Neolotl is large, and the enemies of the city still have many places to hide out in the wilds, or on the islands that exist within the protective embrace of the godbeast. But they also still exist within the city itself; the work of Drekazra and Bristlewhakka still manifest themselves, causing the rebuilding of the city to slow almost to a halt.
Gheists of all sizes continue to spawn within gravesites and temples throughout the city; no matter the god to whom the area was previously made for. These sections of the city need to be re-sanctified. Idols to Grugni and Grimnir are the most prolific considering the historical populace, but other places of worship also need rededications.
The following areas need the most attention, and thus a purging soon before the city can truly grow back:
- The air temple on Moonsoul hill
- The Pyreflame Idol near the Kag Maldur forge
- The Temple of Blood on the edgeward side of the city is currently being held by a Court of Flesh-eaters.
- The idol to Grugni near The Harrowing Drake pub
- The Sigmarite temple at the top of The Ivory Lance, an oddly shaped low mountain on the spine of Neolotle
Additionally, those who had previously followed Bristlewhakka still control portions of the city or nearby areas that the city relies on. The following areas need the most attention:
- Grots have infested the sewers below the city, coming out at night and causing havoc whenever they can
- A pyramid near the tail of the city is currently in the ‘control’ of gargants. A mega-gargant of great renown has set himself as a sort of ‘king’, sitting atop the pyramid, ordering his underlings about, and generally just causing hell for nearby farms and townships.
- The Flickersun airport is currently under the control of a host of Orruks, Ogors, Troggoths, and similar creatures. They seem to still believe they can retake the city for themselves…
- The Grand Collesium of Nassollotyl, located on the edgeward side of the city has come under the control of some particularly cunning Orruks. They don’t actually go out of their way to cause trouble (unlike those at Flickersun), and instead have begun holding combat games, allowing outsiders to watch if they pay the few (something big, heavy, pointy, or all of the above).
Hysh doesn’t reach in here, the knotling made sure of that. That little speck had found powerful allies to make such a prison for such a powerful being as him. The stone firmamental it was made from stole all the sound outside as well. His bulk strained against the void, now lacking the strength to make the joints creak.
He had little power to escape from his captors even if he could break free from here. It was up to his last and youngest son to play his part in their tale. Snotmish was prone to panic when haste was needed, but he is a good boy and will try his hardest no matter the danger. Like his son, he needed to push himself as well.
Over a week he had been in that damnable prison. Over a week since those blasted, mushroom chuffing grots swarmed his refuge. He had traded one greenskin menace for another, albeit one more malicious than cruel. This ancient hold was to be his broods safe haven from all, but he had been fooled. The thread-tale that told him this place was safe had been twisted apart by a quicksilver wit, one the grots here definitely didn’t possess. Very few even knew he existed and even fewer could manipulate the weave so.
Drawing on this anger at being duped so thoroughly, he returned to his work. Below his bulk his forelimbs felt at the folded plating. A moment of panic washed over him, had they found it? Relief returned as his delicate tarsus brushed against it once again. In his time here he found one flaw in his prison. An improper folding of the floor at exposed the end of a bolt. Using the smallest of his needle sharp legtips, he gently turnes bolt. He had been working at it for some time, so he didn’t think it needed much more to fall free.
His suspicions were confirmed, as after what could have been another day of subtle unscrewing gave way to the sourest puff of fresh air that could’ve been afforded. Almost snorting at the stench, He could feel his connection to the weave return despite it. He channeled what has already been and let the story flow free from him. Pulling the tale-thread from his abdomen, he swiftly gathered it forward to gaze in finer detail. A pale amethyst glow illuminating his eight divine eyes.
“What have you been up to my sweet boy,” he whispers to himself, still careful not to alert the guards that had been stationed atop the sealed container. Looking in he sees Snotmish, the youngest and last of his sons, scurry about the Free City of Nasson. The little one witnessed so many beginnings in such a short time. The thread-tale swiftly wove in his forelimbs a multifaceted woven web. A sweet goodbye between two skydwarves, a soldier receiving a special missive, a gravelord following his duty into unfamiliar possibilities. A wizard of Sigmar, one of aelven origin seeking an ancient foe. A poor soul, left to haunt the godbeasts to avenge the companions he believes he failed. A aelven monster hunter, eager for the payout of a lifetime.
They gathered for a time, plans were made and their threads woven together. The lady of the Free City, Fauncrest, has promised them much in return for their help.
“Ah and of course, Alfelf Bugmansbur, you’re tale is not yet done as well.” he whispers to no one.
The tale carries on, rushing forward through agreements, research, and….
“Oh?” the divine one says looking in on the moment between the Ghosthound and the Lion of Sigmar” He has no idea does he?” A reading for another time.
They gathered at a port, he sees Snotmish skitterstrand his way back to the sewers nearby to prepare and plan his next move. They departed swiftly aboard one of Bugmanburs skyships, taking advantage of the confusion the collision of the two Godbeasts to slip in unnoticed. They had not seen how the grots led the arachnarok to the resting megalofin. Though they had dealt with the skybeast and the ever vicious arachnarok with relative ease and almost no injury.
He watches as they traversed the sewer proper, wary and careful. Snotmish went for the ankle of the guardswoman, and received a bolt of arcane fury for his trouble. It is always difficult to convey the need of being envenomed to establish contact without getting a boot or blade swung at you.
A wave of discomfort and sharp pains rocks his body, he knows all to well what this feeling precedes. The knot vibrated in the tale, just after Snotmish finally established his bond with the human. Looking closer at the victim, fury overtakes the divine for but a moment. He wants to thrash and scream, to drain every grot for what little they are worth.
“Of all of my followers, Kind Bingus is the one to taste that weapons corruption.” He hisses in barely restrained rage. He watches as the group puts King Bingus out of his misery and the knot unravels itself. The screeching wretch will pay a thousand times over for this alone. He centers himself, calming on the thought that Bingus did not suffer long.
The group carries on, finding clues left by the architects of this ancient place. The enigmatic Seraphon are always the pickiest of editors, always plucking so many strings to create the story they needed. They sallied forth swiftly, the undead pair coming across a vanguard of nearly a hundred grots and the loonboss’s fungus shaman waiting for them.
“Wait, how?” he asked the thread-tale. Grots were not known for having particularly keen prophetic abilities. His question is answered by a loud clang as one of the grots above finally heard him. The divine considers for a moment slamming back, maybe knocking the grot off this suspended prison.
“Soon, but for now I can only watch.” He turns back to the thread as the group charges up the pathway into the horde of grots and troggoths, the final obstacle to a well deserved respite.