QUEST 1

EMISSARIES

Part 1

In which a silken pavilion is pitched, and an understanding reached…

Atop a rocky bluff, in the midst of a wide, grassy plain, somewhere in Ghur, two men stand side-by-side, watching as a colossal tent is raised.

 One is elderly, with bronzed, leathery skin, and a foot-long, slate-grey beard. He wears a long tunic and a pair of boots. Both are simple garments, made from un-dyed animal hides. Around his neck is a thin stand of leather, from which hangs a collection of talons, claws, teeth, fangs and tusks. Sat upon his head is a goat-like skull, which once belonged to a gor. Now adorned with feathers, stone charms, and other baubles, the fancy hat is a symbol of his rank.

By his side is a seemingly much younger man, paler than his counterpart, but heavily muscled even by the standards of the Ghurish peoples, though he hails originally from the distant land of Chamon. He wears a silk skirt, predominantly white, though with a blue flap at the front. On his left shoulder is a steel pauldron coated in blue enamel and bordered by a band of gold, and his left forearm is protected by a matching bracer, though his lack of any other armour suggests that these accoutrements are intended more for fashion than safety.

All of the men and women under his command are dressed similarly in this regard, though precisely which odd pieces of armour they wear varies from person-to-person. In addition, his followers also don gilded masks. Alone of his cult’s members, he does not cover his face; shamelessly revealing a visage warped by the dark powers of chaos.

His head is bald, and crested with a pair of short, asymmetrical horns. His eyes are black as pitch, with no sign of iris or white, and the jagged teeth which crowd his maw resemble those of a shark. He stands arms crossed over his broad, bare chest, regarding the efficient labouring of his minions with pride, as they raise the great tent that will be his base of operations in this new land.

It resembles a circus Big Top in terms of shape, though in matters of scale, it seems intended to accommodate a crowd of gargants, rather than humans. Its walls are cream-coloured silk, decorated with vivid, azure silhouettes in the shape of butterflies. These silhouettes seem to glint and glitter as they refract the light which strikes them, as if made from crystal, rather than fabric. Stranger still, when viewed out of the corner of an eye, they can appear to move slightly, as if gently fluttering their wings, or creeping slowly across the silken walls beneath them.

“It’s an impressive tent.” the old man acknowledges dourly, watching as a team of three cultists haul on a rope together, while a fourth uses a sledgehammer to pound a tent peg several feet long into the hard earth, “I was hoping for warriors who could safeguard our village, though. We aren’t really in the market for clowns.”

The horned cultist grins, showing his teeth. It’s not a good look on him, “Don’t fret, Chieftain, we can hold our own in a fight.”

“With the Amber Stampede on a rampage and all the local overlords calling for aid, cashing-in favours, and handing out blank cheques to mercenaries, the Steppe is entering a new era. War is headed our way, the likes of which this land has never yet seen, not even in the darkest days of the Age of Chaos.” the elder grumbles, “Our little village, Wanderville, can’t hope to endure such upheaval on its own, so we must accept whatever help we can get… even if we suspect that doing so may cost us our very souls.”

“Relax, old man. As I’ve told you several times already, we’re not here in search of souls for our master.” the younger one replies lightly, with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, “Willing converts will always be welcome, of course, but you’re under no obligation to worship our god, simply because we’ll be fighting on your behalf. Your side of the bargain is letting us pitch our tent on this rise, and allowing us to come and go from your lands as we please. That’s really all there is to it.”

The enormous tent swells to its full height before them, as the last few ropes are pulled back and set in place. The outer structure has now been erected, but the cult’s work is far from done. Next, a small metalith is hauled from the foot of the rise up towards the entrance, so that the remainder of the Coven’s supplies can be unloaded there.

Using these floating rocks to transport materials isn’t unheard of in the realms—indeed, it’s even a fairly common tactic for Sigmar’s dawnbringer crusades—but unlike most groups who employ this method of transporting materials, these arcanites have brought with them no beasts of burden to move their rocky platform. Instead, they have dozens of ropes anchored to its front, and the acolytes themselves drag it along.

Needless to say, this is horribly inefficient. Not only is the going slow, but it’s tiring work; had they been ambushed on the road while making their way here, that’d likely have been their first and last battle in Ghur, as they’d have been too exhausted to fight after hauling along a big rock for hours on end.

But selling their souls to Tzeentch has made them strong, and these men and women will be damned if they don’t take every possible opportunity to use their god-given strength, no matter how inane and pointless.

“So you say, Magister, but I have my doubts.” the elder mutters darkly, “Your ilk are known for your treachery and duplicity, after all.”

“That’s a fair concern.” the muscular man agrees nonchalantly, “My Coven and I are different from other change-cults, fortunately for you. We can be relied upon… but as I have no way of actually providing any proof of that, you do find yourself in the unenviable position of having to take a disciple of Tzeentch at his word. You really must be desperate.”

“We really are.” the chieftain responds grimly, “Had we any money or possessions of worth, we would be hiring Fyreslayers, or Kharadron, or some other mercenaries of note… as it is, we’ve no choice but to invite daemons into our homes.”

The Magister smiles unnervingly, and pats the old man on the shoulder, “It’s not quite that bad. As it stands, our forces are all mortal… aside from my mount, I suppose, but I’m sure I can refrain from bringing it into any of your abodes.”

