In Bright, Sacred Flames, the village burned. Every last hut had been set on fire.
Corpses lay strewn about, blood seeping into the ground; many lay alongside a poorly constructed barricade, some on what had served as a central plaza, some around the tribe’s shrine, which was demolished and gleefully desecrated by their Blissbarb archer detachment.
Meanwhile, a unit of Tzaangor Templars stood in disciplined ranks, the flames reflecting in their resplendent golden armour. Skyfire archers secured the perimeter, and the Templar cavalry changed formations.
Vardeshir the Solemn stood with his entourage and nipped at freshly brewed tea while he observed the fires and how the tribe’s chieftain, Halgeir, was dragged before him.
The symbol of Khorne had been only recently cut into his forehead – like all of his tribe, he was a recent convert.
An extraordinarily bad time for that decision.
For a Khornate, even a recent one, Halgeir seemed surprisingly collected, as he stared at Vardeshir with pure hatred written all over his bearded, swollen face. His was a cold, hard rage, even as the Tzaangor Paladin ignored him in his chains, and continued to savor the local brew instead.
“Kill us already, scum. Take your time or don’t. Khorne does not care from whence the blood flows! As Father Asgot did, we will all die in Glory. Our deaths will please the Blood God.”
Vardeshir lowered his gaze to the Slaughterpriest lying in the dirt only a few paces away. He doubted the man himself found his death particularly glorious, being cut to shreds by a dainty barefoot Slaaneshi Lady in a ballgown wielding a rapier.
His eyes traveled to Lady Selancourte, and she shared a bemused look with him.
“Ah, but you are mistaken. There will be no blood in your death.” he spoke, serenely, while moving his focus back to the chieftain.
With the Paladin’s nod, a gag was forced into the chieftain’s mouth, his eyes wide in surprise and disbelief.
“Father Asgot overstepped, reached too far, and did not have the sense of adequate protection. I doubt Khorne will be pleased at this humiliation at the hands of his most hated brother’s champion. As for you and yours – you will be an example.”
The Tzaangor Crusaders dragged the chained man to where the other survivors of his tribe were held kneeling on the ground, everyone likewise bound and gagged.
The expressions of panic and fear in their eyes were an acceptable compensation for not getting to hear their lamentations; gagging the Khornates was a necessary precaution, as they tended to bite off their tongues for some cheap defiance.
It had taken an example for the Slaaneshi warbands accompanying the host of the Templars of Our Burning Saviour to see the beauty of this practice, but now, they were very eager in carrying out the sentence.
Soon, gnarled trees near the village’s ruins hung full of Khornate corpses, strung up like common footpads.
Vardeshir the Solemn gave the signal for their departure.
