The Gardenwell stretched as far as the eye could see. A lush paradise tucked away in the otherwise savage Furyoth Dell. Massive vines scattered across the picturesque scenery, dozens of which stood tall from the ground. High above the Hyshian light shone down touching everything and hiding nothing. It seemed a place one could find reprieve and tranquility.
“How disgusting,” spat Koabla Khai. “No trace of life or foe to spill blood. This is truly a hellish landscape.”
The mighty warrior of Khorne, eager to take out his anger, began to test the durability of one of the tall vines with his bone-crafted axe. Koabla’s strength arguably rivaled Lord Varon and even Skullgrinder Irox, but even as his weapon devoured chunks from of the stalk, it remained stout.
Some within the Iron Bloods’ camp gave a mocking cheer but otherwise resumed their mundane tasks around the camp. None of which involved the sound of hammer on anvil or any smithing, a bad omen of how bad the Iron Bloods had fallen.
The Khornites had lost count of the days they had spent marching through the hellish Furyoth Dell. The jungle region itself was an enemy as much as the orruks, humans and other terrible creatures that stalked them.
Nearly half of the Iron Bloods were already dead from fighting or the ravages of the realm itself. A determined group of Ironjawz from Da Choppas had hunted them down for weeks before their interests turned to monster hunting. A recent stop to the Swallowed City of Drown had also revealed the Iron Bloods were not the only ones searching for Seraphon temple of Xarlanth. In fact, a handful of warbands were allegedly ahead of them.
While the Iron Bloods left Drown without trouble, the disgusting city had left an illness upon the warriors’ minds. Sulken by despair that their quest may be lost, the Khornites’ morale had fallen to its lowest point of the campaign.
It was only inevitable that infighting would start with the most boisterous of the Iron Bloods.
“How long, Irox? How much further does Khorne expect us to slug through these lands for this elusive temple you and your scribe claim is here?” Koabla Khai asked in a tone just short of a challenge.
The Skullgrinder wasn’t in a mood to answer. Head down, Irox just continued to sit upon his brazen anvil and examine his own trinkets.
The Skullgrinder would have taken the warrior’s life for such a comment, but even Irox had fallen into an unusual stupor. His fiery temper and master crafting was essential for the Iron Bloods’ survival, no, their very purpose. Now the coals of Khorne’s favored weaponsmith were cool as ice and his mood was simply depressing to be around.
“The temple awaits us, Koabla,” said Lord Varon upon his juggernaut, attempting to impose his will upon the warband. “We but need to honor Khorne so he may show us the way. This lands’ despoiling presents a great opportunity to win his blessing.”
“Great! We’ll defile this garden only to wander back into Rondhol’s swampy pits,” Koabla barked back. “Or perhaps the orruks will find us once more to finish us. Or maybe a carnissaur will make a meal of our remains.”
“You doubt yourself, Koabla,” insinuated the Mighty Lord of Khorne.
“I’m beginning to doubt if this blood quest is in our best interests.”
Varon moved his juggernaut closer to Koabla. He was in no mood to quell a rebellion but wouldn’t hesitate to spike Koabla Khai’s skull to his mount. Khorne might look favorably on that, he thought.
“You are a great warrior and tracker Koabla Khai, remember that,” said Varon. “But the Iron Bloods and yourself are under my leadership. Lest you forget who owns your former master’s skull.”
He arced his head towards his mount’s side where a large human skull was bolted to the metal juggernaut. With that, Koabla’s bravado ceased.
“But my lord, it has been hours since we last found any prey! There is no blood to be spilt! The Blood God demands it!” cried Bloodreaver Orbanth.
“You are absolutely correct,” replied the Mighty Lord of Khorne. Then he solved the issue by slamming his axe into Orbanth’s midsection and gutted him from the belly to his neck. Blood watered the pure ground, and one of the nearby vine-wiles gulped down the blood as if it was parched.
