The floating city of Khardihr is located within Rondhol and has recently descended on the Furyoth Dell in search of treasure and glory.
The city is managed and lead by The Council of Khardihr who dictates where the city goes along with other managerial tasks.
The city is primarily made up of aelves, men, and duardin, but the city boasts a very diverse set of peoples with many different beliefs managing to work under a single roof, so to speak.
The city itself is fairly large at this point, well beyond the stage of its Dawnbringer formation. Using duardin technology, along with one of the largest metaliths known to the Cities of Sigmar, the city can make good time across Rondhol allowing its inhabitants to explore the continent with as much safety as is possible in Ghur.
Arrival
Few witness an Idoneth raid and live to tell the tale. Or rather, few are in any state to tell about it. Even so, almost everyone can tell that something is wrong. It is like a fog rolling in, but much more… oppressive. It brings with it the pressure of the deep seas, the sensation of phantom currents washing over your skin and difficulties breathing, as if what you drew into your lungs could not decide if it was air or water. And with that a haze that clouded the mind, making those affected easy victims.
What happened on the edge of Khardihr was not quite as strong. It was enough to make a shiver go down one’s spine, feel cold and damp and maybe shake one’s head. What was much more worrying was the large, snake-like creature that appeared amid the haze that hung in the air. It moved like an undersea serpent, slow, sinuous motions propelling it through the air as of it was water. Even among the countless creatures of Ghur such a sight was at the very least a surprise. There were many shouts and not a few people retreated from the apparition. The fact that the creature was wearing armor and was ridden by two humanoid figures did not help much.
They had appeared in one of Khardihr’s ports, where through means both mundane and magical goods and people were ferried from the ground into the floating city and back down. A proper place for arrival. Although that did not help much.
Amphillis took a deep breath. It was as much to steady her nerves as a sort of final breath before she left the ethersea and full stepped into the surface world. There was no danger. She could breath air as easily as the enchanted waters. But knowing something did not always help.
“Set down over there,” she told Gloruan, the rider of the Fangmora Eel, pointing towards the spot that looked reasonably free and out of the way. She realized that their presence would be a disruption, no matter what. There was no need to be an obstacle as well. With graceful motions Amphillis slid from the saddle and landed easily on the ground. Gloruan soon followed, still holding on to the eel’s reigns. The serpentine sea creature strained against the grip and snapped its jaws. Sparks of power danced along its sides, but its rider pulled hard and spoke a harsh command. A moment later the Fangmora calmed and settled on the ground. It was a reminder of Argannon’s abilities as an Embailor. His techniques, so much more than actual taming rather than the breaking of his peers, were what had earned him the title of Beast Master. And, she supposed, in a way also what had resulted in his leaving of Nautilar.
“Remain here,” she ordered. “I will maintain the ethersea for you.”
Stepping closer to the edge of the insubstantial piece of ocean Amphillis asked herself, not for the first time, why it was her who was chosen to go to Khardihr. Truth to be told, she knew why. Argannon had told her. She was a Tidecaster, able to call upon and direct the ethersea, which was essential for movement outside of the oceans. Without it the Idoneth were limited to the seas and rivers and none of their steeds could accompany them once they had to leave those behind. Amphillis’ abilities were lacking in strength compared to most of her Isharann peers. However, she possessed superb control over the etheric waters she summoned. It allowed her to give it enough strength to support a mount, yet keep its effect on the surface dwellers at a minimum. Which was rather important if they wanted to ally with them. She possessed a keen mind and, probably even more important, was young enough to have an open mind as well. A good trait for a diplomat.
Amphillis looked around at the people of Khardihr. They were staring with a mixture of worry and curiosity. And she could hardly blame them. They had just appeared on a creature that should be swimming in the seas, not flying through the air, wearing strange garb with oceanic motives. She had a hard time imagining what they must be thinking. And those who had an inkling of who they were… well, those would probably already be running, either out of fear or to warn their leaders. Which was just as well.
