Below is excerpts from the Turn 2 Unfolding Narrative of Animosity II included here with permission.
Ghyrplunge Realmgate
General Gustav Johan Schmidt cursed as they made good their retreat. It had been a valiant effort- they’d given as good as they’d gotten, in his estimation- but despite the very best efforts of the Hammers of Hammerhal, his fears upon exiting the realmgate had been proven correct. The first of many battles saw Lord-Arcanum Azyrhand sent back to Azyr in a flash of lightning, the Fyreslayers of Gryndr and Ashfyrd Lodges taking a heavy toll on the Expedition battleline before Gustav’s artillery punished them for their insolence.
Their Kharadron allies had been a blessing, their ironclads and gunhaulers sending a Terrorgheist and its crazed bat-friends tumbling into the icy waters before they could outflank his position. They pull the last of the artillery back onto the launches under the Doveguard’s steam tank “Big Antonio”, but he’d lost sight of Konrad Rotstahl’s men in another damnable squall after that.
So, that was it, then. It had been an hour of heroes and villains, but the supply line was lost. The Expedition- no, to hell’s bells with them, the Hammers of Hammerhal- had been defeated. Listening to the ship’s rigging creak in the wind, Gustav watched Prosecutor-Prime Sorrus Skyhammer fly overhead and idly wondered who among them would get stuck reporting this disaster to Anruil Brighteyes personally.
Old Dyunsk
Ancamarth Hearbreaker walked through the ruined streets, reflecting. It seemed strange to be in partnership with the dead, after years spent fighting them… then again, in her experience the unusual was often the most effective. Take your foes by surprise, find a path to victory no one expected, walk away with the prize.
Her feet carried her to the supposed Stormvault doors in the center of the town. “Have they found anything yet?”
The Executioner outside shook his head, gesturing to where the Perpetual’s skeletons were still chipping relentlessly away. Unsurprising. The ancient stonework had stood for millennia- it would take some time to chip away. No matter. She had plenty of other webs to attend to- and then she heard it.
The bell had rung once before, a few days ago- everyone heard it then, its dolorous chimes echoing across the lake. It seemed somehow angrier, more urgent, and she’d learned enough in her centuries not to dismiss that as her imagination. She definitely wasn’t imagining what came in response, the long, low blast of noise, melodic like the sound of a warhorn. She froze- the Executioner reached smoothly for his sword- even the skeletons seemed to pause in their labor for a heartspan, before ceaselessly plink-plink-plinking away again.
“It must be lonely out here, just you and the bones.” The Executioner did not move, but she could tell that he understood. “Let me find you some compatriots to ease your watch.” There was more than just dusty artefacts on the far side of those doors, and she intended to have a say in whatever they found.
___________
Toc’ka-Iktori knew the will of Starmaster Zectoka as surely as he could breathe. It was as present as the sun by day and the stars by night, an astral beam illuminating his thoughts and pushing him ever onward. It was that unconscious, ever-present will that had him hurrying through the streets, back towards the Seraphon encampment. He had heard the sound like the roar of a wounded god, and the answering call of whatever lay in the Stormvault. The other Seraphon had to know- and they had to know what he’d seen as well.
It had appeared to his eyes, just as the noise sounded in the deep- an ancient glyph, carved near the door barring the vault, as though defying He who had shut away its contents. A bluntly shaped skull-sigil, its countenance baring two fearsome downward-facing fangs: the symbol of death-goddess Nyura herself.
Along Sobolev’s Road
The wind off Bykaal was bitter. Sobolev’s Road offered no shelter from the elements, and Anruil’s command tent was built for a Ghyranic climate, not these frozen shores. For all this, though, the communique he’d just received from a field scribe of the Quill Celestial found him sweating anyways.
My compliments from the Ghyrplunge… regrettably outmaneuvered… withdraw or be destroyed… valiant rearguard action… total concession of the Realmgate area… Juliet Florens…
How had it come to this? Just a few short days ago, the Expedition had seemed the titan of the factions fighting over Bykaal, with more resources and more firepower than any other. And yet- a week of furious fighting had given them what? A truce with the undead, leaving whatever was in the Stormvault in jeopardy. A town of turnip-farmers, but no turnips. And a severed connection with Amasya and his base of support.
Breathe in, breathe out, steady your shaking hands. He folded the letter and slid it back into his pocket. If nothing else his father had succeeded by virtue of seeming unflappable- it was a lesson the younger Anruil had to cling to even in times like these. The game was in jeopardy, but not yet lost- not if he acted decisively enough. He rose from his desk and walked outside.
“Bjornssen.”
“Aye?” The old Kharadron Admiral was neck deep in an aetherengine when he found him, but the tone in Anruil’s voice saw him scrambling out fast enough. “What’s t’matter?”
“It’s the Realmgate.” The Duardin’s face turned a curious shade of pale in the purple-tinted twilight. “I’m told they fought very bravely.”
“…Aye. Tsatraya, then?”
“I think so.” They were walking away from the main body of soldiers now, trying to put some distance between them and any curious ears. “We need a base, and that’s the largest on the lake. I’ll need you to get word out, have your ships rally our soldiers for the attack.”
“Nae a problem, if t’weather holds. And e’en if it don’t…”
“I’m going to work on opening a reliable route to Bolyany. With the gate closed, that’s our largest stockpile of food and supplies, and we’ll need it if we’re to secure the city.”
“Aye.” Bjornssen scratched at his beard pensively. “If I may.”
“Of course.”
“Send Thunderstruck to do th’ job. ‘S a good sort, and not likely to get lost along th’way.”
High praise from a former Navigator. “Done, and my thanks. One other thing.”
“Wha’s tha’ then?”
“One of your ships. I might need it for a suicide mission.” The Duardin’s brow furrowed, and Anruil hastened on. “Not to undertake one, to deliver it. We can’t get armies or supplies through the Ghyrplunge, but we might be able to send a message.”
Comprehension spilled onto Bjornssen’s face like a dropped mug of fine ale. “The Soulbound, then? If’n a Binding gets through, kin tell von Helminger abou’ wha’s happened…”
“Then it becomes her problem as well as ours.”
“Aye.” The Admiral looked pensive for a moment. “Tsatraya. There’s more to it than just size, tho’, ain’t there. It’s a fine decision strategy-wise, mind, but… it’s also abou’ him, isn’t it? Yer thinkin’, perhaps he’ll be there, an’ I can ask him how he did it when th’ chips were down.”
Anruil stiffened, and then relaxed with a sigh. “I think that’s everything then. I won’t keep you here any longer.”
“Aye. But Anruil- yer da’- he was a fine sailor, a wild soul, an’ an utter arse when t’mood took him. Ye’ve got yer own life ta live, don’ try an’ live his. For anyone’s sake.”
He took a moment to reflect after Bjornssen had departed, standing at the edge of camp. Soon they’d pack up back onto the ships, to rendezvous with the rest of the Expedition at Uyar’s Point and prepare for the assault on Tsatraya, and Sobolev’s Road could go back to being useless and forgotten. In ten years, would they say the same about him?
