High above the forest floor, Templar Champion Escarosht the Adamant walked amongst the treetops, inspecting his troops. Of those not serving as guards at this hour, most were either tending to their equipment or deep in prayer. One of the younger warriors received their first branding of dedication, earned in the last skirmish against Nurgle-infected humans.
There had been some inevitable losses, of course, but on the whole, they were in good fighting condition.
With many of them mounted upon discs, and the rest experienced rangers, Escarosht saw no need to expose his forces to attacks on the forest floor, instead opting for a more defensible position up high. Thus, the Templars had set their camp upon the massive branches of the Slidecrown Isle’s magnificent forests.
After securing a landing zone and hunting the Nurglites in the vicinity, Escarosht had sent out scouting parties, who were expressly forbidden from engaging the enemy. The scouts had witnessed much movement of enemy troops on the island – it was a hotbed of Nurglite activity indeed, although there had been no trace of Countess Phthisis yet.
Escarosht’s scouts had also witnessed other forces engaging the Maggotkin in battle. Sylvaneth, a force of Deepkin, the Stormcast, even strange ghouls had converged onto the island in opposition to the forces of the Place Furthest From the Flame.
Still, they were outnumbered. Sooner or later, the Templar Champion had no doubt, they would have to link together, in the face of the overwhelming Nurglite threat, the corrupting hordes. There just remained the question of the most sensible approach.
Breathing was hard, here in the forest, this green hell. To Escarosht, it all seemed damp and oppressive, almost as if breathing in liquid. The pain returned, seeping into his lungs, and he could only dull its edge by digging a claw into his flesh and purposefully exhaling until the episode stopped. He suspected it would only get worse from here, as they journeyed deeper into the jungle.
A bitter lump formed in his throat and he spit it out from his beak.
Escarosht approached the priest, an elderly Tzaangor in heavy red robes, who sat by the fire, brewing tea.
“His Flaming Wings Embrace you, your Grace.”
“And Purify your Being. Come, sit with me, Champion.” the Priest suggested, and Escarosht followed.
The priest handed him an intricately engraved cup of tea, and He drank it, scalding hot as it was, in the hopes of burning the affliction out. At the very least, he felt better. He noticed the hint of worry in the priest’s otherwise stoic face.
“Our journey is far from at its end. The countess has fled into the arms of her equals. It will only get more complicated from here.” the priest spoke, solemnly, after a moment of silence.
“I am aware.” Escarosht replied, coldly.
“You are contemplating forming alliances with other forces on the isle.”
“I am.”
“I would deem that a wise decision, friend.” the priest remarked, nodding as if in thought and pouring another cup of tea.
Escarosht watched his slow, deliberate movements, deep in thought.
“I have had no dealings with any of the forces we spotted, yet.” Escarosht finally spoke. “I am not sure whether we have time to observe them further, or if we have to take a Walk of Faith.”
“Perhaps some of them are sentimental enough that a joined battle may suffice to convince them of our intentions.”
“Mayhaps.” Escarosht replied. “Unlikely in the Stormcasts’ case though.” A coughing fit took control of his body, and again, he burned it down with hot tea.
“Remember, it is Glorious indeed to join the Choir of the Burning.” the priest suggested solemnly.
“I believe it to be His Will that I bring the Countess in, first. So not yet, your Grace.” Escarosht rose. “I will see if I can find volunteers.”
