In Warhammer Fantasy as my ERP Character
115

“How many?” Lady Araloth asked. A newly risen Glade Lord of Laurelorn after her older brother died from the Blinding Death.

“At least sixty ships. With half a dozen troop barges.” Answered the Eonir scout. 

Dark is the night and the light of the moon is covered by the thick clouds, making it difficult to properly gauge their numbers even with their night vision. The Norscan raiders do not light any torches either. Wanting to use the cover of darkness to march into Laurelorn. In conservative estimate, there would be at least four thousand Norscan. Araloth turned to her Spellsinger. The only one that is not pregnant with the beastmen’s spawn. Trying to hide her disgust on how many of her kin have fallen so low that they are willing to be used by the beastmen.

“Can we entreat the forest spirits?” 

“The forest is still recovering from the Unclean’s corruption. I can rouse a few at most. Maybe more if I use the Daemon’s name to call upon them.” 

“No. Stay in the back and be ready to heal any wounded.” Araloth swiftly made her decision after she heard the last sentence. For it reminded her how far they have fallen and the queen that has surrendered their forest to the Daemon’s grasp.

“They have arrived.” Another scout appears. Reporting that the Golden Beastmen’s warherd have arrived.

Araloth looks towards the edge of the forest near the gorge leading towards the beach. Unable to make any outline of the beastmen. Something that terrifies her and angers her to no end. Terrified of how despite the golden beastmen seeming much bigger, they are somehow faster than normal beastmen and almost as silent as an elf. Worse being that she noticed that the beastmen somehow can be hard to be noticed if they don’t want to like now. And angers her on how easily the beastmen can easily overpower the Eonirs should any tries to fight against their occupation and how much they rely on the beastmen for protection. Araloth swallows everything down and speaks again.

“How many?”

“Eight hundred. At least.”

“That makes us a little less than two thousand.”

Eight hundred beastmen blocking the path to Laurelorn. Five hundred Eonir rangers and Glade Guards on each side of the cliffs overlooking the gorge. The Norscan would need to withstand the rain of arrows as they march uphill. Then the beastmen’s guns and might should the Norscan reach the edge of the forest. Despite being outnumbered, the terrain and everything favors the defenders. The battle can be won with little casualties. With everything in mind, Araloth relays her command to her troops. The Eonir waits as the Norscan march deeper into the gorge. Then, as a few rays of moonlight manages to penetrate the cloud, she nods at one of her captains who identifies the enemy’s leader and immediately fires. Signaling the beginning of the battle. A tradition for the wood elves and a final entreaty to Kurnous, The God of the Hunt and blessing for the battle to come.

—

Kal snorts as he and his warherd await the raiders. He does not like this. Fighting with the elves. He still doesn’t trust them. But what his mother asks of him is absolute. She has raised the herd to be stronger than they ever were. There might be some reason even with his raised intelligence not understood. It frustrates him. As it always like this since the beginning and even now with his raised intelligence. Nevertheless, his mother’s judgement always makes the herd stronger so he follows it and explicitly commands his warherd to not attack the elves unless they attacked them first. 

It hasn't happened yet, but some of the elves have not submitted to the herd. Some managed to rile Druig’s wrath when he overhears some of the elves trying to put up some resistance against his mother’s rule. Like in all beastmen herds, challenging the leadership of the herd is expected. Marissith, their queen, said that some of this is inevitable when he breeds her. But the challenge must begin with power and it is insulting how the elves demand the same despite how weak they are. So he and Druig killed the males and raped their mates to submission. The discontent is quiet. For now. His mother need not know about any insignificant challenge so he never tells her about any of this. Should the elves try anything again, the herd can just cull the males and rape the females until they are docile like all the breeding stocks before all of this. Then he heard a faint whistling. The elves have started firing their bows. The battle has begun and he discards all useless thoughts and gets ready for battle.

—

The Norscan marched through the dark. Eerily in silence. Save the sounds from their boots and hooves. Leading the horde is the Chosen of Slaanesh, Ryzza the Skinner. She has defeated Azzok the Fury, a champion of Khorne in single combat. Sacrificed Gharadjia the Lost Mind, a sorceress of Tzeentch, on the altar of her patron. Flayed Brezrok the Rotreaver and skinned him alive. She always wears their skins. The skin of Azzok plastered over her armor, protecting her from mortal blows. The skin of Gharadjia as her underwear, who she still often hears laughing, gives her some resistance to magic. Finally the skin of Brezrok as her cloak, which she is reluctant to wear, gives her extreme endurance in exchange for feeding it periodically. Even the Gods have bestowed upon her a prophecy. That no projectile shall ever harm her and no man, be it humans, dwarves, and elves will kill her. This only leaves the beasts and the women and she clearly prefers the latter if something did manage to kill her. This prophecy is also why she is here and not following the new Everchosen. As it is insulting to her as a devotee of Slaanesh to wait and to be satisfied with whatever leftover on the table when the Everchosen have his way. She might like one kind of interpretation of the previous sentence but ultimately it is not how she followed Slaanesh all this time. Every desire must be indulged in, every glory must be reached by your own hand, and anyone only has themselves to blame for missing the feast that is laid out.

