were soaked by sea spray but she showed no sign at all of feeling cold, or even noticing the state of affairs. Periodically she glanced at the sky, screwed up her face and returned to her one sided argument.

Yantz had stripped out of his armor though he still wore a worn bastard sword across his back and a large cavalry horse pistol at his hip. The Rieklander wasn’t a huge man, but he had a sort of resigned solidity about him that was a comfort. His sandy hair flapped in the breeze and his mustache drooped as he stared at the rolling sea ahead with a distinct lack of enthusiasm

“Szo, you caam from da collage of magic dah?” Ivan asked as he joined Yantz and Cydric at the bow of the ship.

“That’s what the lady says,” Yantz said, though his tone was not exactly one of agreement.

“Ahand you. Not exactly great wizard looking,” Ivan pressed on, his accent rendering exactly as ex-zicked-ly. Yantz snickered in spite of himself.

“Not me, I’m just a guy with a sword,” he confided, swiping at his hair for the hundredth time without noticeably improving his situation.

“Why trevil wit da witch?” Ivan asked. Yantz sunk further into the dark woollen cloak he wore as though trying to find shelter from the cold sea air.

“Well I..”

“Herr Becker!” Dietricha said, her voice easily auidble even though it was from the other end of the ship and against the force of the wind. The disheveled looking wizard was standing now staring at the sky with a look of perplexion on her round face.

“You said they were going to Norsca?”

_______________________
Days Later….

Camilla awoke, to the yells of her captors. The ropes binding her wrists, bit painfully and her face felt raw from sun and salt. Ahead of them loomed a massive sheet of ice, that stretched from horizon to horizon.

“Norsca?” she wrasped, her voice dry from the flaying wind. Gorn laughed in derision at the comment. He seized Camilla by the hair and held her head up so she could watch the cliff of ice sliding closer.

“The Frozen Bones,” he rumbled as though it was supposed to mean something too her. For a moment she thought she heard something in the reavers voice, uncertainty, fear?

“We must reach the Valley of Uken-sugan by the time the Changer Moon watches us,” Gorn went on. His voice as quiet now as the vast ciff of ice loomed up, casting a frigid shadow. The were all of them afraid Camilla realizd as she glanced around the crew. Some of them glared at Gorn as though cursing them for bringing them to this place. The big Norscan did not appear to notice.

“You southerner call this the Chaos waste,” Gorn went on, it was the most he had said to her since she had passed out when he said… her mind skittered sideways and the crew all glanced at her as though she had spoken something. Blinking her eyes she tried to focus.

Gorn shouted something in a language she couldn’t unerstand and men rushed forward as he through the tiller bar over. They thrust out with their oars, frantically trying to fend the boat away from the fifty foot ice cliff. Suddenly Camilla pitched forward as her bonds were cut, her forehead bouncing of the deck. Gorn grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her against his back. Another Reaver bound her wrists together around his neck.

“What are you…” she began. Gorn took a pair of axes from the deck and took a running leap off the ship. Camilla screamed in panic as they sailed across the expanse of water between the ship and the cliff. Both axes sank deep into the ice, providing grip for the reaver. Behind her the ship began to pull away as she dangled above the freezing water. The crew began to shout, raggedly at first and then in increasing unison. Camila didn’t understand the words but somehow knew it to be a name.

“If you fight me southerner we will fall into the ocean, both of our bodies will be trapped beneath the Frozen Bones,” the reaver warned. Camilla’s full weight pulled at the man bull like neck but it didn’t seem to be a burden.

“Sounds like a win win,” she grated, trying to find something to do with her dangling feet. She couldn’t turn to see but from the sound of the chanting the long ship was pulling away rapidly.

“While you live, you have hope,” Gorn said though it sounded ironic rather than hopeful. With a huge effort he pulled one axe free and plunged it into the ice a few feet above them, spraying them both with shards of freezing crystal.

It took Gorn a long time to reach the top of the icy cliff. He neither slowed nor faltered but even hed was sweating by the time he pulled them both over the lip of the glacial sheet and slumped to the snow crusted ice in exhaustion.

“Testicoli de Ranaldi,” Camilla breathed in amazment and horror. Before them streted a plain of ice as far as the eye could see. Far from being barren the plain was covered with ships. There must have been a hundred of them, each one unquestionably a wreck. Many had frozen seaweed or dead crustaceans on them, as though they had been raized from the sea bed to be placed on this sheet of ice. Many of them were Norscan long ships but she saw others as well, a massive Imperial galleon lay on its side, snow blown up against one side in a drift. Slender vessel of elvish make and sleek corsairs lay scattered like bones of a great feast.