Closing her eyes, Amphillis stepped forward. The sensation of leaving the ethersea was quite a shock. She suddenly felt uncomfortably dry and she very nearly could not finish her first breath. She had to remind herself that it was perfectly fine. It took her several moments to get used to the sensation though, but she eventually mastered her instincts.
“People of Khardihr,” she said in a loud, steady voice. “I am Amphillis, Tidecaster and Emissary of Argannon, Beast Master of Nautilar and leader of the Fangs of the Deep. I request to speak with your leaders.”
Following Amphillis’ arrival, the Council has moved swiftly to admit her into their presence in order to further improve relations with those from which she hails. After their initial introductions, she has been admitted onto the Council as a “Guest Advisor”. This is essentially a temporary seat, seeing as they do not know how long you’ll be staying – though with a fancy title so as to preserve her honour. Welcome to Khardihr Amphillis!
Coming Ashore
Amidst the shadows of one of Khardihr’s less used jetty’s, the small party stepped ashore, the half rotten planks creaking beneath their weight. Night had fallen across the city but its heart still beat with a life and light that carried all the way to its peripheries. Even at that late hour, the port was abuzz with activity. Great Kharadron sky vessels pulled alongside rusted junkers, the cries of crews and foremans filling the air as instructions were given and frustrated curses hurled. Amongst the organized chaos, none noticed the small passenger vessel that arrived at the port’s periphery, or those that disembarked.
Elanor Fordreth closed her eyes and breathed deep. Sweat and salt hung heavy on the air, mixing with the aroma’s of the spices and catch carried to and from the waiting vessels. There was something familiar about port’s, their aroma, their anarchy. All of them the same in their essence, yet unique in their character. Her mind returned, as she knew it would, to Tira Gnok, the reek of fish, the tall sails, and the tolling bells.
“My Lady, we best not tarry.”
Elanor opened her eyes, the memories of home washing away. She turned to the hooded form of the Lighthouse Keeper, her advisor, where he stood beside her. The brazier topped staff in his hand glowed with the smoldering embers within but his face, as ever, remained completely obscured in shadow.
“I am aware,” she replied curtly.
She turned her attention to the rest of her retinue, a half dozen of her guard. She would have come alone but the Keeper had insisted she should have at least some protection. Tattered, hooded robes had been thrown over their armoured forms and their weapons concealed in bundles of hide. Still, they were hardly the most innocuous of companions. The stench of brine still clung to their forms despite her best effort. Reaching towards the closest she grabbed a piece of seaweed that jutted out from above the hem of its robe, yanking it out from where it had stuck within the guard’s rib cage, she flung it over the jetty.
Taking hold of the guard’s exposed jaw bone, she looked into the hollow eyes beneath its hood. “Careful,” she warned before carefully fixing the robe back in place.
She was about to turn to go when another scent caught her attention. Whipping her head round she quickly found its source. Her eyes narrowed and the tips of her fangs became visible as she let out a low snarl. There in the distance, walking amongst the sweating, grime strained laborers, walked a figure clad in fine cloth of red and black. They walked with a straight back, and an imperious stare, every step dripping with arrogance as they surveyed the cargo.
“One of the House Vermillio,” observed the Lighthouse Keeper, “I would hope for their sake only a lesser member.”
“The city reeks with their filth,” spat Elanor,
“All in good time Lady Elanor,” laughed the Lighthouse Keeper, though there was no warmth to the sound. “There are other matters which demand our attention first.”
As the great docking winches lifted the battered ship from the waters below, the creaking of strained wood filled the air. From his position on the ship’s aftcastle, Sergeant Tapper, newly appointed Chronicler of the city Guards’ Grey Company, kept a wary eye on the ropes attached to the ship’s lifting rings and winced, worried, as always, that one might give way. It had happened once before, and he’d seen the aftermath. Not that seeing the rope give would do him a whit of good. There was a slim chance he could shed his steel breastplate before hitting the water, far below, but more than likely he’d sink like a stone upon entry.