“Oh?” the elder asks, “I thought your sort enjoyed cavorting with daemons?”

“I believe it’s mainly Slaaneshi hedonites who like to cavort with their daemons, but yes, many chaos cults do summon such entities. We don’t, however. For us, Tzeentch-worship is about revelling in the changes which we’ve undergone ourselves, rather than forcing change upon everything around us. Relying on daemons to do our fighting for us would deprive us of good opportunities to use these blessed bodies of ours. Just look at all these men and women,” he spreads his arms wide, indicating his many, muscular, masked cultists, hard at work, “aren’t they perfect physical specimens of humanity?”

“Not if their faces look anything like yours, they aren’t.” grunts the chieftain, demonstrating a remarkable degree of disdain, considering the man he’s insulting could slay him with a snap of his fingers.

The magister smiles, showing his teeth again, “They’re not, don’t worry. I took things a bit far in my hunger for power, I’ll freely admit. The others had the good sense to stop before they lost their humanity. We traded our souls for these young, powerful bodies, and we intend to enjoy them. That’s why we’re here in Ghur, out in the open, rather than skulking around the streets of a free city in some other realm, where we’d be forced to conceal our strength, lest we give away our allegiance and be hunted down. This is a simpler land, a place where might is everything.”

“Do you have a point?”

The arcanite sighs, cracks his neck, and sets his hands on his hips, “I don’t look it, Chieftain, but I’m an old man… possibly even older than you. Many of those in my Coven are, and for us, the Changer’s bargain offers a second chance. I know now that there’s a difference between actually living and simply surviving, but I didn’t realise that for a long time, not until I’d already left my youth far behind. This time, I’m going to enjoy it, even if that kills me. Everyone in my Coven feels the same way.”

“So you’ve come to Ghur just to pick fights and die gloriously.” grumbles the elder, “You claim to be older than you look, but you act like any other cocky youth.”

The magister shrugs, “Tzeentch is the Architect of Fate; no matter what transpires, everything always goes just as planned. So I figure, why should we bother conspiring and scheming, when whatever we do is always going to be in accordance with his wishes regardless? Most cults plot for the sake of plotting, and in so doing, often undermine their own efforts. In some ways, they’re no better than skaven.

“However, it’s my hope that we can show our god that there is some value to be had in followers who can be trusted, even if they may be less entertaining for him to watch. If he approves of my efforts, he’ll ensure that at least some of us survive this war. If not, I guess we will all die gloriously in battle… but there are plenty of worse fates than that.”

“How optimistic. I’d have preferred our village to have guardians who actually had some notion of how they’d survive the coming conflict, rather than leaving it up to the whims of gods… but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”

The arcanite barks out a laugh, then smirks at the elder, “Perhaps you’ll have more faith in us when you’ve seen what our magics can accomplish. Come, I’ll give you a quick tour of our Papillon Pavillon.”

“A tour? It’s just an oversized tent.”

“That is true… but while this oversized tent is certainly not on par with something like a silver tower, any space touched by Tzeentch will always have more to it than meets the eye. Unaccompanied by an arcanite to guide them, anyone who enters our stronghold here is sure to swiftly become lost in its labyrinthine passages… oh, and don’t touch the butterflies.”

“The butterflies?” the old man looks at the azure silhouettes which cover the pavilion’s outer walls.

The horned man nods, then without another word, links arms with the chieftain and leads him forwards. To his credit, the elder’s jaw sets in grim resolve, and he doesn’t hesitate. Like it or not, he seems to have accepted that having thrown in his lot with these chaos worshippers, there’s no backing out now.

Part 2

In which an ambassador makes an appealing offer…

With much pomp and ceremony—in a rustic sort of way—does Packhome’s envoy arrive. Mere days after the raising of the Coven’s great tent, the Papillon Pavillon, she and her parade of escorts and ancillaries reach the bluff atop which the pavilion sits.

All of the party aside from the emissary herself ride war boars; huge, ferocious, musclebound pigs. Prior to now, the arcanites have only ever seen such creatures mounted by orruks, and it says a lot about Ghur and its peoples that even the aelves here are fierce enough to make these imposing swine submit to their will.

For all that those riders are impressive, though, they pale in comparison to their leader, who sits astride a mighty rhinox, in a saddle which is almost a throne. Constructed from a mass of bestial bones and draped in furs, the elaborate seat is lashed to the wild-eyed beast beneath it with thick, leather belts. Simply sitting upon the creature’s back, looming over the cultists below, gives the aelf an intimidating demeanour.

Despite this, many of the acolytes present finger the hilts of their cursed blades keenly, positively eager for a fight to break out. They’ve heard much of the savagery of Ghur, and yearn to experience it for themselves.

Fortunately, they aren’t Khornates, so the former scholars are able to keep their bloodlust at least somewhat in check, and before battle can break out, someone with a grain of common sense rushes into the Pavillon to fetch their magister.

By the time he emerges, perched atop a disc of Tzeentch, several people on both sides have weapons drawn. Thankfully, the envoy herself has more composure than most, and has left her two-handed greataxe where it hangs at her saddle’s side.