“All begin from the sea,” Gorn rumbled and pushed himself to his feet.

“We will find you a talisman.”

[POOHEAD189]

"What do you mean?" Cyrdic demanded of her, grabbing her collar. She did not seem concerned. In fact when she wasn't contemplating spells or prophecies, she always seemed to have a curve to her lips, as if she knew a secret no one else was privvy to. Considering her order, it very well might have been true. "By Sigmar, tell me what you meant!"

"The Chaos Wastes." she repeated, her eyes locked with Cyrdic's. She shook her head. "Past that...even I cannot see."

Images of Camilla being sacrificed, or mutated, or eaten by daemons flashed through his mind, and if it was yesterday he would begin to feel weak over grief. But he was done with such things. He felt a surge of energy at his anger, and he let the woman go.

"Vhat if she iz vwrong?" Ivan asked aloud. He was more prejudice toward the wizard than Cyrdic. There were various provinces of Kislev that still burned witches. Yantz spoke up next. "She's never wrong mate."

"What else did you see?" Cyrdic asked.

"My visions come and go," she said. If she did not seem so arrogant, he almost thought she seemed apologetic. "I can control spells, but my prophecies I cannot control. But I saw them climbing a...wall of ice. A dark haired woman was tied to a Varg's back. Above the cliff I saw an endless waste. Miles yet was poison and fire...and mutation."

The Greatswords and Kislevites shook their heads, and made the signs of Sigmar and Ursun. Konrad took off his helmet, and breathed out a burst of steam from the cold air. He seemed to pause before he spoke, and when next he spoke it was by a force of will. "We're with you," he said, wholly unconvinced of his words or their success. It shook Cyrdic to the core one of the renowned men of the legendary rank of swordsman looked as if he wished to rather jump into the frozen, monster infested waters of the Sea of Claws than go where they intended to.

Cyrdic could smell Yantz's fear, and looking at the man he could see it too. But the sorceress's guard held his tongue and simply pulled his cloak about him tighter. Even Skaldi and Ivan seemed intimidated to the breaking point. Only Cyrdic did not seem worried, at least at the prospect of entering the wastes themselves. In fact, he felt renewed energy in his limbs. His entire body moved on its own, and within its scabbard, his sword glowed. Cyrdic's irises were ringed with gold, and he felt his senses clear to anything beyond what he's ever felt.

He sat down and relieved one of Ivan's companions, rowing with all of his considerable strength.

"Row east a few hundred paces!" Dietrichia called over the crashing of the waves. "There's a strong southern wind!"

---

Sarhashis reached into the Nordlander's chest cavity, and with a crackling pop, the cultist tore the heart out. Red blood spilled over his gnarled fingers. He handed the delicacy to Ulkjar, who took it within his massive hand and bit deeply, sucking the bloodied juices into his mouth as the flesh filled his gullet. He had not eaten southerner in many months.

The army had failed, but their purpose had not. The force that had entered Nordland was but a paltry raid compared to what the Empire faced in the coming days, and Theodric Gaussen would not be able to aid the Kislevites with his forces come next spring. However, Ulkjar and Sarhashis had a pact to keep. Their prey had escaped for now. But not for long...

The sorcerer plucked a black jewel off his robe, and carefully placed it within the opened ribcage of the corpse. The same Nordlander that had taken Yantz's horse. As the jewel was placed within him, his eyes opened. His pupils were red as blood, and he spoke an ancient tongue long forgotten on this plane of existence. He spoke of a Sergeant and a Courtesan, and of the city of Praag.

---

Dietrichia had done her best to stave off the cold, however even her powers did not seem adequate enough to keep the men warm as they sailed across the Sea of Chaos (Some called it the Sea of Krakens) above the rugged land of Norsca, its mountains cutting into the clouds like great dragon spines. Only Skaldi seemed unbothered by cold, and Cyrdic due to his sword. But even the Kislevites were not used to such bitter chill, though they took it with a stoicism.

To the south, they saw a ragged bluff of snow, ice, and rock overlook the water. Upon it was a massive keep, a towering structure made of black metal that rent the very eyes with its edged spires. Even though the companions saw no signs of life, they could not help but feel watched, as if the tower itself was a malevolent entity that sought their doom. The air began to grow thick with frozen fear, and it was only by Sigmar and Ulric's grace that a monster from the deep had not swallowed them up long ago.

