Inspired by Bob's prodigious* output, I have written a story, and tried to make it longer than I'm used to. Don't worry, it's still comparatively short; if Bob is the mage priest of lizardman fluff, I am the lowest of skink acolytes. *I will forever associate the word prodigious with a description in one of the army books (7th or 8th, can't remember) of the slann taking a "prodigious gulp" of magical energy. Pure genius. Anyways, presenting: The True Meaning of Chaos -or- Zen and the Art of Lustrian Butterfly Maintenance Jungle light filtered through small cracks in the crumbling stonework, creating tiny refractions of golden radiance where it struck the ponderous carvings. Mage Priest Brah’dbri awoke with a shudder. He blinked as he surveyed the empty temple sanctum and pondered the single thought whose violence had disturbed his timeless slumber. Things were not as they should be. His eyes were drawn by the gentlest of fluctuations: the fragile flap of tiny silken rainbows. He stared at the insect with a face like the jungle itself. His thoughts groped the universe. Ah yes, there it was. Tenderly, he reached out his mind. The butterly moved through the humid ether like a spirit, its colours prisming the wan sunbeams. It changed direction. The insect alighted on the lip of one of the narrow crevice portals to the outside world. There was a moment of perfect equilibrium, and then it was gone. The slann withdrew again. If he had possessed eyebrows, they would have furrowed. He settled back...and waited. *** The great Temple rises like the world’s steepest volcano from the city below. Clouds ring its summit, where the Mage Priest waits. Our view sweeps out of the sky and towards this portentous erie, with the sky-wide brilliance of the sun materialising behind its prehistoric masonry as we descend. At last we reach the tiny fissure from which the butterfly emerges, its peculiar form of frantic floating carrying it into the distance, while a minute crumb of stonework is dislodged by its departure. Caught by the morning rays, the fragment appears to hang like a star in the freezing air before it sinks forever through the clouds. The tiny stone hits a high temple step and bounces. *** “You know, I feel like I’ve gone my whole life without ever making the slightest difference to anything,” opined Gral. “You probably haven’t, mate,” replied Zcaq, his partner in razordon-handling crimes. The two skinks considered the issue while continuing to stare at the backside of their temperamental charge, Sharpie. The beast took no notice. Around them, the heart of the temple city bustled. A team of kroxigors laboured past, dragging an enormous slab of marble for some ineffable construction project. Skink attendants zipped every which way, while saurus regiments marched dispassionately, heading for the barracks. Gral and Zcaq looked up as the sun was obscured by the heavy footfall of old Betz, the infamous red stegadon. They shuffled nonchalantly out of its shadow. “You know,” said Gral, thoughtfully, “that’s not a very nice thing to say to me. I could do great things one day. I could. At least Sharpie appreciates me.” “You go stand in front of her and say that,” scoffed Zcaq. “Oh you- Ah!” exclaimed Gral as a small rock hit him hard on the top of the head. Instinctively he stumbled forward, clutching the wound with his free hand. With his other, which contained the sharp prodding stick, he automatically tried to steady himself on the only available support: Sharpie’s backside. It was immediately clear that this was not a good move. The razordon wheezed in pain and braced itself. A shower of keen-edged bone projectiles zipped forwards. There was an endless moment of horror as the skinks began to comprehend the object of Sharpie’s attack. It seemed to Gral that the entire city went silent. It didn’t last. A second later, old Betz felt the excruciating pain of the pin pricks that had just impaled her belly. With a primal bellow, the ancient dinosaur reared enormously on her back hooves, throwing off the precarious howdah and sending the whole square into disarray. Reptiles of various species and occupations screeched and howled as they flung themselves out of the warpath of the rampaging stegadon, which charged in a terrifying crimson whirlwind down the city’s central avenue and clean out of the gates. Wide-eyed, the two skink handlers watched as Betz disappeared into the treeline beyond. There was the sound of rending timbers, and the