Suddenly the garden shook. The Iron Bloods sprang into defensive postures expecting a megafauna to pop out of the horizon. Then they realized the shaking was coming from the stalk planted in the middle of their camp. If a vine could roar, it made the sound of a broken Ghurish beast. The stalk shuddered upwards, about a foot, but the Iron Bloods were taken aback.
Varon strained his head towards the sky. Hysh blinded him, but he could see the stalk now reached dozens of meters high. A predatory bird soon perched atop the stalk and Varon found a path forward for his warband.
“This is how Khorne blesses us. This vine will provide a great vantage point to deduce where in the Dell we need to go next,” he spoke. “Scour these lands. Despoil this garden’s beauty and all you see around you. Bring back enough blood to feed the stalk.”
With their spirits lifted, the Iron Bloods broke camp to search for unfortunate game to kill.
Varon then approached Irox. He had never seen the weaponsmith so dispirited. Varon wanted nothing more than to avenge his prior defeat and reclaim his soul from the Skullgrinder’s anvil. Yet to slay him now would anger Khorne for such a cowardice act. He knew all too well that for the Iron Bloods to leave Rondhol victorious, let alone alive, they needed Irox.
“Break your wallowing before I do it for you, Skullgrinder,” said Varon.
“The weight of Khorne’s glare grows heavy on me,” responded Irox. “The hammer weans and the anvil’s fire is low. I fear our souls are bound for damnation in the Brass Citadel.”
“And yet you don’t see me sulking. You are one of Khorne’s chosen. You speak his language. Such prestige brings great responsibility from the Blood God. All of my warriors, including myself, would gladly kill everyone within the Iron Bloods to earn that title, let alone plant your skull upon the Skull Throne.”
“Be that true, our quest is now tied to the fate of this despicable Dell. Yet while I cannot craft this master weapon for Khorne without Celestite, I have been experimenting with another creation. I will require more beast bones and perhaps a few pieces of amberbone if we are fortunate to find some.”
Lord Varon sensed an ember of passion in Irox’s words. Hopefully that would get the hammering going once more.
“How goes your lessons with Khorne’s Scribe?” asked Irox. He had ignored the human writer ever since his melancholy began. “I sense her blood is starting to burn with Khrone’s will.”
They glanced over to the giant vine in the center of camp. Larisa Melborn was studying the vegetation and pulled out her journal. Her ink had run dry days ago but she had found an alternative. Taking a sharpened quill, he jabbed one of her fingers on her right hand, soaked up some of her blood, then began to jot her notes down with her left hand.
During her examination, she measured the small growth spurt the stall had endured as well as Koabla’s strike marks into its base. She squinted then scowled and kicked the vine while looking at a certain mark, then returned to her scribbling.
“Her anger grows as does her rambling script,” said Varon. “I don’t know how, but our conversations have become…fruitful. Her life is still meaningless to me, but you may have been correct in sparing her. There is much she could offer should she submit to Khorne’s will.”
Larisa pulled out the bone-knife that Irox had crafted her, the same one she used to brutally kill Bloodreaver Bhalon. With the blade suckling from her bleeding hand, she picked one of Koabla’s scars in the vine, then dug the knife into the wound. White sap trickled down the base but the vine didn’t react. Larisa tasted the sap and her eyes glistened in the briefest thrill. She jotted down more notes and tried to stab the vine again.
“She is an Azyrite, a cowardly one, but none the less persistent,” noted Irox. “Her will is slowly breaking, but I sense another element is challenging the Blood God’s pull. A savage spirit that I did not anticipate.”
“What being could challenge Khrone’s indomination of such a mortal?”
“Not a being or God, but a spirit or presence that mortals cannot be comprehended. It cannot be killed and exists all around us. It is inescapable.”
Irox and Varon continued their conversations unaware that Larisa’s writing posture had not changed for several minutes. Much like her new savage complexion, Larisa’s handwriting was becoming more rigid. Upon her latest page were the same words repeated over and over:
Ghur will make savages of us all!