“Greetings, uninvited guests,” the Coven’s leader begins, affecting an air of amiability. He has his disc drift upwards, so that he can speak to the rhinox rider at eye level, not much liking the notion of having to look up at someone who’d arrived at his new home without permission and had brought along a convoy of armed guards with them. He isn’t entirely tactless, though, having elected to leave his weapons—the disc aside—indoors, as a gesture of goodwill, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I am Ashori of the Denkeeper tribe,” the aelven emissary explains coolly, giving the magister a shallow nod. Like her elaborate saddle, the aelf is adorned with animal furs aplenty, mainly in shades of light brown. Beneath those, she wears a suit of steel plate; scratched and worn, yet serviceable, and clearly well-made. Her long, auburn hair falls in loose curls down her back, and her hazel eyes are piercing, “Huntmaster Sylai sends his regards, and invites his new neighbours to join our people on a great hunt.”

“A hunt, you say?” the horned man responds, perking up immediately, his affected attitude giving way to genuine interest, “Well, we’re really supposed to be protecting the little village of tents at the base of this rise… but I suppose there wouldn’t be any harm in taking a day off. In fact, if we’re doing so to form good relations with a powerful neighbour, it could even be said to advance our goal of keeping them safe.”

“Nice justification.” the envoy says, without any discernible change in expression or tone.

“Why, thank you.” replies the magister graciously, “Now that we’ve established that I’m interested in your proposal, what do you say we head inside to discuss the details over a glass of wine?”

Ashori regards the towering big top in silence for several seconds before speaking again, “I think not. You disciples of Tzeentch have a reputation for treachery, so if it is all the same to you, I will refrain from blithely strolling into your lair.”

The head cultist smiles, perhaps trying to appear friendly and reassuring. If such is his intention, however, then baring his shark teeth is definitely the wrong move, “Fair enough. We’re hardly unaccustomed to being untrusted. Shall we discuss matters out here in the open, then?”

The aelf shakes her head, “I would rather do so without this many armed cultists in my presence, so some sort of neutral ground would be preferable. You mentioned a village at the foot of this hill? That should suffice.”

“Wanderville, it’s called,” the brawny human says, nodding, “I suppose it would give me an opportunity to ask the old man his opinion. If he doesn’t approve, we may have to refuse to attend your hunt, no matter how tempted I am. Hopefully that won’t be an issue, though. Can your escorts wait here, or would you rather they accompany us, Lady Ashori?”

“They can wait. And for the record, I am no lady.”

“Oh?” the magister says, cocking an eyebrow, “Then you have my apologies, milord, I shouldn’t have assumed your gender.”

At that comment, Ashori finally shows some display of emotion, even though it’s only a roll of her eyes, “That is not what I meant. Our clans do not use noble titles like ‘lord’ and ‘lady’. You can call me ‘Ashori’, or ‘envoy’, if you are feeling formal.”

“Very well, Ashori it is. And I am Magister Khallen Alterskein, but please, feel free to call me Khallen, if you’d like.” he glances away from her after saying that, looking back at his followers, his gaze roaming over them until he spots the individual he’s after, and he speaks again, “Sis, you heard Ashori. Her guards will be waiting here while we head down to the village. Get someone to bring out food and wine for them, would you?”

“Sure, I’ll handle it.” a woman replies, nodding to the general. She’s bald, like all the cultists, and wears the same white-and-blue silk skirt and golden mask. Like the rest of the female disciples, she also wears a matching chest wrap, and as for armour, she has a pauldron on her left shoulder and greaves on both her shins. A standard acolyte’s sword hangs on her belt. Her skin is tanned, and she’s very muscular. The woman looks away from the column of riders, starting to issue orders to those around her.

“Shall we be off, then?” Khallen asks Ashori, turning back to face her.

For a few seconds, the aelf doesn’t reply, her eyes still on the female cultist, her countenance unreadable. Then she looks towards the magister again and nods, “Very well.”

The two of them depart, making their way down the rise via the least steep incline. The terrain here is rocky, but for a rhinox, that’s no concern. The beast doesn’t even seem to notice most of the stones, simply crushing them beneath its powerful feet. For the occasional, bigger boulder, a slam with its two, fearsome horns swiftly sends the obstacle careening out of its path. Khallen has even less trouble, of course, his disc merely floating over the rough terrain, completely unhindered.

Nothing is said for some time, until Ashori breaks the awkward silence with a little small talk, “So, you have a sister in this cult of yours, Khallen? I had not expected that.”

“Why? Because arcanites are so treacherous that no magister could possibly have risen to such a rank without sticking knives in the backs of all their immediate family members?” his tone is joking, but when the envoy glances across at him, he knows exactly what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth, despite her resolutely blank expression.

“Yes.”

He sighs, and shakes his head ruefully, “Our reputation really is terrible, isn’t it? At this point I’d be only mildly surprised if a skaven showed up to lecture me on the merits of honour and loyalty.”

Ashori turns back to face the path ahead, saying nothing, and Khallen wonders if she’s always this inscrutable, or if it’s just a mannerism she’s put on to reduce the risk of accidentally giving away any important information to the sneaky Tzeentch-worshippers.

“For the record, she and I aren’t actually related by blood. Zeyresci—that’s her name—was my sister’s wife, which made her my sister-in-law. My sister, Nessia, died many years ago, but I’ve never stopped thinking of Zeyresci as an in-law.”

