The Ghurish jungle of the Dell was a puzzle. It was always somewhat familiar; rainforest birds sung in the trees, and all manner of crawlers scuttled on the vegetation or swarmed low to the ground. It was these similarities that only caused more suspicion in the differences. Plants rustled with predatory life, snapping up small creatures in bizarre mouths of bark or spined branches, and there was always the feeling of being stalked by some jungle predator. However, the predatory vegetation and stalking hunters were not what concerned the ancient alpha-predator the most. It was that the trails here shifted.
Their Aqshian home, the Sandsong Jungle, had been forged by Realmshaper Engines. It was curated, ideal for Seraphon life. Its paths made sense; navigating the jungle trails was beyond easy, it was instinctual. For the last five miles, Chatla-Raktoa had felt the warband’s bearing drift. It was faint, but the jungle seemed to conspire to pull their warriors this way and that. The slightest lapse in concentration saw the trail disappear, replaced by a new path of acquiescing briar and undergrowth. Each of these shifts was as natural as if the trail had existed all along, but the ancient Saurus’ primal instincts were sharp enough to catch on.
If it was the jungle’s will to guide the band along these paths, the ancient Oldblood would abide. They followed the ever-reshaping trails deeper into the Dell, discovering bizarre streams running red with blood. As they marched upstream, the flow only thickened. Chatla-Raktoa quickened the host’s pace, guided along by impatient wood which abruptly gave way to an enormous clearing.
A massive tower of brass and wrought iron stood in its center, with several smaller but identically crafted structures surrounding it. Cruel spikes jutted from the tiered construction of each of the towers, and chains swung from their extensions. Desiccated bodies, preserved for unknown centuries swung from them in the Ghurish wind. Worst of all, blood pumped viscously from each of the constructions, pouring down their sides and covering the ground in a heavy slick of gore.
An aura radiated from the towers, pressing a phantom weight into the Oldblood’s mind. They could hear the hisses and barks of their warriors and knew that it had affected them as well. The taint of Chaos radiated from this place like a baleful sun, awakening their primal hatred. For Chatla-Raktoa, however, it was worse.
This was a place devoted to the Blood God, hated rival of their constellation from the Age of Chaos. They were the only one left from that time, save Lord Huatlakoa, but the Slann was immune to such frivolities as vengeful hatred. This was a rage that Chatla-Raktoa had been left to bear alone.
Wrath overtook the Oldblood, who looked upon the host’s Skink beast-drivers. A menagerie of beasts small enough to navigate uncharted jungle accompanied the Blazing Starfall. Salamanders and razordons led by their skink handlers and a young stegadon used to carry the warband’s food and supplies. It was immediately apparent to Chatla-Raktoa that they lacked the means to do what needed to be done. Their mightiest beasts, including the Oldblood’s own faithful carnosaur, had been left outside the Dell for the sake of quickness. They knew this decision had been wise, but they seethed with cold fury at the knowledge that this profane temple must be left standing.
Their breath quickened. They stared at the enormous altar to Khorne, eyes blazing with reptilian hatred. They briefly considered demolishing the smaller, less durable buildings that had clearly been constructed to house worshippers in this place. They longed to launch some petulant attack on something, to punish those who would defile themselves at this fell altar.
A shout from Atzi’Aksu, captain of the Starfall’s skink scouts brought the ancient general back to the present. He was taller and more muscled than his spawn-siblings, his body marked with dozens of scars earned over an abnormally long and violent life. His sky-blue crest, decorated with a half-dozen golden piercings, stood tall as he addressed his leader.
“Oldblood! Others have been here. The signs are not old.”
“Do you know what left them?” The ancient Saurus’ response was distant, a near-silent growl. The Blood God’s monuments held their gaze. They could not look away. They longed to hear their scout confirm whoever had passed through had worshipped the site.
“We do not. We may yet be able to evade other parties if we do not stall.” The skink’s tone was urgent, but not frantic.
The skink turned away from his commander to look upon the unholy sights of the clearing. Chatla-Raktoa huffed in frustration and disappointment. They pried their gaze from the monuments, turning to the side. The skink scampered around to Chatla-Raktoa’s front to continue speaking to their face.
“We must continue into the valley,” Atzi’Aksu continued, more forcefully than before. Forcing the elder Saurus to pay attention. “While our presence is unknown.”
Chatla-Raktoa stood in silent contemplation. The moments must have felt like hours to the twitchy Skink veteran.
“Yes. Your counsel is wise, scoutmaster.” the Oldblood calmed themself. “Remember this place. Before we are finished, we will return with our beasts and cleanse it.”
Atzi’Aksu bowed his crest in acquiescence and tapped his shield against Chatla-Raktoa’s before scampering away to rejoin his scouts. Chatla-Raktoa motioned toward the column, urging them onward across the clearing. The Xarlanth was of utmost importance. The Oldblood would abide anything to carry out Lord Huatlakoa’s command.