A scraping noise filled the silence, and Cyrdic looked overboard to see the front of their longboat had run across a frozen wasteland. His eyes must have played tricks on him, because that had not been there before, he had thought. The waters had been eerily calm, but he did not recall seeing ice in the distance.
"The frozen sea." The wizard said, trying to coil tighter within her double robes. Cyrdic looked across the ice, and saw no end to it in sight. After a moment, he stepped off of the Longboat, feeling a solid surface beneath his feet. "We walk from here." He told them, and the others grabbed their meager portions of food and water left.

"Another day's walk north, and it will grow warmer." Dietrichia said. Yantz seemed positively miserable at having gone with the woman to this God's forsaken place.

"Is that not a good thing?" Otto the Imperial asked. The Kislevites looked at him with knowing expressions, having fought near the wastes their entire lives. Boris the Hussar spoke up as he filled his pack with a skin of their last rainwater. "No, itis naht."
@Penny

[Penny]

Frozen timber splintered under the reavers heavy boots. The ship was of Elven make, long and sleek but the jagged angles and harsh runes seemed not to fit the graceful aesthetic she had seen in the Elven quarter of Marienburg. Its timbers were dark, like teak or ebony and in places they were charred as though fire had claimed it. Gorn vaulted down into a hold where a pile of skeletons lay in intermingled heaps, frost rimming empty eye sockets. Here and their an arm still hung from iron shackles. A slave ship?

Gorn kicked the bones aside contemptuously as he clambered to the back of the ship crouching through a doorway. Camilla swung uselessly on his back unable to do more than kick feebly at the walls. If the Norscan noticed he didn’t bother to comment. In a smaller hold he found a rune covered chest with a grunt of triumph. Gold and silver winked when he pried the lid open, revealing a trove finely minted coins. The Norscan plucked one of the gold coins at seeming random and clambered out of the ship.

The cold was becoming intense and even the furs her captors had given her seemed little protection as Gorn finally untied her bonds and dropped her to the snow crusted ice. They were sheltered in the lee of the Elven ship which spared them the worst of the wind.

“Why did you bring me here,” Camilla demanded, the gregarious Tilean finding the silence oppresive.

“The Prince commands that you be taken to the Altar of Chalmindrian,” Gorn replied, tearing free pieces of the shattered hull with his bare hands and piling them together. He produced a flint and steel and struck the timbers to light with surprising ease.

“If you fail his trials you will be fair claim as a slave, but until then you must remain as you are,” there was clear disappointment in the Norscan’s tone. From a pouch he produced a handful of some sort of powder and cast it into the small fire. The flames dyed down to almost nothing and then rose again with the same hateful purple hue she had seen on the beach.

“You are taking me to an altar?” she demanded. The reaver ignored her and drew the coin from his seal skin pouch. The gold coin had the visage of a heart stoppingly beautiful woman on the face of it. Some quirk of the artisan gave the face a look of hungry and hedonistic excess though Camilla couldn’t have said exactly what rendered it so. Gorn tossed the coin into the fire which again seemed to die down to a flicker, coiling and grasping at the coin.

“You have the Dark Princes’ favor, you should be honored,” Gorn said, to her utter amazement she realised that he was jealous. Her skin crawled at the thought. He was going to take her into the Waste for some sort of sacrifice? To make her swear allegiance to some dark god? She tried to stand, to run, throwing herself into the ocean would surely be better than allowing the waste to twist her into some hideous and damned mutant or some horrifying creature in black armor. The fire held her gaze like a clamp, she couldn’t move so much as a muscle.

Gorn reached down and seized a handful of her dark hair. He licked his lips hungrily as he beheld her but the commandment of his god was evidently a heavier compulsion than a drive for personal pleasure. With a swift jerk he severed a lock of her hair and cast it into the fire. The air stank of burning, shriveling hair for a moment before the arctic wind carried it away. Without a moment's hesitation, Gorn reached into the flame and seized the cherry red coin. His fingertips smoked and sizzled as he lifted the coin and with a shiver of pleasure pressed it to his forehead. The skin hissed as the hot metal burned him, for a moment its stood out against his skin and then, amazingly, it seemed to sink into his flesh, leaving only the brand of the woman's face on red and discolored skin. For a moment Camilla though she could see a faint shimmer of multicolored light flowing towards the brand.