Ashori looks at him again, and again, he guesses what she’s about to say. This time, he gets in ahead of her before she does, “And no, neither Zeyresci or I caused my sister’s death.”

“Of course not. I was not about to suggest any such thing.” the aelf lies blatantly, not meeting his gaze. Impassive facade or not, she really doesn’t seem to be cut out for the role of diplomat.

The magister sighs again, wondering if it’s even possible for honest people like this envoy or Wanderville’s chieftain to comprehend that not every follower of the chaos gods is the literal embodiment of evil made flesh.

“Nessia died of a pox. Not even a magical plague conjured up by Nurgle’s daemons, or anything like that, just a regular illness, caused by the unhygienic conditions in the free city in which we lived. Sigmar’s devoted like to pretend that their cities are glowing beacons of light, but that’s a bare-faced lie. Sure, some districts might be pretty, but every city has its underclass, its paupers and serfs, who’re inevitably packed like rats into cramped streets barely cleaner than cesspits.” bitterness creeps into his tone as he speaks, and he relives old, unpleasant memories.

“Most Ghurneth are nomadic, but we do have one city; Packhome, which my clan is entrusted with overseeing. It is no cesspit, though, far from it. For one thing, we have no class divides in our society. For another, all Ghurneth children are raised there, so it is vital that we ensure it remains a safe place for them, whether from outside threats or from disease.” Ashori tells him, her tone as inscrutable as ever.

Her words snap Khallen back to the present. He can’t be certain whether the aelf is feeling defensive after his blanket insult directed towards all cities, whether she just wants to brag about the superiority of her people’s culture, or whether she has some other reason for telling him about her city. All he can be sure of is that she’s a terrible diplomat, since, if what she’s said is true, then she’s just revealed to a potential enemy that every single child of every single Ghurneth clan is kept in a single location. A secure location, no doubt, but a vulnerability nonetheless.

Her clear inadequacy for the job she’s been given makes him wonder if the clans of these Steppe aelves function similarly to orruk tribes, with all the important positions going to the strongest warriors, regardless of any other considerations.

He shoots Ashori a smile, which doesn’t look nearly as friendly as he intends it to, “The lack of cities is part of what drew me to Ghur in the first place, and later on, to this Steppe in particular. Now that I’m here, I’ve no desire to seek out one of the rare few that do exist, so I’ll just have to take you at your word that yours is a nicer place than those I’m used to.”

“That is probably for the best; given your patron deity, I doubt many of us would be comfortable allowing you to visit it.” she replies, “Still, while I do not trust chaos cults on principle, Huntmaster Sylai is more open-minded. He hopes you can be convinced to see things our way, and to work with us, rather than making us your enemies, even though conventional wisdom would suggest that it makes more sense to wipe you out now, while we have the opportunity to do so.”

“I do appreciate his willingness to talk,” Khallen says, nodding, “and I look forward to hearing more about that hunt you mentioned, after we reach Wanderville and speak to the old man.”

Part 3

In which dead things sing and the living cower…

“Another visitor on the same day? That seems unlikely to be a coincidence. Do you get the impression someone doesn’t want us attending Packhome’s hunt?” Khallen asks Zeyresci, as the pair make their way through the winding aisles and hallways, brushing past silken drapes and occasionally disturbing some of the azure, crystalline butterflies which nest in the fabrics’ folds.

She nods, “Seems likely. If so, they’ve probably got the right idea sending this guy. If you thought Ashori and her rhinox were imposing, wait until you see him.”

“Oh?” the magister inquires, glancing across at the kairic adept, “Another person riding a big monster? I should probably call my disc, then.”

“Don’t.” Zeyresci tells him, shaking her head, “To be honest, Khallen, this one scares me. If you fly up on that disc, to speak to him eye-to-eye—like you did Ashori—I get the impression he’d take it as a challenge… one I’m not sure you’d walk away from.”

“We didn’t come to Ghur just to flee from challenges, sis.” the horned man replies, but he speaks softly, not really arguing. He knows very well that she’s no coward, so if she admits to being afraid, then this emissary must be something special.

“You’ll understand when you meet him.” she remarks forebodingly.

She keeps walking, but Khallen pauses momentarily to pull open one of the pavilion’s many ‘doorways’—consisting of nothing more than two sheets of silk—revealing a small storeroom. There’s no visible light source within, yet as with every other room in the Pavillon, sunlight seems to soak through the silken walls to illuminate the interior. Conveniently, this random storeroom holds the magister’s warpsteel sword and runestaff… though had it been opened a minute earlier, or had it been opened by someone else, its contents may have been entirely different. Such are the enigmatic ways of Tzeentchian structures.

Sliding the blade through his belt and taking the staff in hand, the magister heads down the passage at a jog to catch up with his sister-in-law. As they near the Pavillon’s exit, he starts to hear what sounds like a howling gale outside, and notices the air getting a little cooler. These things strike him as odd, considering it was a balmy late afternoon the last time he’d checked. He doesn’t comment on the change, though.

Zeyresci’s pace slows, and she takes a deep breath, steadying herself for what’s to come. Khallen takes a few quick steps forwards, positioning himself ahead of her, to face whatever’s waiting out there. Not that he expects her to appreciate him treating her like some frail maiden, in need of protection, but unlike most magisters, he isn’t willing to wait in the rear while his minions bear the brunt of an enemy assault.

