The Revenge of Rondhol
Dire News Has Arrived
Briars Bring a Brutal Band of Burly Beasts to Battle, & Brittle Bodies Break Beneath Behemoths
Stately as any queen, her graceful strides carry her through the tumult of battle as if the frenetic struggles playing out all around her belong to a different world. She drifts along, barely noticing any of it. None of the dryads in her vicinity display such detached demeanours. Instead, they are as much barbaric beasts as they have ever been, and she adores them for it. To better benefit her Brood, the branchwych has abandoned the bloodthirsty, belligerent behaviour that once she revelled in. Still, she yet adheres to the view that such acts of savagery are the most desirable practices for any denizen of Ghur to pursue, so is continually gratified to see her sisters as wild as ever.
Looming over the swarming dryads, metal-clad masters riding massive, meek-minded mounts mercilessly maul mortal men. Though these “Knights of the Chalice” would appear at a glance rather civilised themselves—with their shiny armour and brightly hued iconography—for whatever reason, their acts speak of as deep a dedication to the fall of Order as the Brashbriar Brood themselves.
As such, they make for excellent allies, and of late it has been the Brood’s favoured tactic to lope into battle in their wake, mopping up stragglers after disciplined ranks and sturdy formations have crumpled upon contact with the rampaging riders, their tamed titans trampling terrified troops underfoot, and tearing targets in twain with tooth and talon.
If the matriarch cared a jot for civilised concepts such as honour and fairness, she may well have felt ashamed over just how wildly successful this tactic has been; across the last several hunts, their losses have all been in the single digits. These ambushes they’re springing upon the desperate soldiers of the fallen city can hardly even be called proper battles; more like massacres, truth be told.
At this rate, it may be that none of Khardhir’s forces will even reach their intended destination, the Gaping Portal. Although her new allies wish for them to be stopped at all costs, privately, the matriarch does hope that at least some of them make it there. Already she has witnessed once what happens when Order tries to impose its will upon Ghur in that region, and she longs to see Rondhol rise up in defiance again.
Just as that thought is flitting through her mind, a screaming, gore-spattered, spear-wielding woman in the attire of a freeguild guard charges her way. With willowy grace, she bends, allowing the sharp spear-tip to glide past, as her scythe whirls in an elegant arc, its magical blade brought down to bite through the guard’s breastplate like the tooth of a carnosaur. For an instant, the two stand face-to-face, then, with a smooth motion, the branchwych tugs her weapon free and saunters onwards, leaving the horror-stricken soldier to collapse in the mud, bleeding out and immediately forgotten.
A Better Being Bound in Bark Abides
Atop a pile of several corpses, the figure perches. Today, it resembles a dryad, indistinguishable from any of the others in the Brood, except in its behaviour. Rather than tearing into flesh with wild abandon, it merely sits, one arm propped on a knee, chin resting in its palm, and observes the events unfolding around it.
The small-minded sylvaneth pay no heed to the figure, seeing it only as another of their “sisters”. Nearby knights, on the other hand, periodically glance its way, before averting their gazes. It ignores them, other than to appreciate that they are doing an adequate job of ensuring no foes make it close enough that the figure need personally participate in the undignified act of fighting.
It has no particular interest in slaying this squadron of soldiers sent by Khardhir’s council, even though their mission is to interfere with the fae’s plan for the portal. As it has been for some time now, the figure just impatiently awaits the demise of the branchwych, having come to the conclusion that it cannot take the object of its desire from her whilst she lives.
It has even explicitly ordered its knights to avoid aiding allies in the area around the matriarch, something which the dazed ruler seems not to notice in her strange, trance-like state. It is all too apparent to the figure that the formerly feral sylvaneth’s pitiful excuse for a mind has been entirely overwhelmed by whatever magics are buried in the ancient relic she wields.
