Inside an old clocktower, the Tzaangor had made camp.
Morale was flailing, she could feel it, as she walked through their ranks, even if they pretended to treat the Archprophetess with as much deference as usual.
It had been disastrous to withhold their victory over the Nurgite scum from them. Not enough of the Nurglites’ foul blood had been spilled, the unsatiated bloodlust hung heavy in the air.
Still, they had to move on. It was not bound to be a popular decision.
The Sariants would not dare dispute the Archprophetess on that, though, and the Templars were too zealous and disciplined to do so. Except…
Their eyes met. Sytarith cursed him.
Templar Oron was one of those who had begun their service not as squire, but as a lowly Sariant warrior, and had earned his position through merit.
Both paths had their merits and disadvantages. The Steadfast had retained some of his feral instincts, but was also more likely to question her, the representative of Our Burning Saviour’s Most Holy Priesthood.
“Your Eminence.” Oron addressed her, his voice respectful – no, tactful, rather. “Upon a word?” She knew what he was going to say, but regardless, she slightly lowered her beak in acceptance. They moved outside.
“The Nurglite cult has not yet been purged, eminence. Not only is it our solemn duty to do so, they may prove to be a larger threat in the future. Additionaly, there is much more hidden in this drowned city. I can feel it, and I am certain you can, too. We need to explore Drown further.”
The sharp pain had returned, throbbing in her skull. And indeed, why could they not search more of the ruins? Gathering arcane artifacts, that lay in their very nature as Tzaangor. Striking down Our Burning Saviour’s enemies lay in their very nature as Templars. Her disjointed thoughts could not make sense of it.
Templar Oron the Steadfast stood, looking at her, awaiting an answer. He had been waiting for way too long, while Sytarith had stumbled around in her mind, hadn’t he?
No. Focus. Archprophetess Sytarith could see in his red eyes that the lure of the unknown had taken hold of him, the lure of the deep and the dark. It was common in these places. One could so easily get lost there, with so many secrets to discover; and perhaps, Tzaangorkind was even more susceptible to this specific lure than others.
“We are not here to gather trinkets. We have our Divine Duty to fulfill.” she answered, serenely, reassuringly, as if talking to a curious child.
“You have sworn an oath to eradicate the cult of Nurgle in all its forms.” she stated the obvious, wisely. “But the strands of Fate are fickle, and we are in danger of losing the one which leads us to our destination, I have seen it. We have to leave this place. There is a deeper secret hidden in the depths of the Dell, I promise. We cannot let the deeper secret slip out of our hands.”
Somehow, the lure apparent in his eyes weakened. Curious.
“This is not a crusade, Templar. We only have one singular purpose here in Furyoth Dell.”
The Templar knew better than to ask her about the nature of their purpose.
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The next morning, the warband continued on their way, deeper into the Dell. Following her own, inescapable lure.
In the jungle, Kruleboy Orruks laid in wait, and crashed into the rapidly formed Templar shieldwall with feral roars. A vicious melee started, with Sariant warriors and Kruleboyz slicing at each other recklessly, jagged Orruk blades clanked against the elegant weapons of the Sariants. Screams of pain mixed with those of anger and righteous fury.
The Templars, protected by their full plate armour and high shields, brought their heavy weapons down upon the barely armoured Orruks with great might. The Archprophetess herself, she concentrated on bolstering her followers with daemonic power.
It was a bloody, messy melee, with many of Sytarith’s warband taking deep wounds from the underhanded attacks of the Kruleboyz.
In the end, though, it was a very straightforward slaughter.
Sytarith saw how Templar Oron – a desperate Kruleboy hanging from his shoulders, uselessly stabbing at his armour trying to find a crack – broke another Orruk’s neck with his plated glove, after having impaled a third to a tree with his sword. In a wide stream, blood flowed from the Orruk’s mouth.
In the blink of an eye, the remaining Orruks fled.
It certainly worked as a reminder that wherever they were in the Dell, they were not alone.
The lure… It had taken hold of so many.