jungle canopy could be seen to sway and groan as the creature continued its stampede. Finally the proverbial dust settled and the children of the Old Ones began to pick themselves off the ground. A series of reptilian faces turned towards Gral and Zcaq. “What were you saying about making a difference?” asked Zcaq. *** Captain Ulrich von Schmismarck leapt energetically from the prow of the small rowboat and struck what he hoped was a majestic pose on the sand. Before him lay the untamed vastness of the jungle, with all the riches to be claimed therein. Yes, other bolder and arguably better prepared explorers had tried to claim them before and failed, but Ulrich was a big believer in the power of optimism. He turned back to the small fleet of similar dinghies - detached from the galleon anchored a little ways offshore - containing his personal escort of 100 good men of the Empire and true. “Men! Today we take our first steps into the great wilds of Lustria!” began the Captain. “This is a new land of opportunity. We will display the courage and ingenuity necessary to tame it, gentlemen. The ingenuity! And we shall return rich in both experience and, er, riches. In the name of Sigmar, I pronounce this the First Expedition of Ulrich von Schmismarck!” No cheer, he noticed. Still, the men seemed in good spirits as they followed him onto the sand. He held his sword aloft and began to march up the steep beach towards the trees. He heard scuffling behind that told him the men were following. They were following him into the jungle! His heart began to thunder. Then his progress faltered as he looked up. There was a disturbance in the trees. He fancied he heard the distant sounds of a great roaring. Surely no one yet knew of their arrival? A tree not far away disappeared from view with a gigantic crash. The sand at Ulrich’s feet began to sift towards the sea as it was dislodged by rhythmic vibrations. The very ground was shaking. Quickly, he remembered he should press on. Showing weakness at this stage wouldn’t do at all. He tried to make himself continue the march. But the roaring was definitely getting louder. There was a flash of something red and huge. Ulrich’s blood turned to ice. Suddenly it was no longer a flash. There were shouts of panic and a number of gunshots from the fastest of the Empire men. But it was all over before it began. The scarlet stegadon streaked out of the forest, its eyes circles of pure frenzy, and immediately set about crushing the entire expeditionary force to death. Only the Captain survived. As soon as Betz appeared in the trees, his legs were already pumping back to the boats. Back on the galleon, he quietly told the sailors that there was a change of plans and that they’d be going home early. The crew weren’t paid to ask questions. DEATH COUNT: 99 *** Amélie loved her town. Malchanceux was a beautiful port on the western coast of the Kingdom of Bretonia, mainly known for its thriving fish trade and as being the last stopping point for sailors travelling to the West from the Empire or beyond. Like she did every morning, Amélie marvelled at the beauty of the little harbour as she walked down to market from her hilltop home. Eventually reaching her destination, she greeted the owners of the stalls either side of her, before setting out her wares: a collection of exquisitely decorated seashells for which she was known throughout the region. “Beautiful day today,” chimed old Josette, who sold cured meats on her left. “Oui,” agreed Amélie. “Spring is in the air, can you feel it?” “Only thing I can feel is my kidney stone,” grumbled the burley Jean-Pierre on her right. The portly Breton sold bronze lamps, and was just lighting up the finest for display. “Did you see doctor Luc yet?” asked Amélie, kindly. “I don’t need no smelly doctor. It’s just pain,” he muttered. “You’ve got a customer. Mind the lamps while I ask at the tavern for a little water, will you?” Amélie nodded as she turned to the tall, pale soldier now admiring her shells. “T-these are so beautiful,” breathed the man in a heavy Empire accent. He seemed sad and shell-shocked, almost crying as he held one of Amélie’s pieces up to his face. “Why thank you, Captain…” smiled Amélie. “Von Schmismark, 5th infantry,” returned the man, glancing around as if his own name was embarrassing to him. “Enchanté, monsieur capitain. I do hope you’re enjoying your stay in Malchanceux. You must have had quite the voyage. The shell is just 12 francs. I also accept