The Slidecrown Sundering
Traverse the Forests
Scouts & Boils
Tezcacoatl, chieftain of Tlaamico city and son of the saint, crept through the undergrowth alongside a half-dozen men and few women. Ordinarily, these hunter-warriors would be led by the score by a veteran huntmaster, but for the time being, he had personally taken responsibility for this huntband, leaving the other ten with their usual commander.
While there was an element of risk to joining the vanguard, as one with the blood of the saint, Tezcacoatl held himself to a higher standard than anyone else around him, always striving to prove worthy of the responsibilities his father entrusted him with, and as such, would consider it a mark of shame to demand that his subordinates risk their lives, were he not willing to do the same.
This was not made easy by his warriors, however; they were, one and all, brave to the point of recklessness, and beyond. Each would unhesitantly lay down his or her life for the saint and his bloodline, which made it rather difficult for Tezcacoatl’s own heroics to stand out… it was a probably a pretty good problem for a leader to have, he supposed.
Despite their courage, the huntbands were not comprised of fools. Consisting entirely of experienced hunters, they were all more than capable of slinking silently through the undergrowth—barely disturbing a single leaf or petal with their passing—should the need arise, as indeed it did for those in the van. Scouting ahead of the bulk of their forces, Tezcacoatl’s huntband had to make do without the protection offered by the angelic choirs which flocked above the crusade proper.
Thus, they moved warily, eyes & ears peeled for any hints of danger. Not just for enemy warriors, but also the local fauna and flora, for despite all its verdant beauty, Ghyran was a realm lethal to the inattentive or foolhardy. Even brushing against the wrong vine or pricking one’s skin on a tiny thorn could be a fatal mistake.
Not all took the dangers of the land so seriously, though. As they crept onwards, Tezcacoatl began hearing the sounds of other soldiers up ahead, ponderously smashing and crashing their way through the vegetation with no caution or care. An exchange of silent looks with his hunter-warriors confirmed that they all had picked up on the noises, and shared his derision for whatever clumsy oafs were their source.
There were any number of possible culprits, from the storm god’s lightning-fuelled creations to iron-plated orruk mobs, yet deep in his heart, Tezcacoatl felt certain he knew what he would find up ahead… and sure enough, not long after gesturing for his huntband to follow and creeping onwards, he came upon them.
Those most revolting of foes, and Ghyran’s greatest threat; Nurglites. In this case, a quintet of pustulent figures whose rusted armour left their bloated bellies bare. As softly as cats stalking their prey, the hunter-warriors crept into position, remaining well-hidden by the realm’s thick foliage as they spied upon their ancient enemy.
Though they had them outnumbered more than two-to-one, Tezcacoatl knew better than to underestimate these foes. Blightkings, they were called, and each was a champion who had well-earned his royal moniker with feats of prowess upon the battlefield. Glancing across at those hunters closest to him, the chieftain knew that their obsidian-tipped short-spears and knives would be no match against the heavy, steel blades of the foe. Frankly, they would struggle to penetrate even the thick layer of blubber beneath the Blightkings’ uncovered skin, much less the defences of those armoured areas of their bodies, such as their helmed heads.
Despite that, he could see the eager anticipation on his warriors’ faces. Facing foes such as these was their whole reason for being here, after all; striking back against the evils which had once brought their tribes close to extinction. Tezcacoatl knew he could not order them to back down without being seen as a coward, and bringing dishonour not only upon himself, but by extension, upon his bloodline as well.
Thus, he raised his voice in an ululating war cry and leapt from the undergrowth, directly at the largest and strongest-looking enemy, hoping that if he was first into the fray, he could occupy the bulk of their attentions, and so spare as many of his troops as possible.
– – –
Olbulch Goutscum, along with three of his closest friends, was chortling jovially at the mild misfortune of the final member of their party—his good buddy, Trodstrol—whilst said fellow spat and cursed at a wilting rosebush.
“I’ve been growing that boil for months,” the aggrieved Blightking grumbled wetly, glaring at the offending shrubbery, “and this spiteful flower just goes and bursts it! No respect, I say. As if its fragrant stench and that horridly bright shade of puce weren’t bad enough, this cursed plant thinks it can lash out at my esteemed figure? Awful thing! You’d never see such vulgar behaviour in grandfather’s garden.”
Olbulch wanted to point out that of the two of them, the bush had clearly gotten the worst of the encounter, as Trodstol’s acidic pus was even now melting it to mulch… but he could not. He could barely even catch his breath, left wheezing with merriment as he was by the humour of the situation.
But an instant later, he was robbed of that pleasure, when a hideously muscled figure leapt from the vegetation to land atop poor Trodstol, the black talons on its hands and feet tearing furrows in the bounteous flesh of his exposed gut. More of Trodstol’s beloved boils burst, but the loincloth-clad savage appeared not even to notice the acid burns it was accruing.
Olbulch hurried to raise his greataxe and advance upon the attacker, but fleetness of step had never been one of the virtues that grandfather bestowed upon him, and before he—or his fellows, for that matter—could come to Trodstol’s rescue, more howling horrors burst out of the undergrowth. These weedy weaklings were emaciated rather than muscled, but moved with an almost unnatural alacrity, and before Olbluch could even swing his mighty blade, a pair of the hunched, gangly things were crawling over him like scuttling spiders.
He experienced a moment of panic—fearing an even more ignoble end than that of ill-fated Trodstol, who was at least afforded the dignity of being disembowelled by the savages’ leader, rather than the meekest dregs of the pack—but then breathed a sigh of relief upon realising that unlike their master’s, the teeth and claws of these things were scarcely more lethal than those of the average human, and so stood virtually no chance of seriously injuring him.
He would have laughed at their futile efforts, if their persistence wasn’t keeping him from going to the aid of his dear friend. As it was, he snarled in fury and dropped his beloved axe, recognising that it wouldn’t be needed for dealing with these pitiful creatures. One of them was attempting to gnaw on his torso, so he grabbed it by the skull and tore it free, then paused to get a good look at it.
The thing was female, he realised, but seeing the way it flailed and scrabbled at the arm holding it, like a wild beast, as well as the deranged rolling of its glazed eyes, he could not possibly consider it a woman; this ugly creature was not worthy of being humanised in such a way.
The only good point it had, in his opinion, was the way it frothed at the mouth as it struggled; indicative of rabies, or some similar ailment, perhaps? Still, simply picking up a contagion or two could not excuse its actions. It and its feeble fellows had dared strike grandfather’s own emissaries, and for that crime, they must be made to pay with their lives.
Tightening his grasp suddenly, he crushed the creature’s skull, as easily as a mortal not blessed by the Ruinous Powers could break an egg in their fist.