To his relief, the lifting rings held. Soon Swan Song had been locked in place with a pair of the big, cog-driven docking clamps, and the gangplank lowered. Grabbing his kit bag in one hand, he slung it over his shoulder to hang next to the worn hunting rifle on his back, then reached down and picked up the leather case containing the current – and previous – volume of Grey Company’s Chronicles of Action. Then it was four stairs down from the aftcastle to the main deck, where he waited for the others to disembark, until it was his turn.
As he stood waiting, Lieutenant Nikolas Duhanden limped over. His steps were punctuated by a pair of wooden thumping sounds. One thump came from the scrimshaw-covered length of the pegleg that replaced the Lieutenant’s left leg below the knee. The other came from the haft of his great-flail, which doubling as a walking stick, the three chain-hung steel balls at the top carefully tied about the end of the weapon with a length of leather cord.
“Afternoon, Lieutenant,” Tapper said calmly, offering the company salute – a quick gesture, reminiscent of the great sky-city’s profile – with his free hand.
Nikolas frowned and rubbed at the grey stubble on his chin as he watched the soldiers of Grey Company walk across the gangplank. “A word, Tapper,” he said in his gruff, blunt tone.
“Sir?”
“The Duke got a summons to appear before the Council in the morning. As Chronicler, you are expected to accompany him. Make sure you wear your dress uniform and try not to figit too much.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reaching into a pouch, Nikolas withdrew a battered iron key and handed it over. “Key to the Chronicler’s office. Your office now. You’ll want to move your gear in as soon as you can. We’ll send a couple of men over tomorrow afternoon to help you clear old Hollistan’s stuff out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Meanwhile, we are officially stood down until new orders come down from on high. Make sure you take some time to get familiar with the office. If you need anything, let me know and I’ll see what I can come up with.” Gripping the handle of his flail tightly, he moved it outward, the end rapping against the deck board with a loud thump, but paused and cast the Chronicler a sour look. “Oh, and Tapper? If you find more bloodthread berries, make damned sure they are incinerated. We don’t want that crap taking root in the city.”
“Understood.” Having said his piece, the Lieutenant returned to watching the disembarkment, but Tapper frowned. “Sir, do we have any idea how long Swan Song and Grey Dove will be in drydock for repairs?”
“I have been told the repairs should only take a week or so, but we’ll have to see. You and I both know that the shipwrights working at the Guard docks here know their jobs, but we won’t know for sure until the damage is assessed.”
“Right.”
“Meanwhile,” Nikolas said, gesturing towards the now empty gangplank with his free hand, “looks like you and I can head out finally. I’ll see you in the mess hall. Make sure you’re out in front of The Duke’s office at eightbells tomorrow morning for the Council meeting.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Brightlord
The sound of flapping wings and caustic smells lull over the gates of Khardihr, with the marching foot from ships holding the emblem of a fire with nets covering the masts. Coming from the sky of the new ships adorned in a bright green aura of foetid smelling gas walks through Khardhir as the common folk and guards look up in confusion and horror coughing as the masked spearmen with tubes connecting to their helmets push them back from the fog more in an act of protection of themselves than the massive dragon that has arrived, he looks over this place with his mind already toiling over the ideas and uses of this new world of flying metal he must enroll himself into.
One of the privateers adorned in nets with a giant scabbard at his side, along with a pegleg comes over to him as he reports. “We have landed safely sir, we are ready to march to where we must go next on your command.” The dragon will look down and huff nodding begrudgingly as he walks into the middle of the square as he perches upon what statue might be there, his head raised high as he speaks to the crowd. “I am Gondrysdassnir, the Brightlord, I have come to seek your leaders and embroil myself into this conquest of savagery.”