marks.” The captain smiled wanly. “Your town is simply charming. And I will certainly purchase one of these magnificent creations, so I can remember it forever.” He attempted a bow, but with a sudden shudder he was forced to grip the side of Jean-Pierre’s stall. The whole thing vibrated horribly under his weight, and one of the lit lamps tumbled off, igniting the tins of fuel that the salesman kept underneath. Within seconds the entire stall was in flames, fire moving swiftly along the fabric draped over and around it. “Feu!” cried old Josette, immediately fainting. Amélie tried to drag her away as the whole market burst into panic, the fire spreading impossibly fast between the stalls. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry…” gibbered Ulrich, frantically waving at the flames with his hands as if that would achieve anything. “Mon dieu!” cried Amélie, desperately. “Help me here!” Later that evening, Améllie looked over her beloved home from her house in the hills. There was nothing there but charcoal. Damn that miserable von Schmismarck. What a pathetic excuse for a soldier. She hoped he was among the dead. DEATH COUNT (non-cumulative): 2,731 *** Thane Grisson was nervous. “Me Laird, ye cannae really be thinking to light yon beacon, can ye?” he inquired. King Karlsonson looked down at the torch in his hand. He gave a little growl. “Them bleeding elves. They have us in a wee bittie dilemma, aye. If I dinnae light this bonnie pyre, we’ll say guidbye tae any chance we had at mining in yonder southlands.” “Aye, King. But if ye do…” “It’s war, I ken. An’ I dinnae tak that light.” He stared down at the small flame again, his face an even grimmer mask than usual in the flickering glow. Suddenly he looked up as a cry rang out from a nearby guard. “Yonder beacon! Tis lit! Someone lit the beacons!” It was true. Tiny lights were appearing like stars along the line of mountaintops, a chain of transmission stretching as far as the king could see. Slowly and deliberately, he turned around. In the other direction, far away but not so far that it would be distinguishable from a viewpoint at the next beacon down, there was the glow of a huge fire. “Ach bugger,” said the king, in the traditional manner of dwarfs faced with total disaster. “Some other boggin has set fire to some town o’ thing. Well that’s tha’ then. Decision made.” He turned back to the white-faced Thane. “Grisson, me ol’ pal, I dinnae think the boys need tae know about this wee snafu, eh? Go on, then, let’s go kill some pointy-ears.” They set off down to the great halls. Karlsonson detached the huge axe on his belt. “For the glory o’ t’mines, whey-hey!” DEATH COUNT (elves): 45,782 DEATH COUNT (dwarves): 62,950 *** Shnog the shaman picked his raggedy way across the battlefield. The warparty had turned up too late. The short paleskins and tall paleskins were all dead by the time they arrived. Mist was swirling among the bodies, where crows had already pecked away large chunks. They’d been searching for hours, but Shnog was not about to give up. He knew it was here somewhere. Finally, something shiny caught his eye on the armour of a fancy-looking elf. He snatched it up. Ah yes, he could feel it. At last. With goblin rags fluttering behind him, he tramped over to the hulking orcish general, who was jumping up and down on a pile of dwarves. He gripped his skull-adorned staff and held out the bauble he had discovered in his other hand. “Oi, Balbug,” Shnog began cautiously. The orc continued his angry leaping. “I got da fing. It’s a real good fing, you’ll see. Almost got da full set. Just need one more, then we’ll have lotsa power, oh yes, lotsa lovely power.” Balbug grunted at him with incomprehension. “What I’m sayin is, we’ve gotta go to da desert lands, like. To get da last one. So...you know...time for another Waaagh?” Finally the light of action dawned in the brutish green face. Balbug leapt onto his stinking boar and sped off into the distance, the rest of the horde falling in behind. His happy cries of “Kill kill kill” got progressively quieter. Shnog watched with an evil smirk. Several days later, the shaman opened the lid of a casket in the depths of a murky tomb. There it was, gleaming out at him. He thought back through the last few hours. Perhaps he shouldn’t have broken the seal on that door that said “cursed are any that pass this way.” Still, what use was a greenskin horde if not to distract the armies of the woken dead as they marched forth