Rather than ringing warning bells, though, this development only entices the figure even more. It knows that the psyche a being such as itself could not be so easily broken, and the thought of all the power and knowledge awaiting it in that artefact is beyond enticing. It has to have that scythe, and as the Brood continue closing in on the Gaping Portal, where this war’s climactic conclusion will finally be fought, the foes they face will become far fiercer. The matriarch will perish, inevitably, and when she does, the figure will at last claim its prize.
For an instant, its eyes appear to be swallowed by darkness, becoming pitch-black orbs as its face is split quite literally ear-to-ear and wispy shadows leak from that gaping maw. Then the moment passes, and the figure is merely one more dryad, once again.
A Bestial Birch Bloodily Basks in Barbarism
She jerks back her head, tearing free a gory lump of unidentifiable offal from the corpse’s gut. As always in successful hunts, her face, hands and forearms are drenched in blood, as she revels in the simple pleasure of devouring her kill.
Her primitive mind does not comprehend the scale or scope of the conflict in which she is embroiled. All she knows is that lately, food and fighting have been plentiful beyond her wildest dreams, as the matriarch leads them unerringly to these little herds of humans. What’s more, with the big beasts on their side, the prey’s attempts at defending themselves have been utterly ineffectual, leading the Brood to a string of almost effortless victories.
The dryad isn’t sure why these big beasts (and the steel-clad figures on their backs) are so keen to help with their hunts, but like all her sisters, she does not question the matriarch’s will. Whilst straining to crack open the dead man’s rib cage and get at the juicy morsels hidden within, she glances sidelong at the branchwych, who has just ambled over her way.
Her primitive mind having almost no long-term memory, she only vaguely recalls the previous matriarch, but even so, she is certain that one was quite different to the current. Their old leader had been as fierce as the rest of the Brood, yet also calculating in a way that none of the savage sisters could be. On the other hand, this branchwych is apparently neither of those things. She simply saunters slowly through the melee, taking everything in stride, a dreamy look on her face.
As the dryad watches, a pair of freeguild guards notice the approaching enemy commander and peel away from the engagements they were involved in. Both run at the apparently dazed dryad, but the first doesn’t even manage a single swing. The skittering bittergrub that lurks amidst the wych’s branches uncoils swiftly as a striking serpent, and its powerful mandibles clamp closed around her neck. Then it jerks its body to one side, the force of the sudden motion tossing most of of the woman away, though the spite keeps a sizeable chunk of her throat clamped in its jaws.
The other is dealt with more gracefully, the spinning scythe sweeping up to parry a thrust, then going on to sever the soldier’s sword-arm in a single, flowing motion. The man drops to his knees with a shriek, clutching the stump where his arm once was, in a futile attempt at staunching the flow of blood. The branchwych doesn’t even appear to notice, her vacant expression unchanging as she meanders off.
Crack. Immediately, the sister’s head snaps back to the corpse over which she is crouched, as several ribs come away in her hands, all thoughts of her matriarch gone in an instant. Tossing the bones aside, she greedily stuffs fresh flesh into her maw, blithely biting off more than she can chew, until she’s well past the point of being full.
Inevitably, her stomach rebels, and in mere moments, all her hard work is undone, as she heaves, violently regurgitating everything she’s just eaten, all over the half-consumed carcass. She is left with an empty belly, and an unpleasant, bitter taste on her tongue. After spitting a glob of reddish bile, she wipes her mouth with the back of one sanguine claw, scowling down at the mess.
To the feral forest folk, the hunt is everything, for it is the will of Ghur that its denizens find, slay and devour their prey. That their sylvaneth bodies cannot actually digest any of the meat they ravenously wolf down is a matter of no concern to the Brood.
With this meal ruined, her thoughts turn to the next. Glancing about in search of more prey, she turns her frown upside-down upon noticing that the man disarmed by her branchwych hasn’t yet been pounced upon by one of her sisters. Bounding forwards on all fours, with the speed of a hunting hound, he barely even manages to look up and meet her gaze before she’s upon him.