Making a simple gesture with his runestaff, he causes the silken flaps which are the tent’s main entrance to pull apart, like curtains being drawn in a theatre. It’s only in the moment before they part that the magister wonders why they’d been closed in the first place. When an icy draught buffets him and unearthly howls assault his ears in earnest, that answers that question; the enchanted fabric having kept at bay what awaits him out there.

He spots their visitor instantly, and fights a sudden urge to take a step backwards. Instead, he forces himself forwards, leaving the Pavillon. No sooner have his feet left the silken floor and touched down on the grass outside than the chill worsens and the shrieks become yet more piercing. His stronghold may be little more than an oversized tent, but like the lair of any halfway decent change-cult, it has potent magical defences. Past its threshold now, though, the magister is exposed to the full brunt of this emissary’s power.

The sky above is clear and the late afternoon sun is shining… yet its light seems more distant than it should. The sun and sky both have taken on a greyish tint, and Hysh’s rays don’t carry with them their usual warmth. Instead, the area around the Pavillon is illuminated by the intruder’s grim carriage.

Under that cold, blue-green light, Khallen’s breath leaves his mouth as a fine mist, and he shivers, momentarily wishing he wasn’t topless. Glancing at the several acolytes who’ve been able to muster the courage to remain outside to keep an eye on their unwanted guest, he sees that they’ve been likewise afflicted, with most having their arms crossed or wrapped around their chests in futile attempts at warding off the unnatural, bone-deep chill which has followed the aelven ambassador here.

The temperature is the least of their problems, though. Emanating a pall of dread so palpable as to feel like a physical pressure, an ornate, wrought-iron vessel hangs overhead, looking like a cross between a chariot and a throne, bedecked in steel skulls and ribcages, burning with ghastly, greenish fire, and carried aloft by the writhing, spectral forms of men and horses. Yet more gheists swarm around it, singing a mournful dirge in ear-splitting shrieks.

An aelf in dull, bluish robes lounges upon the grandiose palanquin, a pale green glow in his eyes, his elbow on one armrest, his head propped up by the palm of his hand. The interloper manages to look both imperious and disinterested at the same time. Despite his familiarity with the daemonic, Khallen finds himself unnerved by this individual, and when the necromancer’s unearthly gaze turns upon him, he’s appalled to find himself trembling from more than just the cold.

He swallows, his knuckles white as he grasps the shaft of his runestaff with every ounce of his strength. For all that he’d been impressed by Ashori and her guards, they and their mounts were as mortal as he was. When Zeyresci had warned him that this emissary was different, he’d just assumed that the aelf would be riding an even larger and more fearsome beast than the Ghurneth’s rhinox. Though, come to think on it, his sister-in-law hadn’t actually confirmed that assumption when he’d voiced his thought, which maybe ought to have tipped him off. Regardless, something like this hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Before speaking, Khallen tries to calm his nerves by taking a deep—albeit shaky—breath, but it’s a lot less helpful than he’d hoped it’d be, as the frigid air burns his lungs like fire.

“He calls that thing a mortis engine,” Zeyresci explains from slightly behind the magister, her voice small, and almost lost amidst the howling of tortured souls, “and he introduced himself to us as Gheistweaver Valandiir.”

Nodding without looking back, the magister instead turns his gaze up towards the figure upon the imposing craft which hangs in the air above them, “Gheistweaver, I am Khallen Alterskein, the magister of this cult, the Coven of Mightfulness. You wanted to speak to me?”

He tries to shout those words, but finds that like the adept’s, his voice sounds muted, and is barely audible over the screams of the dead.

“You’re the leader?” the aelf replies, in a tone dripping with disdain. Unlike the arcanites, he makes no attempt to raise his voice, yet the anguished wails seem to fade into the background when he speaks, allowing him to be easily heard by all, “Fine. I’ve waited here long enough, let’s get this tedious errand over with. I am here on behalf of the Fortress Librarium. Do you know of us, little cultist?”

Were they both standing on even ground, with no ghostly carriages in sight, Khallen may not have been so willing to let this slender aelf call him ‘little’, but as things currently stood, he couldn’t help but feel that the description was apt.

“No, I don’t.” he says, then winces at how apologetic he sounds, even to himself.

The gheistweaver looks irritated, “Well, I don’t have the patience to give you a lecture. The abbreviated version is that we’re an organisation based out of an immense citadel, which sits atop a Shyishan realmgate. Through that gate is a grand repository of knowledge, once thought lost to the Mortal Realms, to which only we can manage access. For the most part, we keep it to ourselves, but some fortunate outsiders have been granted the honour of perusing those hallowed halls, at the low, low cost of pledging to spend their lives in our service.

“It is common knowledge that bird-brained Tzeentch cultists desire eldritch lore like magpies covet shiny baubles, so we’re sure such a place must sound irresistible to you. As such, we have decided to allow you to accept our generous bargain, mainly to avoid the hassle of dealing with your inevitable attempt at entering without permission. Bend the knee now and swear allegiance to our cause. Do so, and you shall gain access to those priceless texts.”

“And…” Khallen’s throat is suddenly dry, and he has to swallow before uttering his next words. Even then, they come out sounding hoarse, “if we refuse?”