as numberless as the grains of the desert, eh? It was all worth it now, oh yes. Shnog jumped slightly as he felt a presence behind him in the tomb. Ever so slowly, he turned to face the entrance that so recently had not been blocked by an enormous slab. And he was no longer alone. He squinted up into a face that did not look at all well. “What you grinning at, mister? Hurk!” said Shnog, dropping the final artifact as the scimitar sliced his torso in half. DEATH COUNT (orcs, goblins and tomb kings): 9,690 REANIMATION COUNT (tomb kings only): 6,432 *** Felix the Prodder had had it up to his improbably pointy hairline. It was bad enough being a vampire with a name like the Prodder - was it his fault that he’d chipped his canines as a youngster and was no longer able to puncture tender, virginal necks like he’d used to? But then to be captured by dark elves on the way to the shops was just adding insult to injury. Before he’d known what was what, they’d taken him out to this godforsaken desert coast and started sticking pointy things into him. All he wanted was his coffin and a nice cup of blatte (a warm, frothy, red beverage of his own invention). “Seriously, guys, vhy are you doing this?” he asked, with an attempt at a good-natured smile. The sorceress withdrew a poisoned needle from his liver and tried pushing it through his palm. She laughed hysterically as Felix winced. He grinned nervously. He still couldn’t understand their sense of humour. “Ha. Ha. That iz so funny. Please stop.” The elf ignored him. It had been around this point that scouts noticed a vast legion of skeletons marching tirelessly across the dunes. The Druchii attempted to withdraw, but it was too late: the dead had seen the elven banners. Without pause or a single break of formation, entire army wheeled to descend upon the raider outpost. Felix had to admit he wasn’t too upset to see them all get massacred. He’d snuck onboard an empty ship and - after extracting several dusty arrows from various parts of his torso - rowed for what seemed like eternity, although of course he was used to that feeling by now. Finally he reached a wooded shoreline, where he stumbled over deserted hills. Out of loneliness he raised a little group of zombie followers to accompany him until he found somewhere to buy a nice new velvet-trimmed cape. He was enjoying getting to know them. “So, Bob,” he was saying to his favourite minion. “How’s ze life underground? You liked ze last few months rotting away?” “Hruuuuugh”, said Bob. “You know, you make excellent point,” continued the increasingly desperate vampire. They rounded a corner. “Oh hello und greetings! And who might you-” “Aaaaah! Zombies! I told you this place was haunted!” Felix the Prodder watched sadly as the two well-proportioned gentlemen he’d just met on the path turned and cantered away as fast as their stocky legs would carry them. A nice quiet undeath, that’s all he wanted. Why did people have to be so rude? And why was one of them holding a sheep? DEATH COUNT (dark elves): 352 *** “Blood-gulper and Tooth-smasher ain’t got back, chief,” mumbled Gore-gurgler the ogre as dusk fell in the camp. He’d drawn the short piece of gristle. It was famously a poor life decision to break bad news to the chief. “Well if they ain’t back,” said Slaughtermaster Slaughter-slaughter, sounding it out slowly, “then what am I going to eat, hm?” The ogre raised himself from his seat facing the large, bubbling cauldron. He weighed about 1,200 pounds and all of it was on display other than a small patch of shoulder onto which three inches of iron had been literally bolted. He had once crushed an entire phalanx of state troopers to death just by rolling down a hill at them. Gore-gurgler, a mere whelp of 450 pounds, took a step backwards, slipped on the remnants of the previous meal and landed with a horrible crack. “Ahahaha!” laughed Slaughter-slaughter, deliberately, as Gore-gurgler whimpered. Suddenly his mirth was cut short and he looked to the sky. A series of heavy “plops” across the heaving acreage of the chief’s flesh indicated the beginning of a rainstorm...and also Gore-gurgler’s salvation. “Well fuck this for a lambchop!” roared the larger ogre through his tusks. “We’re moving out. I ain’t getting rained on. Gonna spend the night in them trees.” “N-no, no chief, don’t do that!” cried the stricken Gore-gurgler from the floor before he could stop himself. “You dare tell me what to do, pig-breath?! Well maybe if I had some