“Your talisman is within me,” Gorn rumbled, “So long as I live, the winds of change will spare you. But should I die…” The Norscan left the threat unfinished. With a swift jerk of his knife he severed her bonds. Unsteadily she got to her feet, flexing limbs gone weak for the constriction of the cords. She looked back towards the cliff, there was still time, she could throw herself into the ocean and at least her soul would be safe. Gorn watched her with amusement.

“Hope is ever the doom of men,” he chuckled.

_______________________

Yantz plodded along behind Cydric, amazed and disgusted at how little the cold seemed to affect the big Ostlander. Skaldi, the dwarf, seemed to be taking a positive delight in the discomfort of his human companions, repeatedly asking if they were cold. Dietricha was still dressed in nothing more than her riding dress and a shawl. She should have been freezing and she looked as warm and untroubled as though she were strolling down the high street in Nuln rather than tramping through an icy wasteland at the edge of the world.

“You knew we were coming to the Chaos Wastes and you never mentioned that we might need warm clothing, or supplies?” he carped. They had loaded what they could from the boat but no one had expected a trip like this, or maybe no one but her.

“I didn’t know we were coming to the Chaos Wastes,” the wizard replied with an airy nonchalance which set Yantz’ teeth on edge. In his long and unfortunate association with the wizard he had never known her to be wrong.

“You literally told us…” Yantz bounced of Cydric as the Sergeant stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing at the featureless snow. There was a long moment of tension and then one of the men screamed. Yantz spun towards the source of the sound and saw one of the greatswords go down under a mass of white fur and claws. One of his fellows slashed at the thing, lopping off a limb thicker than Beckers neck in a spray of blood.

“Fuck me,” Yantz cursed as a half dozen similar shapes, each as large a horse burst from concealing snow drifts. He yanked his pistol from his belt and pulled back the hammer with a comforting click.

“Unlikely,” Dietricha observed in a neutral voice, humming quietly to herself as men began to shout warnings to each other.
@POOHEAD189

[POOHEAD189]

Otto cried out in agony as he was lifted up within the maw of a great snow beast. A bear-like monster with spikes and boils along its back, and eyes with a malign intelligence. Konrad and Olaf ran to Otto's aid, as did Cyrdic. Though they likely knew that the fellow was beyond saving.

"Iv ahnly ve 'ad horses!" Boris the Hussar cried, and Ivan clapped the man on the back as the two of them, along with Luka charged into the fray with their sabers held high, attacking from the flank as the three Imperials crashed into the beasts and their meal. Konrad buried two feet of steel into the bear that held Otto, while Olaf cut into the face of another beast that had turned to meet them.

Yantz begrudgingly stayed near the Witch, sword out, even as two of the six beasts loped towards them with a feral hunger that seemed almost palpable. Dietrichia uttered a word of power from the winds of Azyr, and forked lighting exploded from her fingertips to engulf the two beasts, felling one and causing the other to stumble.

Cyrdic's runic sword was gripped within the teeth of one of the beasts, green saliva dribbling from its maw as it tried to yank the sword out of his hands. Cyrdic was nearly overwhelmed by the stench of the things breath. Instead of giving up the sword, Cyrdic knelt down and produced a dagger Camilla had gotten him as a gift, and sjabbed hard into the bear's eye. It roared and let go of the sword, falling into the snow and vainly trying to tear out the six inches of steel within its skull.

Suddenly Cyrdic's world was full of pain, and he couldn't even take a breather before a swipe cut into his back and sent him tumbling. It was only by instinct that he hit the hard ground with a roll, skidding into snow and finding himself on his back. The multicolored sky was replaced by sheer white as one of the bears leaped at him to tear out his throat. But Cyrdic had his wits about him and stabbed his Ulrican sword upwards, impaling the beast on the glowing metal and causing it to whine pitifully. Using his powerful legs and the bear's momentum, he kicked the corpse end over end past him into the snow bank.

Once he collected himself, he saw the others had finished off the rest of the beasts. Yantz had taken out the injured, electrocuted monstrosity that had survived the Witches attacks. Even as Cyrdic found his feet, Ivan was slitting the throat of the last crippled one, and Skaldi sat atop the back of a remarkably unmutated bear with his Axe buried in its skull. "The meat might be a bit rough, but give me an hour and we can probably eat this one, aye?" he said.