The cloud overhead parted a little. Rays of moonlight passed the Norscan horde before the cloud blocked the moon again. A whistle sounded as an arrow aimed to her head swerved unnaturally and landed on the neck of one of her slaves. The slave gurgled and fell. Then the sound of Norscan horns followed. Echoing the cliff walls and the entire horde broke into charging up the slope as arrows rained down upon them from both sides of the cliffs, trampling any unlucky enough to not keep up. Any norscan not heavily armored are taken down immediately with few arrows while any norscan having any visible sign of being a follower of Nurgle becomes magnets for the arrows. But no arrows ever come close to touching Ryzza, they swerve unnaturally around her as if evading her, landing uselessly on the ground or swerved to her retinue uselessly as the arrows cannot penetrate the armors of her chosen champions. She had expected this somewhat, by placing whatever cavalries she brought along to the very front of the marching formation. Though by the time the cavalry reaches the end of the slope, almost all of the lightly armored marauders have died. But still there are hundreds of chaos knights reaching the end of the slope.

Then the thundering fire began. The first volley killed many of the knights and dismounted many more as the bullets punched through their armors. Only a few of the chaos knights fell as their destrier entangled with the fallen as they jumped. The second volley makes short work of them. By the third volley, all the chaos knights are all dismounted. Then came the fourth and fifth volley, decimating the chaos knights to the last man. But still the Norscan horde marches. Charging with berserk and suicidal fervor, the chaos warriors of Khorne reached the edge of the Laurelorn. But it is not the weak and small southerner who greets them but beastmen, in form fitting armors, all towering one head or two head taller than them. The sight of beastmen blocking their path might confuse other Norscan but not followers of Khorne who relish in fighting powerful enemies than the southerners. The two lines met with a brutal clash. Beastly roars answered by roars that are more suitable to come from monsters than man. A beastmen pulls the shield of a khornate warrior away and cleaved his head straight in the middle with its axe. Khornate warriors overwhelming the beastmen with a flurry of blows, taking advantage of their shieldless enemies. Two or three khornate warriors fighting against one beastmen due to their size which made less beastmen in a line while the beastmen holding them off with its sheer size and strength and unnatural swiftness.

A stalemate reached on the edge of Laurelorn. Until hundreds of fliers emerged from Laurelorn. Female beastmen bestowed with wings before the battle began flies overhead the khornate warriors. Slimmer but still comparable in stature to their male counterpart and in similar form fitting armor. Shooting down with their guns before landing, making another line on the dead bodies between the warriors of Khorne and the rest of the Norscan horde. Immediately they split to two, one holding back the Norscan marching up the slope with their guns, another strikes the khornate warriors, effectively encircling the heavily armored warriors of Khorne. Then the beastmen from Laurelorn pushed forward with their greater strength. Forcing the khornate into tighter and tighter spots until they cannot effectively swing their weapon and kill them like herding cattle to the slaughter.

“Cloven Ones!” A confused shout echoed by a norscan before being deafened by gunfire.

But it is enough as confusion spreads. It is normal that Norscan and Beastmen fought each other. But Beastmen fighting with elves are definitely unheard of. The idea itself is unthinkable even for followers of Tzeentch. Rage burns within Ryzza’s heart. Especially when she starts seeing some Norscan retreating without her ordering it. The fact that she lost her entire cavalry and hundreds more stings little compared to the fact that it is beastmen that manages to block the entire path forward. It is as if the Gods themselves mock her for her effort. But reason triumph over rage and bloodlust.

“Signal the retreat.” She commands her Champions. Then the horn signalling the retreat sounded.

Deciding to cut her losses here and now. While she might still have advantage of numbers, it is clear that her entire warband will be left powerless by the time the battle ends even if she wins. Swallowing the bitter taste of defeat but it is no matter for her. There is still glory to be had elsewhere, more pleasure to be had while she lives, and the chance to taste the rare taste of vengeance is enticing enough. But for now, those running without her say must be punished. With her will, her cloak made from the Rotreaver skin comes to life. Snaking through the retreating Norscan and stabbing them and anyone unlucky enough to be nearby. Those who get stabbed immediately scream in terrible agony as their bodies rot and mutate in seconds, turning into mindless chaos spawns which are then let loose to the enemies with her command.

—

Kal heard the Norscan horns and they started retreating.

“Many things, big, climbing up the cliffs.” His mother speaks through the earring artifact before he can order the chase.

As the clouds parted once more, he saw dozens of chaos spawns climbing the almost sheer cliffs at both sides of the gorge with their heavily mutated appendages. The Elves’ arrows have little effectiveness on the creatures. With a snort, he commands his warherd to the cliffs to reinforce the elves.