food, I wouldn’t be so...upset about this rain now, would I?! So who’s fault is this really? You come with us or you stay out here and starve. We ain’t coming back for ya.” Minutes later, the entire encampment was filtering through the trees. It took six of them to carry the steaming cauldron. The only non-ogre sound was the susurrus of rain on the treetops. “Well I certainly see your point about all the trees looking dark and menacing,” said Murder-muncher, one of Gore-gurgler’s mates. “I’m telling you. Everyone I’ve eaten around here says this wood is haunted.” “They may have a point.” Murder-muncher fiddled with his breastplate as he glanced about them. Suddenly the chief’s voice boomed out. “See if there’s anything to kill around here! And get a fire started. A big one.” Gore-gurgler thought he heard a multitude of tiny whispering voices around them at the word “fire”. Or maybe it was one big whisper - the forest itself. He groaned. His stomach groaned louder. Ogres had dragged a large collection of firewood into a ramshackle pile. One of them was coating it with a liberal dusting of gunpowder. Gore-gurgler wanted to do something but he knew he would be powerless to stop what was coming. For a moment, the forest seemed to fill with absolute silence. Then Slaughter-slaughter lit a match. It dropped for what seemed a lifetime, the tiny flame dancing softly like a butterfly. Moments after the fire came quietly woomphing into life, arrows were twanging through the trees. “Elves!” came the predictable cry, as panic broke out. “We’re surrounded!” Gore-gurgler backed away as inconspicuously as he could, hoping to lose himself in the shadows. He felt something rough and barky behind him that hadn’t been there a moment ago. He looked around. And then up. “We. Hate. FIRE!” hissed the tree behind him. The last thing Gore-gurgler remembered were black branches filling his vision. DEATH COUNT (ogres): 145 *** Skullbearer the Barbarian had been considered odd even by the most fanatical of the Chaos warbands. It wasn’t that they doubted his strength, or his commitment to slaughtering the weak and the impure. It was the way he really liked skulls. The man looked like a walking pile of snowballs. Instead of the traditional giant black armour adorned with as many pointless spikes as possible - with the odd skull or two thrown in, sure - Skullbearer simply dispensed with everything but the skulls, gluing them all together into a ghastly bubble-like body wrap that no one had ever seen him take off. He also tended to carry around a huge satchel - made of skulls - which he filled with more skulls. Rumour had it that instead of claiming treasure from his conquests, or the approval of the gods, Skullbearer would take only the skulls of his victims, clean them meticulously, and then add them to his collection. Super weird, thought Ragnar the Desolator, looking down at the body. Still, at least it made identification fairly straightforward. Skullbearer was face down in the mud, a dozen yards beyond the treeline - although the thickness of his bony exoskeleton kept him a few inches from the actual ground. Among the myriad tessellations that the Barbarian had arranged for the skulls on his back protruded a slender shaft of pinewood, exquisitely fletched at. Should have stuck with classic ultra-thick steel, thought Ragnar. “Must have been elves,” commented his partner in barbarism, Belkith the Very Cross. “Looks like a stray arrow coming out of the woods. They must have been shooting at something in there. One of them missed and hit our boy here.” “A damn shame,” Ragnar replied. “Sure he had his little ways, but when it came down to it, he could massacre innocents with the best of them.” “Really makes a guy think,” mused Belkith. “It is a sign,” came a voice like hideous syrup from behind the two warriors. Awkwardly negotiating their bulky armour, Ragnar and Belkith turned and peered down at the small creature who’d spoken. Then they shared a glance. Damn. Elizika the Crone. “Oh hey Liz, it’s you. What a ...lovely surprise,” began Ragnar. He got a suspicious glare from a face full of wrinkles, dominated by an ungodly nose. “Don’t you try to butter me up young Mr Desolator,” said the Crone, irritably. “The gods have sent me the soul of this glorious warrior so that I may summon a familiar from the Other Side. It is…” she glanced around and leant forward to whisper. “...a most welcome sign.” The two men shared another look through the tiny, angled