Cyrdic nearly fell over again.

Hours later, after they had buried Otto, and bandaged Boris as best they could, Dietrichia had scried the corpse and deemed it untainted, and they had eaten a quick meal of bear stew. The party moved forward with a will, though Cyrdic knew if he did not keep them going with encouraging words and a show of strength himself, they would lose heart of their mission. It also occurred to him that though he would brave any obstacle to see Camilla safe, these others were not her lovers or even friends, bar Ivan and Skaldi. And yet they had sacrificed so much. And yet, though they were perhaps too scarred of looking fearful to turn back, they were traveling into hell.

The next landmark seemed to fade from out of the bleak winds; a mountain range rolled across the landscape. Such was not known to any map of the Empire or to Kislev. "We must be near the Hold of Kraka Ornsmotek," Skaldi said. "The northernmost hold of my northern Kin. I can not find their hold, but we must ware. For Giants and Trolls of Chaos inhabit the mountains to its west, if that be where we are."

And so the group had to traverse around, being guided by Dietrichia and Skaldi's knowledge of rock formations to find passes suitable for the full group to move through. Labyrinths of razor sharp rocks, and stones carved into the likenesses of skulls and spines greeted them as they trudged along silently, hoping that they met none of the foul creatures that lurked within the caverns of the deep. They had nearly made it through the pass they had taken when a great horn had sounded from within the northern wastes. Instinctively, all of the group crouched and hid behind the crags they found themselves in, huddling down. "Quiet," Cyrdic whispered, and he sniffed the howling wind, picking up scents that made him both fearful and angry.

Out of the fog, shapes appeared. Hulking, but man sized and armed with axes and sword. A huge warrior at the head of the column strode with a purpose, his dark blade of chaos slaked across the Ice. Upon his back were trophy skulls of various races, creatures slain across the world. His shoulders were covered in slabs of metal, and his great red beard seemed to drip with blood. Behind his soldiers, lumbering beasts marched along with them. Shaggy haired, tusked monstrosities with armored plating and strange eyes that glowed an unnatural blue.

It was not a vast army, but it was a sizeable force. Cyrdic thanked Ulric and Sigmar they were neither going north or south, but further east. He hoped they continued that way.

"Wulfrik," Dietrichia hissed, her eyes suddenly glowing a great white. The entire group was taken aback as she shuddered and began utter the man's name. Yantz shook her, but she paid no heed to the man as she spoke, utterly stricken by prophecy. "Wulfrik the Wanderer heads southwards! The Everchosen gathers all to his banner!" Her cries grew loud and wild as she began to roar in an arcane tongue, and Ivan drew a knife as if to silence the witch by ending her life. Instead, Cyrdic tackled the wizard, cutting her off and knocking her into the stone floor of the crags.

Moments slid by, and the drums beat as they normally did. Within minutes, the force had passed them.

"Get off me." She said once her wits returned to her, and Cyrdic was surprised to see she actually blushed. He looked her in the eye, not caring if she was embarrassed. "Give away our position again, and your help is no longer required." he told her, and she scoffed at that, quickly resuming her neutral, ageless posture as she drew herself up.

"Where to now?" Konrad asked, the man's mustache looked more white than black, the snow having clung to his upper lip greedily. Cyrdic was about to speak, when he smelled something. Something he didn't expect to smell. It was a musk he had scented back days ago, upon the Nordland shore. An unsettling smell of desire and sweat, and dark amusement. He knew it to be a man, but if it was the same man as he had scented then...then Camilla was close. Perhaps miles away at the most. But in this snow, even that seemed a world away.

"Northwest." He said, and began to make his way down the crags. The others followed suit.
@Penny

[Penny]

It became hard to keep track of time. Camilla trudged forward, through the snow, her wrists bound and attached by a rope to Gorn. The Norscan apparently needed neither sleep nor rest, though he periodically stopped to allow her to collapse for what felt like a few moments before he kicked her awake. Sometimes there would be a fire going and there would be some small badly burned creature in the flames. Camilla ate hungrily despite her revolution, trying to keep her strength up. Her heart ached for Cydric. There was no way to know if he even still lived. A glimmer of hope remained, perhaps the Nordlanders had prevailed, perhaps one of the maimed messangers had made it ashore and evaded the bulk of the stranded Norscans, but it seemed precious little to hold onto. Even if he knew of her, there was no way for him to find her across this barren waste, where the snow and wind devoured all sign of their passage.