Raw fury crosses the domineering aelf’s features for an instant, and there looks to be a real possibility that he might actually sit up straight. Then—just as quickly—his ennui reasserts itself, and he makes a noise halfway between a growl and a sigh, “Such audacity. Rejecting our gracious proposition would be the height of rudeness, and would suggest that you plan on opposing our aims in future. As such, the logical course of action would be for me to slay you all, here and now…

“Fortunately for you, however, my remit does not strictly necessitate such action. Personally, I would much prefer a swift return to the Librarium, where I might continue my research in peace, to wasting any more of my precious time on something so banal as wholesale slaughter. So I would leave you alive. For now.”

“You seem awfully confident.” the shark-toothed man replies, trying his hardest to put on a tough act, though his legs feel like jelly. Having stood face-to-face with daemons, had anyone told him before today that he’d be frightened by a mere necromancer, he’d have thought them a fool. Now, he is beginning to realise, there are worse things in these realms than even the dark gods.

The Librarium’s emissary doesn’t even dignify his pitiful attempt at bravado with a response, instead demanding to know, “Will you make the pledge, or not?”

Khallen hesitates.

Part 4

In which a third aelf makes an unanticipated appearance…

Several hours after the gheistweaver’s departure, Khallen Alterskein sits in his tent’s throne room… though his ‘throne’ is no more than a pile of cushions. Like all rooms in the Pavillon, this one appears to be illuminated by sunlight piercing the silken walls, despite the chamber being deep within the structure, and despite the sun having set some time ago. It currently appears to be twilight within the room, though it’s well and truly dark outside.

The black-eyed man isn’t usually a heavy drinker, but the bottle of wine he holds in one hand is his fourth since speaking with that necromancer. Zeyresci sits with him, on her own pile of cushions, having removed her gilded mask so that she too could take a drink to steady her nerves, though she sips her wine from a glass, rather than gulping it straight from the bottle.

As his sister-in-law, as well as the closest he has to a second-in-command—by virtue of being the adept who leads the Magemight Mob, his Coven’s largest band of kairic acolytes—she is the person he most often turns to for advice.

“I looked like a fool out there, and worse, a coward.” he mutters despondently, taking another swig of wine, “How can I expect anyone to follow me when I can’t even stand up to one skinny aelf?”

“No one will blame you for that. Everyone who encountered the gheistweaver felt that crushing despair. It weighed heavily on us all, and if a fight had broken out, I suspect he’d have slain us without breaking a sweat.” Zeyresci insists calmly. They’ve been at this for some time now, and she’s just retreading old ground.

She’s ready to sit with Khallen as long as he needs, though. He’s certainly done as much and more for her in the past, particularly in the wake of Nessia’s passing. She knows her brother-in-law isn’t the sort of person to fall apart under pressure, and though it’s clear Valandiir has shaken him deeply, she’s sure she’ll get through to him eventually.

“How could I be so weak?” he asks, shaking his head morosely, not seeming to have even heard her.

“This was our first time encountering such beings, so it’s natural that you’d be shocked.” the adept says reasonably, “They’re clearly a class apart from mere deadwalkers… but as frightful as those anguished souls may seem, we know that they’re not invincible. They can be overcome. If that wasn’t so, Nagash’s Necroquake would surely have ended all life in the realms.”

The man only shrugs and takes another swig of wine. Zeyresci places her glass on the floor and leans forwards, crossing her arms and resting them on her knees, “Do you remember the first time you saw a daemon, Khallen? Think back to how you felt then. Would you still feel that way now?”

These are rhetorical questions, of course. No one she’s ever met has forgotten their first daemonic encounter. In her case, it was a spiteful brimstone horror. She’d entered her study to find it hard at work burning all her notes and papers. It had been summoned—she later discovered—by a rival acolyte, out of jealousy. Unfortunately for that rival, summoning daemons to enact petty revenges at perceived slights was not the path to a long life, and the woman eventually perished at the hands of the very creatures she’d sought to command, when one of her conjurings went awry.

A person’s first sighting of a daemon isn’t something they forget, but over time, they can become accustomed to their company. Khallen himself routinely rides around atop a disc of Tzeentch, after all, which is no less daemonic than a horror or flamer.

“Just as with daemons, it’ll get easier to resist the fear they inspire in future, if we continue to encounter them.” the adept reassures her general.

Finally seeming to hear her, he gives a dismissive snort, “I thought you didn’t want me challenging them, in case they took offence and slew us all? But now you’re saying that the more we run into them, the easier it’ll be for me to stand up to the ghosts. Which is it, sis?”

Zeyresci smiles, “I’d definitely prefer we avoided them, since I wasn’t any less terrified than you out there… but you’re our leader, Khallen. What we do and who we fight here in Ghur is your call to make. If you decide we’re going ghost hunting, I’ll follow you, no matter how low I expect our odds of survival to be.”

“So you do think we’d die if we fought them, then?”

“Oh, Tzeentch, yes, no doubt about it, we’d be massacred.” she agrees, “Even if, by some miracle, we were able to slay that one gheistweaver, surely his peers in the Fortress Librarium would be enraged at some puny cult like ours having the temerity to strike down a member of their order. And I highly doubt that they would waste that mortis engine of his on intimidating a tiny force like ours, if it was the only one they had. So by drawing their wrath, we could find ourselves faced with many more such weapons.”