slits of their horned helmets. “....suuuure, whatever you say Liz. Just let us give him a decent burial afterwards, huh?” They backed away. A skull obsession was one thing, but Elizika took weird to a whole new level. Still, they had to tolerate her. Their Lord kept her around because she kept sucking the lifeforce out of enemy champions on the battlefield, which tended to prove handy. From a sensible distance, Ragnar and Belkith watched as the ancient woman began to mumble and wave her arms above Skullbearer’s corpse. The mound of skulls started to look significantly whiter. “You ever seen her do this before?” asked Ragnar. “Once, in the Battle of Thunderhead Pass. A little bit of sick came up in my mouth that time.” Ragnar rocked back and forth on the balls of his enormous boots. “OK,” he said. “Well I’ve seen you slice a man into ten thousand little bits, so anything that makes you queasy ought to be a right laugh.” The ritual seemed to be building. Strange lights were dancing around the little crone. Ragnar thought he saw dreadful faces appear in the air. “Gods,” he breathed, as various parts of Skullbearer’s body began to contort. “Is that supposed to happen?” “Pretty sure, yeah.” “And...that?” “Mm-hm. Think so.” “Surely not that!” “Oooh I think that’s very much part of- oh. Oh my gods.” A horrible pink, shimmering crack appeared in thin air. A pair of scaly green claws protruded out of it, soon accompanied by several tentacles. Ragnar saw Elizika’s feeble eyes open wide with horror. She cowered back, covering her face with her arms as magical forces flowed out of her in a torrent. The calloused claws gripped the pink line of the rift and wrenched it fully open, revealing a void beyond, seething with legions of daemonic horrors of every description. The nearest ball of teeth lunged through and swallowed the crone with a terrible gnashing. Then it reared to its full, monstrous height and - despite a lack of eyes - it looked around. “OK, that, I think, is definitely not supposed to happen,” said Belkith. He privately thanked the gods that his armour prevented anyone from seeing what was going on in his crotch area. He turned to his companion, but Ragnar was already sprinting back to camp. From well back behind him, Ragnar the Desolator heard Belkith shout: “Not that way! You’ll lead them straight to aaaaargh aaargh gods save maaaargh!” At least that was a slightly more fitting end for a warrior, thought Ragnar. Slightly. DEATH COUNT (Warrior horde consumed by demons): 340,721 *** “Please let me push it. Oh go on. Pleeeeease,” whined Ikthar the Grim. “I don’t know,” said the King of the dwarves of chaos. “It’ll probably go horribly wrong.” They looked towards the imposing, circular stone button that had been slotted into the arcane pedestal and marked with the most powerful runes of destruction and conquest. For some reason, the designers had been compelled to paint it red. The King knew that only he could make this decision. After all, he was the one with the tallest and most colourful hat around here - not to mention the bushiest and most extravagantly cultivated beard. The relentless tide of daemons had devastated their armies and driven them back almost to the city gates. All would be lost if something wasn’t done. And what was the point of preparing an Ultimate Weapon if you were never going to use it, eh? He tried not to think about all the warnings the engineers had stressed about how it had never been tested and the energies involved were inherently unstable. As the ruler of the chaos dwarves, he was well practiced in ignoring all things rational or moderate. The red button was an impressive construct in its own right. The pedestal was superbly decorated. Lots of skulls and inscriptions about enslaving all the peoples of the world to dwarven might. Unfortunately, it had clearly not been built with dwarven stature in mind. Pointedly not looking at Ikthar, the King climbed onto a little step ladder and reached up. Something went click. “Aw. I wanted to push it,” whined Ikthar again. Then the Ultimate Weapon went boom. DEATH COUNT (Chaos dwarves consumed by daemons): 97,380 *** “Oh no-damn,” hissed Warlock Squizzle. Alone in his diabolical laboratory, the rat detached the warpstone filters from his bronze scrying goggles and looked up from the Portal of Seeing with an expression of terror. “Those stupid-foolish half-sized imbeciles!” muttered Squizzle to himself as he leapt from his chair and began to scurry