After four such stops, she hesitated to call them days, the snow gave way increasingly to bare rock. A range of mountains rose in the distance and small streams flowed down from it, vanishing into sinkholes that Camilla imagined fell to the sea beneath the glacial ice. The sky above the mountains was lit by a couruscance of rainbow hewed light which seemed to pulse as though alive. The air warmed as well, astonishingly fast if she were any judge and a half day after leaving the snow fields she no longer needed the fur cloak that the reaver had given to her. Gorn himself spoke little answering most questions with little more than a grunt or a curse. He seemed to be growing apprehensive which could not have been a good sign.

Another day passed and they reached the foothills of the mountains. To Camilla’s surprise they came upon ruins nestled within the rocky bones of the mountain. That they were eleven was obvious but that elves had ever lived so close to the waste seemed impossible to believe. It wasn’t a large settlement, consisting of a few dozen lichen choked buildings and the stump of what had once been a tower, though time or some other calamity had long since toppled its smooth stone.

“We will camp here,” Gorn declared and, to her surprise, drew a short steel knife and sliced the bonds from wrists. Blood flowed painfully back into her fingertips as she flexed them, nail beds pinkening even in the chill air.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll escape?” she asked as the reaver began to pile rotten timber together for a fire. Gorn laughed a short bitter laugh and shook his head.

“If you were to run now, you would be a drooling spawn before you ever reached the sea,” he assured her and pointed to the brand on his head. The flesh around it had blackened and the veins that spread from it were dark and spidery.

“Get too far from me and you will lose your protection, if I die you will lose your protection, your only chance of reaching the Altar of Urken-sugah unchanged is with me,” The Norscan grated. A flash of insight stole over Camilla.“

Your absorbing the magic, taking the taint into yourself, aren’t you?” she blurted. The Norscan nodded as the small fire caught, kindling crackling around the large pieces of detritus.

“They Prince will reward me when I bring you to his altar,” Gorn said, his eyes hardening into something distant an inhuman.

“You will kneel before me and beg me for my favor,” the Norscan wen’t on, relish creeping into his voice. He licked his lips and his tongue seemed longer than she remembered, slithering out of his mouth like a questing snake. The fire grew purple and for a heartbeat Camilla thought she saw a figure in the flames. She turned her eyes away trying not to think about it.

Camilla woke in the darkness. In the far distance something howled mournfully. To her suprise Gorn was slumped over, apparently asleep. As quietly as she could she came to her feet, uncertain of what she was going to do but certain she should be doing something. Unbidden, her eyes drifted to one of the building, a large oval shaped building flanked by crumbling columades. There was something there, a glimmer of something. Camilla cast a look back at the fire and her sleeping jailer. Gorn hadn’t stirred. Carefully she picked her way over to the building and peered through the ruined archway. Inside as a vast hall, something about it filled her with a mix of excitement and trepidation. With gentle footfalls she picked her way through the hall. Crumbled benches lay on both sides, leading up to a marble altar which was so coated with dust that she would never have picked out its purpose if the rest of the building wasn’t so clearly a temple.

In her mind great statues flanked the altar and she could hear a distant and fey chanting. The scent of blood and steel filled her nostrils as she stepped towards the altar and the chanting, music of a cold and deadly purity swelled in her mind. With a trembling hand she reached out toward the dust covered altar and brushed back an ancient and moth eaten piece of cloth. Beneath it a cruelty curved sword glinted. Its steel shimmered with intricately inlayed designs which faded along the length as though the steel itself were an unseen fog. Gold fillagree wrapped the handle and a small but perfectly cut stone of uncertain color.

“Ranald’s mercy,” she breathed and picked up the sword, finding it to be perfectly balanced. The cold chanting faded as she lifted the blade and she found herself alone in the silent temple. Outside a creature howled, far closer than before and she heard a throaty war cry followed by the scrabbling of claws on stone.

[POOHEAD189]

The days were no longer days as far as Cyrdic could tell, though it was Ivan who said it aloud first. There was an endlessness to the sky, as day and night no longer functioned this far north. The ice and snow turned to barren rock, and the horizon began to shift and coil with iridescent colors that caught and tugged at one's sanity. And even now, Ivan let slip that they still were within the lower boundaries of the Chaos Wastes. It was still many miles until they were truly within the realm of Chaos.

