The Revenge of Rondhol
The Black Pits
Briars in the Chasm
The ground shudders violently underfoot, and several sisters topple, whilst others stumble and flail, but manage to remain upright. Only the branchwych is at ease, her willowy form swaying like a reed in the wind, yet always remaining poised. Somewhat more lucid in the wake of the daemon-thing’s appearance, she calmly appraises the situation as horrific cracking and wrenching noises resound from above. Vast clods of earth tumble down and slam into the cavern floor with enough force to scatter dirt in all directions, and in their wake, rays of sunlight penetrate the gloom like shining lances.
Many of her dear dryads are crying out in alarm, and a couple try to tug her away, back the way they came. She shrugs off their hands, though, and walks deeper into the darkness. The magic that flows in her veins and sings in her heart may now be more Ghyranite than Ghurish, yet even if tied to another realm, it is still the magic of growing things, and thus provides a certain degree of clarity on earthy matters; she feels sure that heading deeper is the only way to reach their destination.
As her terrified sisters scramble to follow, more and more of the ceiling collapses around them, the falling debris — which now includes whole trees, not merely the earth they were rooted to — narrowly misses the path they are taking, whilst more and more of Hysh’s radiance bathes the ground up ahead, illuminating their way.
All the while, the land beneath them continues to buck and writhe, tossing the feral forest folk about with wild abandon. A far cry from her sorry state earlier in the day, now the branchwych saunters forwards in easy, loping strides, the sweet song of soil keeping her appraised of every motion almost before it happens, allowing her to glide across the roiling earth with an effortless grace, even as her sisters struggle to keep pace.
When they come upon a steadily spreading chasm, she does not hesitate to lead them down into its depths, despite yet more shrill cries of alarm from a good few of her dryads, a certain one-eyed branch nymph amongst them. The sisters soon quieten, though whether from reassurance or from fright, she cannot say; whilst the tremors are much less strongly felt here, in this robust crevasse, the walls do groan and crack loudly as the chasm continues to advance and widen around them, so it could be either.
She is not concerned, though. This melody she hears is not a dirge, foreshadowing a landslide that will bury them alive. Rather, it seems to subtly swell and rise with every step she takes, as though she is approaching some as yet unsuspected climax. Could the crag be leading them to their vengeance upon the seraphon? She cannot yet say, but knows she must not stray from this path all the same. Something in the tune assures her that destiny is at hand.
As they walk, something strange occurs in her soul. The energies of Ghur and Ghyran, previously fighting like rabid dogs — and tearing apart her psyche in the process, as each power sought to assert its dominance over the other — now seem much less adversarial.
Her Ghurish half revels in the Destruction all around; with this chasm resembling a titanic claw-mark carved into Rondhol’s hide, that is no great shock.
What comes as more of a surprise is that her Ghyranite sensibilities concur. Through her mystical connection to the land, she somehow can feel that these open wounds in the earth will in the long term benefit the continent which she calls home. In the same way that a human doctor might use bloodletting to drain toxins from a patient’s veins, so does she get the impression that by exposing some ancient rot to be excised, this fissure — and others like it, if there are any more — may actually be a means of healing Rondhol, rather than doing harm to it.
Eventually, the chasm leads into a vast wound in the earth, which her scythe informs her is called an “open-pit” mine. Humanoid figures attired in simple green and brown robes — patterned in such a way as to bear a slight resemblance to natural foliage — swing picks at the rock faces, digging for something. All of her sisters either hiss menacingly or let loose sharp shrieks, and are but an instant from pouring forth from the crevasse to slaughter with wild abandon, when she calmly raises a hand to stay them.
She impassively observes the scene before her, whilst her darling dryads gnash their teeth and claw at the ground impatiently. The miners take no notice, but they are not alone. A trio of armoured figures perched atop mighty beasts stand watch over the proceedings, and they are not so disinterested as their charges. The knights immediately make for the source of the disturbance, their agile mounts leaping from foothold to foothold apparently without difficulty, despite the narrowness of many of the walkways and platforms.