His voice echoes over the mass of people, with his soldiers making themselves known as they span out, he will then look down at a guard who has walked up to him, one of the dragon’s privateers going over and handing him a mask to breathe near Gon but he puts his hand up, this making Gondrysdassnir slit his eyes in curiosity and narrowed eyes. The man speaks up to the dragon. “You are here for the council? You are a dragon without a rider, you have no trust here.” His words hit into Gon with something pinging inside his magical heart, something he had felt for a long time before but his anger boils with the remark as he leans down to the man with his face ever closer. “I admit no trust, but I seek to gain it.” He comes closer not only to make his power known to this individual, but to gain a closer look to the man to see his features as his magic toils into his seraphine eyes. The man will roll his shoulders. “Well I know one of the members of the Council are nearby on business, you might easily have council with them if you so wish.” He at first doesn’t see anything but the dull human eyes but slowly the lore of fire unveils the mask of shadow as the features to him start to melt like candlewicks. The sickly feel of ecstasy flows out of this man as his eyes pierce with purplish hues, Gondrysdassnir sees through this obvious façade of a slaaneshi follower who in their ever over exuberance of hubris thought to make talk with a dragon, much less one himself. He raises his head as he huffs. “Well, show me the way…” He says with the man feelings confident that he might bring a dragon to their master, but as they walk away feeling like Gondrysdassnir is following they hear his voice far as something stirs beneath their feet as the man sees that the crowd has been backed away by the iron cladded privateers. Gondrysdassnir will end his sentence. “… with your ilk burned away.”
In an instant the man looks back in shock realizing how he got duped really badly, so much so Gondrysdassnir gives a laugh as a scream shocks out through the buildings as the man is scorched in cleansing flame, he curls over as his form erupts out of the magic concealing him as the crustacean claws wretch out and his skin goes from human to gaunt purple before crisping black as the flames show the daemon worshippers true form as they lie wretched on the floor as the audience gasps and screams of horror ring out, Gondrysdassnir walks over as he slams his claw into the wretched creature as he starts to burn from the acidic fog as he gets in close. “I am not as dumb as my brothers, I AM GONDRYSDASSNIR!” As he will then heave in his breath before letting loose acid into the man as the worshipper screams gurgling not able to stop the stream. Gon will stop as he throws the half of the body not already turned to crisp away as it fades away, he looks around to the crowd as he leans back to his high perch.
“I do not need trust, I only need the strength to do what I think must be done. I will see myself to the Council myself.” he says as he will expand his wings and fly off to find the Council to make his presence well known in this city, with his introduction clear by his violent show of his force against chaos.
The Wardens of Burden arrive at Khardihr riding a storm. The lighting bolt bearing them punches into the ground in the flying city’s path, greeting its inhabitants with roars issued from draconic throats. Dracoths excitedly tear at the ground and growl amongst themselves, eager to take the fight to Sigmar’s enemies once more. Their greater, winged brethren swoop lazily through the air above them, radiating awe-inspiring majesty despite their monstrous forms.
Their riders instead bear a stoic silence, but the power and violence in their god-forged bodies and weapons is almost palpable in the charged air. Onlookers begin to doubt the impossibility of the God-King’s mission to liberate the Realms from Chaos’ tyranny, if he has such warriors under his command.
The effect is only spoiled by the apprehension the uniform white and blue armour of the Stormcast elicit in those onlookers, if they’ve heard the stories. Only one Stormcast is marked differently – A black-armoured Knight-Azyros, wings blurring to keep up with the lead Stardrake as it approaches Khardihr.
The Stardrake lands just before the gates, gazing at the stunned defenders with good-natured curiosity. It’s rider immediately dismounts and walks up to the gates, her stately air slightly ruined when the Stardrake lowers their head to affectionately muzzle her back and whisper a few words to her.
Recovering her dignity quickly, the Lord-Celestant looks back up at the walls, takes off her helmet to reveal a dark, square face framed by braids, and calls up to them in a strong voice;
“I am Lord-Celestant Tcimmera Skybrow, of the Wardens of Burden. Sigmar has sent us to cast down your enemies.”
A cough comes from the Anvil of Heldenhammer behind her, and she adds after casting an irritable look at him;
“And give you aid in your time of need.”
“We will not linger. We already know about Civilia’s plight. Give us whatever supplies you believe they will need to survive. We will take them with us. We leave for Civilia tomorrow.”