"Let us hope that we can tuck tail and go back before then." Yantz said, and he gave a sideways glance at his mistress as she muttered incantations under her breath. It was a day before the cold had left that she had begun to shield them with her magic. The Chaos taint could affect a man as soon as they had entered into Norscan territory, but it would take weeks for such mutations to begun. But now? The cracked, bleeding ground they walked upon could mutate the barefooted. The very air, rank with chaos winds, could transform any of them into a wretch of the dark gods within hours. Dietrichia's enchantments upon them would last as long as her strength did, which she judged could last days. But Cyrdic and the others were also warned that during this process, she could not utilize her powers in their defense in combat. They would simply have to make do.

Cyric had lost the scent of the barbarian. The wasteland was too bleak. The howling wind of the snows, and the phosphorous air of the wastelands had driven off all scents and markings of those that passed by. But he had smelled him. He knew that if they had gone west or east, he felt confident the barbarian would have been seen, unless he had died of frostbite or eaten by monstrosities.

But no one had been seen passed the army of Wulfrik, and so they continued northwards. Though Ivan, Skaldi, and Dietrichia remained silent and steadfast, the others had begun to show doubts of their journey forward. The Greatswords that were left began to sweat and gaze backwards often, muttering to themselves and gripping their swords tighter. Even looking at Cyrdic with disdain, as though the very land around them poisoned their minds and brought forth their smallest inklings of mistrust. As they did so, the Kislevite's began to speak their native tongue among themselves. Cyrdic only knew a few words in Kislevite, but they spoke the word Ursun as if it were a curse. Ivan had to silence them with a barking order thrice before they buttoned their lips.

Ahead, the eerie red mist of the wasteland began to fade in certain spots of their vision, as if at random. But an hour later they saw a sight that brought them to the very edges of their willpower to remain on course.

"Valya's mercy..." Skaldi breathed. The group ducked as the two headed Chaos Dragon soared above the sky lazily, traveling as if searching for something in particular. Its body was bloated and its two maws were contorted masses of teeth and spittle, only barely resembling the nobility of its uncorrupted kin. It almost looked as if it swayed in the sky, and the distortion of the horizon could not give the group an indication of its exact location. Even Dietrichai was not sure, and her normally calm face was filled with dread at the sight of it. As one of the heads belched flame, the other vomited acid into the wasteland not miles away, though soon it seemed Skaldi's prayer had been answered, for over the course of what seemed to be half a day it flew no closer to the companions, and disappeared as abruptly as it had been first spotted. It only drew their eyes forward and downwards, to spot a mountain range that seemed to have grown out of the very ground.

In the air, Cyrdic smelled the same scent he had caught earlier. And gazing through the miasma, he could see the barest outline of a broken outpost within the mountain rocks. Its architecture sloped and eloquently made, with motifs of dragons and lions emblazoned upon the cracked buildings.

They were of Elvish make...and something was occurring within the blasted ruins...
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla twisted with indecision. Her instinct was to hide in the temple and wait for whatever was out there to kill Gorn, hoping it would pass her by. She thought of the reavers claim about shielding her from the mutating effect of the waste and how it would fail were he to die. Something deep inside of her told her that he was telling the truth. If she wanted to avoid damnation at the hands of the ruinous powers she needed to keep the raider alive. Reluctantly she peered out from behind the titanic arch of the temple.

The courtyard as in chaos. Gorn was surrounded by a group of creatures that defied easy description. One of them looked like a woman carved of blue veined marble but her arms were replaced with a tentacles composed of glittering crystal knives. Another was a man with skin like a vultures neck and equally grotesque talons. As she watched third creature, a man wreathed in pulsing varicolored light struck at gorn with a spear of congealed shadows. The Norcan’s axes wove a web of steel around him, flicking aside blows and opening a path as he retreated, backing towards a large fountain.

Gripping her new found blade she ran across the courtyard on silent dancers feet. Without so much as a sound, she leaped into the air, landed on the crumbled base of a pillar and launched herself onto the back of a creature that seemed half man and half spider. The things coarse hair scraped her thighs as she landed, plunging the elven weapon into the joint between its humanlike torso and the spider like adomen. The blade slid in like a bullet through butter. The thing reared back with a scream of agony, thick yellowish blood spurting from the wound as the Tilean twisted the blade against suction, yanked it free and rolled off the things back. She landed on both feet and one hand, her sword hand free to slashed through the things hair covered leg a foot from the ground before rolling clear of the stricken beast.