about the room. He was too panicked to actually attempt anything useful, but gradually the idea occurred to him of rifling through his various collections of arcane bits and bobs to see if there was anything that could possibly save his hide from what he had seen was coming for him. For him and everyone else- A sphere of pure destructive energy, expanding across the globe, incinerating everything in its path, both above and below ground- A gleam caught his eye. There, on a dusty corner of the uppermost shelf. A little black crystal trinket. Squizzle remembered taking it from an engineer he had stabbed in the back once. His clan's Lord Warlock had told him the dead rat had picked it up in Lustria. Squizzle swarmed up the shelf and retrieved the angular object. It was pulsing faintly with dim light, and he thought he could discern worn engravings of snakes and jaguars. The Lord Warlock had considered it worthless, but Squizzle had long suspected that it contained powers far beyond those suggested by its external appearance. Now was the time to find out. He’d never got it to work before, but maybe if he twizzled this bit, lined this other section up so the snake’s tail was positioned next to its mouth… The thing began to glow more brightly. Squizzle glanced back at the Portal of Seeing and gasped at how much closer the wall of energy had come. His hands sped faster as they tinkered with the object, configuring it in as many combinations as possible. The dwarven oblivion was almost on him. Spin, twist, whir, push. Suddenly Squizzle was surrounded by a gossamer bubble that glistened like spider silk. At the same moment, the entire laboratory was bathed in magical flame. The workbenches dissolved to dust. But everything within the bubble - not much more than just Squizzle, the artifact, and the Portal - remained untouched. The Warlock froze, wide-eyed and pointy-eared, his senses failing to comprehend how he wasn’t burning alive. As the magic died down, the relic contorted itself back to what passed for an “off” position and the rat fell to his knees. Still twitching with fear, he slowly managed to look back to the scrying Portal. It looked like the fallout from the chaos dwarves’ awful experiment was not as far-reaching as it had looked - the fiery tsunami had moved past his current position, but it hadn’t reached far into human lands or into the Skaven tunnels that lurked beneath. It was only about a third of the continent that had been obliterated. The other members of his clan would think him dead. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage, wait in the shadows and strike just when they least expected it. Yes, this could work very nicely. Chuckling slightly to himself as his head filled with nefarious designs, Squizzle absent mindedly replaced the Lustrian artifact on the shelf and snuck out of the devastated laboratory. He was so absorbed with his plans that he failed to notice the walls of the tunnel giving way until it was much too late. Heedless of Warlock Squizzle’s sudden demise, the artifact continued to sit, unnoticed, on the top shelf, exactly where it had been before. Although... not quite exactly. Now it was two inches to the left. DEATH COUNT (all races killed by Chaos Magic): 13,584,280 *** In the dusty temple sanctum, thin beams of jungle light continued their unfaltering illumination of random patches of stonework. One of them fell across Mage Priest Brah’dbri’s fleshy visage. Finally, it looked...satisfied. Things were once more as they should be.
Awesome. I think your ability to switch perspectives from one race to another is especially impressive. I just added you to the Lustriapedia now. Hope to see more of you work as the year enfolds.
Thank you and what an honour! I would humbly request that if you're going to put "behold" in front of the title, it might work better if there's a link Also if you're willing to post fluff that's heretically published off-site, you could add a link to my past army-related lizardman fiction at http://findingthenaq.blogspot.co.uk/ - no worries if not.
Finally found the time for a read. Bravo, @thedarkfourth , that was a ripping tale. Your Slann are more overpowered than most...
My favorite aspect of that was that the first 200000 deaths were spent to allow Prodder the Vampire to live. I suppose he didn't really need to die, being already dead and all.
Good one! Excellent for one of my daily train sessions! I liked the different settings and the death count...