The Revenge of Rondhol
Trouble on the Att
Briars on the Banks
The song swelled when the violence peaked, but no sooner was the battle won than the music moved on from the Gaping Portal, heading up the River Att. Desperate not to lose this force that filled their souls with exultation, the forest folk followed their newfound siblings ever onwards.
She skulks along the bank, several sisters at her side. Without the branchwych here to lead them, there is only the song in her mind. It calls to her to cross. On the other shore, orruk allies are in need of aid, the strident notes declare. Yet she cannot cross. Already two dryads have been swept away by turbulent waters when they’ve tried.
Frustrated, she and her sisters snarl and snap, grinding the sharp, jagged bark that is their equivalent to teeth. Even her feral mind can see the futility of trying to wade or swim through these raging torrents, yet she is compelled to do so all the same. Not only by the melody that tugs upon her very soul, but by the glimpses she catches from time to time, between trees and other obstructions, of the fight unfolding.
It is not going well. On one side are some of the iron-shelled sort of siblings, on the other, some of the pink-fleshed prey. These prey are strong, though, with brazen carapaces almost as thick as the orruks’ own armour. Ordinarily, the fate of any single sibling would mean no more to her than the fate of any single sister. So long as the brood triumphed, so long as the hunt was successful, the individual did not matter.
Ordinarily. But one amongst these orruks is special. One amongst them is beloved by the music. One amongst them can play. This sibling beats sticks of bone against anything within reach — trees, rocks, Khornate skulls, his own armour — and whenever they strike, the song resounds more strongly in her heartwood, calling on her to throw herself into the waves in a desperate bid to reach the battle, to join the hunt.
The orruk warchanter was entirely ignorant of the effect his crude music had on the feral forest folk, and unaware even of their presence nearby. He had other things on his mind, right up until he didn’t. His contribution to the great song — to the Waaagh! — cut off abruptly, as he slumped to the earth, a glaive having broken through the thick plates of his armour, and embedded itself in his muscular back.
She howls along with her sisters, wailing with dismay at their great loss, at this crime against Ghur. Yet for all that the sudden silence fills her heartwood with melancholy, there is a silver lining to the tragedy, in that she is no longer compelled to throw herself to her death in a foolhardy attempt to pass this unforgiving river.
She crouches at the bank, head bowed in dismay, unsure what to do now. The other dryads likewise mill about, lost and dismayed. But soon she feels the song once more. Though much fainter now, it is still present, not entirely extinguished. She had been drawn to this small band of ironjawz by the potent presence of their warchanter, but in his absence, the Waaagh!-energy of the greater horde can be heard again. Distant now, but there. Even leagues apart, the raucous beat calls to the sisters, much as Alarielle’s spirit-song once guided their ancestors, before they had been stranded in Ghur, before the forest folk had lost their sanity and reason, before the grove had become the brood.
The melody is far enough away now that it does completely override her natural instincts. She need not take the most direct path to her destination, nor need she even head back immediately, should other matters demand her attention. Upon the other shore, through some trees, she catches sight of the brass-armoured human, who seems to be the sole survivor of the small conflict, as best she can tell from her current vantage point. If she can find a safe crossing somewhere nearby, perhaps she can make her way over there, and finish the siblings’ hunt for them.
An instant later, though, that thought is driven from her mind, when one of the sisters hisses. She turns swiftly, noticing where the dryad is looking and following her gaze. Her eyes pierce the gloom between trees, and immediately she sees what it is that has caught her sister’s attention.
Though dull and distant in their senses then, the song still spoke to them. It called for them to unleash the fury of Ghur on any interlopers, whether those be brutish servants of the Ruinous Powers, or entirely more enigmatic beings.
Stealthy, ambush predators, creeping up on them, moving from tree-to-tree without jostling a single leaf, blending into their environment almost perfectly. Surely all but undetectable to even the most trained observers. Yet they have erred in their judgement here. They have failed to appreciate that no matter the skill or natural abilities of the individual, in a forest, none can escape the eyes of the sylvaneth.
Coordinated not by strategies or tactics, but by Ghur-bred instincts alone, she and her sisters spring into action at precisely the same moment. Moving more like wild beasts than sentient beings, they leap and grasp onto branches, or else scramble up the trunks of trees, vicious talons digging into bark to find purchase. Their prey display no hint of fear nor trepidation, though, instead reacting with consummate skill and precision.
The slender, reptilian figure which is her target raises a blowpipe to its mouth, aims, and sends a dart flying unerringly in her direction. The tiny projectile thunks into her upper torso, but has not enough force behind it to penetrate the thin layer of bark which guards her heartwood.
Undaunted, the scaled being flips over backwards, an instant before her thorn-like digits would have carved furrows through its flesh. She collides heavily with the branch upon which it had been standing, though without lungs, the impact cannot steal her breath, as it would have were she human. Her talons claw at empty air, her mouth-parts gnash furiously.
The invader lands gracefully in a crouch, then straightens, and blows another dart her way. This one embeds itself in her cheek, having no more impact than the first. The prey begins backing away, speaking words she does not understand, addressing its peers in an almost frantic tone. Its eyes move independently of one another, one looking off at the peer with which it converses, whilst the other remains locked on her. She scrabbles her way up upon the branch, then with a screech of hunger and bloodlust, launches herself down towards her prey.
At the last possible moment, the bipedal chameleon rolls backwards. She crashes down onto the forest floor, her long digits penetrating deep into the loamy earth. She looks up just in time to see the skink come out of the roll, kneeling now, blowpipe raised once more. This time at point blank range. She finds herself looking directly down the hollow shaft.
Another slender needle is launched, and this one does not merely sink into the protective shell of bark that coats her body from head to root. This dart flies directly into her right eye. Instantly, vision from that orb is cut off, and the loss of depth-perception is accompanied by a slight, stinging sensation. She hisses, but is not cowed, readies herself to spring again.
Then a sudden surge of pain draws an agonised wail from her. Where the projectile struck, she now feels as if she is burning. With each passing instant, it courses through her, like a wild blaze in the midst of a terrible drought, leaping from tree to tree, set to reduce a whole forest to kindling. She falls, and flails, writhing in the dirt, her hunt forgotten in an instant, so great is this agony.
She claws at her own face, screaming and shrieking, wracking talons carving through bark and heartwood alike as she desperately tries to tear out whatever it is that causes her such hideous torment. In so doing, she inadvertently destroys her other eye. Her last moments are spent in confusion, panic, anguish, and darkness.
Elsewhere, the song played on. As unbeknownst to the dryads and the orruks alike, the battle to purge the fell forces of civilisation from Rondhol’s untamed lands had just become that much more challenging. For the starborne had survived the fall of their great temple-ship, and would not be easily put down.