Her brother-in-law stares at her for several seconds after she ceases speaking, some of the colour draining from his face, and she realises that he hadn’t even considered that there could be more of those awful contraptions. Then he looks away and takes another long drink, draining the bottle dry, before tossing it aside, “Then what are we to do? I’m so out of my depth here… maybe we should’ve just stayed in Chamon.”

She sighs and stands up, crossing the floor to stand directly in front of him, then leans down, grabbing him by the shoulders and looking him in the eyes, “Listen, Khallen, all of us who’re here now followed you because you argued that there was a better way than how we’d been living back then. We wanted to get away from all the duplicity in Chamon and come to a realm where things were simpler. No one expected Ghur to be an easy place to live, we knew there was a high chance we’d end up dead, you even said as much to us yourself before we left. 

“Yes, it’s true that we expected to encounter enemies solid enough for our blades to cut, rather than intangible spectres, but even so, the sorts of foes we face doesn’t change the reality that we would all prefer honest deaths on the battlefield to being stabbed in the back by rivals, while skulking in the shadows. So no matter what, no matter how bad things here get, don’t ever let yourself think that our leaving that place was a mistake.”

From how tightly her fingers dig into his shoulders, and the intense look in her eyes, the magister can clearly see that she’s being sincere, and despite—or perhaps because of—his inebriation, he can’t really come up with a counterargument, so he simply nods in response, conceding that point to her.

“Good. As for what we’ll do now, that’s for you to decide. Just decide it with confidence, and everyone will be reassured that it’s the right course of action. Remember, none of us are expecting to become the overlords of Ghur, or anything else so ambitious. Just do whatever you’re comfortable with, and know that you’ll have us watching your back.”

“Right. Thanks, Zeyresci.” Khallen replies, managing to force a shaky smile, his muscles un-tensing just a little.

She grins back and straightens up, releasing him, “Of course. What’s family for?”

The share a moment of peace, before a polite cough sounds from a nearby shadow.

In an instant, the adept has her cursed blade drawn and a small orb of sorcerous flame burning in the palm of her free hand. The magister isn’t so quick off the mark, in his intoxicated state, but he manages to jolt to his feet, stumble and almost fall, catch himself, and spin round to look in the direction from which the sound originated.

A pale, slender aelf, with her black hair bound in a ponytail, dressed in tight-fitting cloth garments in various shades of grey, seems almost to materialise from thin air as she steps out of a shadow in which she’s been lurking for Tzeentch-only-knows how long. The lower half of her face and everything from there down is covered; not so much as an inch of skin visible. She holds up her empty hands in a gesture of surrender, “Hello. I’m unarmed, so I’d really appreciate if we could talk peacefully.”

“How much did you hear?” Zeyresci demands, the point of her sword aimed at the aelf’s heart. From the way her cloth mask wrinkles, it seems the newcomer is smiling, but the adept doesn’t share her good cheer.

“Oh, not so much, just everything that’s been said in this room over the last three hours or so.” the spy replies in a chirpy tone.

“Alright. Prepare to die.” Zeyresci tells her coldly.

“Wait wait wait wait!” the aelf objects, waving her hands frantically.

The adept doesn’t listen, not until Khallen puts a staying hand on her arm, “Wait, sis. We’ve already heard out two aelven emissaries today, what’s one more? You can always kill her afterwards if you don’t like what she has to say.”

The spy nods enthusiastically, and Zeyresci sighs, but puts away her sword and quenches her flame, then heads back to the pile of cushions which was serving as her seat, “Fine, but she can sit on the floor.”

Without a word of complaint, the grey-clad aelf does so, settling in a cross-legged position with her hands resting upon her knees. Khallen returns to his mound of pillows as well, then asks, “So, who are you?”

“I’m called Melensa, and I’m a representative of the Cult of the Unseen, sent to deliver a note from our leader, Menthizar Kraeth.” the aelf replies, sounding oddly eager considering her current position.

“More importantly, how did you get in here?” Zeyresci demands.

“It was so tough!” Melensa blurts out, clear enthusiasm in her voice, “Our Cult are masters of stealth, and some of us can even travel through shadows, which is normally a surefire method for getting wherever we need to go. I wasn’t expecting an oversized tent to be such a challenge to infiltrate… uh, no offence… I even almost died a couple of times. The shadows here are strange, and lots of them connect to places they shouldn’t. Some of your passages go nowhere, others only lead back to themselves, and I think there are at least a few which don’t even exist except at certain times of day. Also, you’ve got an infestation, did you know that? I keep running into these pretty, little butterflies which I’m pretty sure are actually some sort of daemons… I’ve avoided touching them, just to be on the safe side.”

“Smart girl.” the adept mutters. Of course, she knows that the woman before her is likely much older than herself, given how greatly the normal lifespan of an aelf exceeds that of a human, but between her bubbly attitude and slight figure, Melensa seems almost childlike.

“So they are daemons, then?” she asks avidly, clearly grinning beneath her mask. Even in the change-cults of Chamon, Zeyresci can’t recall ever meeting someone so pleased at the thought of almost having been killed by daemons.

“I’m not going to confirm that, but you can believe it if you’d like. Just don’t touch them if you value your life.”