Gorn shouted something at her in his own language which she neither understood nor cared to understand. She sprang to her feet and deftly parried a blade of run encrusted obsidian down and away from her body before slashing the eyes from its wielder, a woman composed of twisting gold filaments. There was a sudden stench of burning mushrooms as the wielder collapsed like a pile of wet pasta without so much as a sound. Three of the things came at her in a blur of tentacles and exotic weapons but she deflected the blows or pirouetted away from the strikes, dark hair flying in the breeze. She realized she was laughing as she vaulted onto another pillar and flipped over the back of one of the attackers, thrusting backwards into its body and then spinning to send its jewel infused head tumbling across the ancient flag stones.

Suddenly the plaza was clear save for the Tilean, the Norscan and the twitching bodies of whatever their attackers had been. Blood and icor dripped from Gorn’s twin axes, the bodies around him mute testament to the good use he had made of her unexpected appearance. Their eyes locked across the carnage. The reaver’s eyes flicked to her sword as she bought it down backward, poising the tip a foot above the ground, blade out behind and to the left in a duelists stance.

“Put it down,” the Norscan grated, eye flicking from the sword to its wielder as though he couldn’t decide where the threat truly lay. The blade of the weapon glinted in the lifeless illumination of the anemic arctic sun.

“You can’t…” Gorn began but Camilla was already sprinting towards him, sweeping her blade upwards in a disemboweling stroke. Steel flashed on iltimar as Gorn’s second axe cut down towards Camilla, but the lithe Tilean as already slipping sideways into the gap the axe’s parry had opened. The pressure on the axe was light but when the Norscan shoved Camilla merely stiffend her wrist and let the momentum throw her into a spin, bringing the blade around in a glittering arch. Gorn yelled a guttural curse and leveled an axe blow at Camilla’s midriff, concern for his duty to keep her alive forgotten. The darkened steel scythed empty air as she leaped backwards and cat like onto the edge of the well, paused a moment to regain her balance.

“The Prince take your bitch soul!” Gorn snarled but Camilla was already moving launching herself like a missle, with her meager but perfectly balanced weight behind the strike. The chaos worshiper batted her blade with one axe and bough the second up underhanded, like a man gutting a fish. Camilla sprung from the force of the first parry, spinning sideways and twisting in the air, flipping over the Norscan’s shoulder. With a roar that echoed off the surrounding mountain Gorn began to swing around but Camilla landed on both feet in a croutch and pivoted like a flywheel, one hand dabbed to the dusty stone to steady the stroke. The Elvish blade sliced through both of the reavers ankles like a razor through silk. For a moment Gorn seemed to stagger and then his shins came away from his ankles, the cut making a slightly downward angle from left to right and amputating the top of his right boot. Instinctively the big man staggered and landed on the stumps. Gorn screamed in pain and then toppled to the ground in a mound, axes clattering free of his grip. Camilla deliberately kicked both of the weapons clear and then lay the point of the curved blade to the vanquished Norscan’s throat.

For a moment she stood, totally motionless as blood trickled slowly from the stumps of the chaos warriors legs. His eyes locked hatefully on hers as she touched the point to his throat, waking a small droplet of blood around the razor sharp point. The ruin shuddered and the buildings bean to crumble, slowly at first and then as quickly as sandcastles giving way before the onslaught of the ocean, elegant ruins sinking into dust. As she watched the walls of the temple came down and she saw a statue as tall as the nave of the building, an elf she thought fleetingly but it only lasted a moment longer than the walls which had concealed it, returning as well to the tide of pale white sand flooding out in all directions. For some reason Camilla felt a feeling of grudging approval wash over her as the last of the statue vanished into ruin.

“The Winds will drink your flesh!” Gorn hissed. Camilla let out a breath, her throat dry from her previous manic laughter.

“Only if you die,” she replied, sliding the blade into her belt and picking up one of the gold filaments that remained of the strange woman. She looped the improvised rope around Gorn’s wrists and pulled the knot tight. Then made an improvised tourniquet for each leg. The reaver struggled but the blood loss and the shock of his wounds rendered him to weak to prevent her. Gorn’s lips struggled to move but he spoke quietly and insistently. Confident that the Norscan could do her no harm she leaned closer to hear.

“Slaanesh,” he whispered, his voice dripping with triumph, lust and dark hatred. Camilla slumped into the white sand of the ruins destruction, eyes gazing sightlessly at the shifting aurora of the sky.
@POOHEAD189