For Areshtur, it had been the return of the good old days.
Now back upon the biting sea, the deck of a new ship below his claws, a good crew in his command and the life of a Corsair under the Golden Wings of Our Burning Saviour ahead of him.
All that senseless dying in the mud of Civilia’s ruin, it was over.
Surprisingly enough, the Slaaneshi vessel had still contained a number of helpless slaves, in varying states of mutilation, who the Templar Captain immediately put to use.
In the sense of, he freed them of their bonds, treated them well, and allowed them to return to the “safety” of Khardihr, even made sure they could reach those aligned to the city without putting them in much danger.
There was great value in being seen as liberators, and great value in subverting expectations. Sowing doubt in the faithful of Sigmar was not only delicious, but very helpful as well.
Those freed were very receptive of the Templars’ ‘critique’ of the Seraphon, and willing to carry the Truth to their kind back in Khardihr.
Areshtur had no illusions – the origin of his pamphlets could not be hidden, and the citizens of Khardihr were bound to be wary of thoughts coming from the ranks of Chaos.
Still, the sowing of doubt often resulted in something greater, and he war confident the Seraphon involvement in their affairs was controversial amongst Khardihr’s peoples.
The Templars continued to sail the biting sea, intercepting and burning vessels of Seraphon and those that worked with them whenever they could, and taking care to take in the helpless and stranded, to use them as seeds in Khardihr.
Seraphon skulls were stacked high on the spikes adorning his new ship, and Seraphon, aelven, orruk and Nurglite ships were left burning in the Templar Corsair’s path.
The Holy Flame burned brightly, defiant in the face of a raging Rondhol.
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The deck was slick with blood, as the fighting died down with the remnants of the enemy crew.
It had, at first glance, seemed like a vessel crewed by the undivided opportunists, but the poxmarked, tumor-ridden face of his opponent was an unmistakable sign that his instincts had been true. Their captain had been tainted by Nurgle, and the crew was sure to follow – better to end the corruption before it could fester.
With a powerful stab of his blessed halberd, Areshtur pinned the other captain to the wooden railing. Sickly, dark green blood came spurting out, and the woman angrily and helplessly flailed about with her cutlass, lacking the reach to truly make it count.
The Tzaangor twisted his weapon, eliciting an undefined growl from her, before increasing the pressure on the halberd. He came closer, truly savouring the captain’s last moments.
One of her crew lay nearby, and he struggled to pull himself towards her with his one still functioning limb, until one of Areshtur’s warriors kicked him over.
Areshtur hoped she had noticed. “You failed them, you know.” he said, drawing upon a mental glimpse of her past insecurities and fears. “You were a bad choice of a captain, and it was your decisions that led them here.”
Ah, she tortured herself, he felt it.
Reaching for the curved dagger at his back, he rendered her arm defunct, the cutlass clattering onto the deck.
“Nurgle will not save you. You turned to him for strength, but all he did was weaken you.”
Slowly, very slowly, he pulled the halberd’s blade upwards, causing her to contort in pain.
“Are you looking forward to being a pretty little flower in his garden?” Areshtur taunted her.
His corsairs had already begun setting fire to the ship. There was nothing to gain here but the destruction of Our Saviour’s foes.
He could feel the blessed warmth on his back.
Suddenly, Areshtur went still for a moment, then literally cut the Nurglite Captain’s suffering short before turning to the Flames. He had seen it, felt it. His vision blurred, stretched – to an all-encompassing, Holy Fire.
He saw it – he saw her.
He saw her in the flames, the Archprophetess.
“Templar Captain.” He heard her voice in his mind. It was painful, like being lightly touched with a white-hot iron.
“Archprophetess.” He replied, bowing in respect.
“Rejoice, for Out Burning Saviour has seen to grant us the blessing we sought in the Furyoth Dell.”
“I am elated, Archprophetess.” The Templar Captain tensed, his grip on the halberd tightened. This painful connection was… uncomfortable.
“Still, there is yet more to Our Saviour’s Will in Rondhol. I require your presence in the Furyoth Dell.”
And just like that, Areshtur’s corsair life came to an abrupt halt. “Am I to join you, Archprophetess?” He asked, hesitant.
“No. There is another thing I need you to do…”