“Got it!” Melensa chirps, and fires off a quick salute, for some reason known only to herself.

“So, you’ve heard everything we’ve been saying, Melensa?” Khallen asks, smiling at their guest in that horrifyingly predatory way of his. To most people’s eyes, those jagged teeth make all his smiles menacing, but Zeyresci has known him long enough to be able to read more into his expressions, and right now he’s plainly relieved. After the last aelven envoy he spoke to, she can understand why he’d feel that way in the presence of this one.

“Yes! Your sister is right, by the way. The Arcineth… that is, the Librarium people, are super powerful. They’d definitely win if you tried to fight them fairly. Even my Cult, as large as it is, would struggle to face them in the open. Which is why we prefer more covert means, like assassination and burglary… though they’re also really good at catching anyone who tries to sneak into their fortress, so… uh, even with those methods, our success rate isn’t exactly where we’d like it to be.” she gives a self-conscious laugh.

“You seem awfully willing to reveal sensitive information.” the adept points out, “Isn’t that the opposite of what a spy should be doing?”

“Oh, probably, yes, but for this mission I’m more of a messenger than a spy,” Melensa explains, “and besides, after listening to your conversation, I can tell you’re not eager to join them. So why not side with us? We have a great information network, so we could give you the locations of various Ghurneth clans you could fight, and the clans will be all too pleased to give you the sort of fair, simple combat you’re after. You won’t need to worry about the Librarium, as we can warn you ahead of time when any of their forces are nearby, so you can keep well out of their way, and, of course, you’ll not need to fear my superiors sending any assassins after you, if you’re on our side.”

“You make a compelling point, but after leaving Chamon precisely to get away from that sort of underhanded business, I can’t say I’m keen on the idea of coming all the way to Ghur just to join forces with another cult devoted to achieving their aims in the most deceitful way possible.” Khallen explains, “But you mentioned delivering a note? I’ll at least read that before making a decision.”

“Oh! Yes, the note!” the aelven spy’s eyes widen in sudden recollection, and she reaches into her top, quickly withdrawing a slim envelope sealed with black wax, “I’m supposed to deliver this to your hands only, magister.”

“What does it say?” Zeyresci asks Melensa, as Khallen cracks open the seal.

The spy shakes her head, “I don’t know. I was told not to open it. All I can say for sure is that it must be intended to entice you to join us. All the major powers of the Steppe, the Cult of the Unseen included, have recently been seeking out alliances with whoever they can, after all. However…”

“However?” the brawny woman prompts, while Khallen scans the letter.

“Well, given your conversation which I couldn’t help but deliberately overhearing, it seems your Coven is more than a little different from most Tzeentchian cults, so some of what my superiors might think would appeal to you, might actually… not.”

“Ah, I see.” Zeyresci replies, nodding, before glancing across at the horned magister.

“There’s a lot of stuff here about teaching us to harness the shadows and steal through the darkness, but the crux of it seems to be an invitation to take part in a dark ritual which they’re performing in an ominous-sounding place called the Tower of Shadows.” he reveals.

The adept whistles, “Wow, you weren’t kidding, were you, spy? Shadows, darkness, rituals, and even an eerie tower. They’re really laying it on thick. Short of adding a promise to arm us with knives which are twice as deadly when used to stab an ally in the back, that’s about as close as you can possibly get to most change-cults’ idea of a perfect offer.”

Melensa chuckles, but at least has the decency to look embarrassed on behalf of her organisation.

“Well, while this has definitely been the most pleasant conversation with an aelf that I’ve had all day, unfortunately, I’m going to have to decline your offer. You heard everything sis and I were saying before you revealed yourself, so I’m sure I don’t need to explain why.” Khallen says, and gives her a genuine smile. Of course, with his teeth, he just looks like a genuinely hungry shark.

Melensa impresses Zeyresci by not flinching. Instead, her mask wrinkles up again, as she smiles back. It normally takes people longer to get accustomed to Khallen’s maw before they realise that he’s not contemplating eating them every time he parts his lips.

“That’s alright. I didn’t actually expect you to agree, just had to deliver the letter. You seem like nice people, though, so I wish you two all the best, and I hope we don’t have to fight each other. I suppose I’d best be on my way to report back now.” the spy says, standing back up, and turning towards the nearest shadow. However, she doesn’t manage more than a single step before Zeyresci is at her back, grabbing her arm.

“Hold on, just where do you think you’re going?” she asks, and Melensa tenses up. Though she tries to hide it, the adept can see the sudden worry in her eyes, that perhaps she’s misinterpreted the situation, and is now about to face some punishment for her intrusion. With her free arm, the spy meekly points towards the nearby shadow.

“Don’t be silly, you can’t leave that way.” Zeyresci tells her, like a parent explaining something obvious to a small child, “We don’t want you deciding to stick around for another few hours of snooping. Besides, as you said earlier, the passages in this tent aren’t always where or when they should be, and it would be a shame if you accidentally erased yourself from existence by stepping into a room that wasn’t there. Come with me. You can use the front door, like a normal person.”

“Oh.” Melensa replies, looking embarrassed again, but visibly relaxing. Releasing her grip, Zeyresci leads the aelf away. Khallen, meanwhile, just grins after them and leans back in his throne of pillows, finally feeling at ease again, after that unpleasant afternoon visitation.