She gets a better look at them as they approach, and though their bodies are entirely encased in metal plate, their builds and the forms of their armour give her a good idea of their respective species and sexes. The first of the trio to come to a stop a short distance from them — just far enough to build up some speed for a charge — is a human male, who sits astride a noble lightcourser. Next is a duardin man upon the back of a monstrous carnosaur, and lastly they are joined by a female aelf and her snarling, salivating mournfang.
For a moment, there is relative silence as the branchwych and her sisters face the mighty foes lined up before them, then a flapping and a buzzing noise from back in the chasm cause her to turn, just in time to see a grot-knight and its dragonspite mount descend to block their path of retreat. An instant later, there is an earth-shaking crash as an obese maw-krusha lands heavily by the chitinous creature’s side. Sat upon that great beast is an ogor woman. Both she and her grot companion are armoured in exactly the same manner as the other three riders, and over their heavy plate, all five knights are adorned in colourful tabards bearing a chalice motif. The five level lengthy spears at the mob, and seem to be merely awaiting the order to charge.
Her sisters swarm protectively around her, ready to die for their matriarch without hesitation, inspiring in her heart a powerful surge of affection. Five versus a score or more should not be good odds for the riders, but the sisters are made of brittle wood and armed only with the sharp sticks which are their fingers; should fighting break out, these huge monsters arrayed against them will undoubtedly trample the forest folk into the dirt.
Against just one such creature, perhaps the branchwych’s magic could have evened the playing field, but five? Not a chance. Engaging in battle here will mean the end of the Brashbriar Brood. The best they can hope for will be a valiant last stand.
Despite this grim truth, the matriarch smiles, for she has just realised what the robed figures are doing, and now understands how the chasm’s opening will benefit her beloved homeland, whether or not she and her kin live to see it happen.
She makes a chopping gesture with her scythe, and unleashes a bolt of arcane energies — a writhing, twisting morass of mingled Life and Beast magic — aimed not at the enemy knights, but at one of the crevasse walls instead. The noisome blast leaves a crater in the stone, and pelts the ground beneath with a rain of small rocks. A handful of sisters cry out in fright and shy away from the mystical detonation, arms flung up to shield their wooden bodies from the hail of stones which pelt them.
Even she is unsure how exactly she knew precisely where to strike, yet as the dust clears, a thick vein of amber blood is clearly visible in the chasm’s side.
She turns to face the carnosaur’s rider — figuring him to be the leader, as his mount is the most imposing — and with the mad gleam of fanaticism in her verdant eyes, she spreads her arms wide and proclaims, “Ride us down if you will, noble knights, but before you do, know that we would like nothing more than to see Rondhol revitalised and empowered to shake off the twin blights of Order and Chaos which seek to dominate it.”
After her recent sojourn into the enigmatic depths of her greenwood scythe, speech comes much more easily to her. So much so that her words seem to carry with them a trace of the song which resounds though her heartwood. This is not the spirit-song of Alarielle, but neither is it merely residual Waaagh!-energy. She does not truly know what it is that she hears now, but somehow feels sure that by heeding it, she is following the will of Rondhol itself.
“Let us aid you in your task, for I have no desire to gather the foul substance which sickens my homeland; if you have any use for it, you may take every bit we excavate. All I ask is that you allow us to assist in excising this filth from the land… having seen my ability to quickly locate and reach seams of the substance, what say you to this offer?”
From over her shoulder, her predecessor’s bittergrub clacks its mandibles, in what she interprets as a show of support for her brilliant plan.
Prior to this day, she had never dreamt that Rondhol could have been in a weakened state, for it had always seemed so mighty, bestowing indiscriminate Destruction upon its assailants and its defenders alike… but if it can truly be awoken to an even greater ferocity, then there will no longer be any need for the so-called “Wrathful Land” faction; not if the land itself is freed to devour any who dare to build upon it.
