#GUEST MUSE; HALLE-KHADE

[skxrbrand]

Prev / The Border Princes

Idonea had picked a hell of a place to hide herself, Sābon would give the Red Sage than much. Tumultuous at the best of times, the presence of a ravening hoard of Khornate daemons only made the riotous land of the Border Princes even moreso. And worse, it had made tracking the sage down a more urgent matter.

Va'rrick was no run of the mill Gore-Daemon, either, but the Lord of the Fifth Host of Murder. He was no Skarbrand, but all the same...not a foe worth sneezing at. Sābon had scarcely forgotten the fates of her two brothers, Freysin and Xogrym, and just thinking of them made her chest ache. How they must've languished in their iron-prisons, mere tools for the terrible whim of the Exile!

Sābon licked the stump of her arm, considering the events of the previous weeks. She had crossed paths with the Bloodthirster not long ago and found her fears of his strength were completely valid. He hadn't emerged unscathed, but in the end, it was Sābon who fled their duel sans a limb. Dogged as any of the Hound's daemons, Va'rrick and his hosts had kept up the chase. It had taken the lives of several beastmen tribes sworn to her father, Malal the Malignancy, to throw him off of her trail. But it was only a matter of time before she was found again and not even the most fervant of the god-touched whiteblack beastkin could stand up against a murder-hungry blood horde.

It was all these things that made the the Whisperer amenable to the newest Chaos Power festering in the realm of mortals. Khade, the Red God, and the true god of blood according to his cultists. She had been intrigued, and perhaps the slightest bit annoyed, at the insistence of his messengers. No matter how many she slew, more sought her ear, goading her to the largest city-state in the southern realms: Myrmidens.

And so she had gone, slinking through the bowels of the man-city at the behest of this so-called god. Sābon had had her doubts...and yet she had been well attended; a cadre of ungors and brays, two of whom she had called her personal champions, flitting over the shingles of house rooftops along with her in the dead of night. She needed no direction, for the spoor of a deity was unmistakable...and set her quills to trembling.

But she would rather face banishment than be called a coward, and so she pushed on, delivering herself into the waiting hands of the Red Cultist set to receive them. She ignored their pleasantries, having little patience for the flattery of mortals. The Red Cultist made their home in the center of the capital, deep beneath the earth, hiding away the madness, their mutations, and their fell felid god.

₪ 𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓! 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄. Khade spoke, pleased beyond words and smug at how the Greater Daemon of Malal seemed to cower ever so slightly in his presence. Sābon's claws were at the ready, having not expected this despite what all of her senses had been warning her of. So, the Red God was real? There was a real being of flesh and blood and power beneath Myrmidens, infecting the life above with it's foulness?

₪ 𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃. Khade spoke again, as if in answer to her silent queries. 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐘𝐓𝐇. 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑. 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄.

₪ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐍𝐎 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐓. 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐘.

" You speak of the Khorne Lord." Sābon found her voice at last, and it was iron despite her trepidations.

₪ 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐑. Spat the God-Fractal. 𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐔𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

"And you pursue the Red Sage, I presume?" Sābon quirked a brow ridge, " We may share an enemy, but our purposes are opposite. My father requires that shard for his own goals."

₪ 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐋'𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄. Khade argued, settling back in his throne of skinned wizards, mystics, and seers. 𝐖𝐄 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒.

Sābon frowned, " I will not go against my Lord's edicts."

₪ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐎. 𝐈 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐒.

" The Khorne force is not so large. And the forests are thick with the children of chaos to wear them away."

₪ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍-𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐙𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃, 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄. 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒, 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖. Khade gestured out with a great hand-paw. 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑, 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒. 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐓𝐎 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄. 𝐕𝐀'𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆..

Sābon brow creased. Distrust. Worry. More Khornate Warriors... that was the absolute last thing any of them needed.

₪ 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐈 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐌 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐑. 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍, 𝐈 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑.

" That message being?"

Khade only grinned, seeping back into the darkness of the under-city.

₪ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐖𝐍. 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄.

[skxrbrand]

The Border Principalities, Realm of Mortals

Truth be told, Va'rrick had lost sight of the mission amid the bounty of battle on offer within the Borderlands. And if anyone under his banner had the mind to remember, they certaintly didn't have the courage to remind their Lord. The men of the Princes were more sparse than the Empiremen, but they were meaner and leagues more dangerous owing to the cut-throat nature of their society.

And there were much more than men-- pockets of Skaven, sounders of Ogres, and war parties of Orcs. Even the odd pocket of Malalians. Though squabblesome, all saw the wisdom in putting aside petty grievances in order to deal with the Khorne Lord hacking a bloody red path through their home.

Indeed, the skull tally would be handsome by mission's end. It was only by chance they stumbled across the first Cult of Khade, bearing the strange cross-crown mark of the Red God, and with that stroke of luck the Bloodthirster of Khorne Va'rrick directed his killing frenzy to find more and more.

The Sage of Khade, he figured, would be here, trying to hide amidst it's own. The Ascended Godling himself might be stalking about, a prospect that filled the feline Bloodthirster with equal parts anticipation and trepidation. He was weaker than Khorne, obviously, but still a god, if a minor one. And thus, dangerous to Va'rrick...but imagine the glory! How Khorne would bless him and his legions for delivering the Skull of a God to his throne and the ichor of the divine to fill the Chalice of Wrath!

It was these thoughts Va'rrick focused on, not allowing fear to take root and taint the purity of Khorne's gifts.

---

The Blood God was still predictable as ever.

Halle-Khade, looming large over his congregation of kneeling cultists, paid the bodies before him no heed. Instead, he quietly considered the message he had been brought. A Bloodthirster of Khorne raging it's way across the land, first indiscriminately, now with an obvious target in mind: his followers. He casts his multiple eyes over the prostrating assembly. Though humans were by far the most common, dwarves, ogres, and even the odd Skaven could be seen among the hunkering figures.

₪ SO KHARNETH HAS COME TO BATTLE. Khade was giddy. It reminded him of old times. He hummed.

₪ SOME WEEKS AGO, YOU SPOKE OF A DAEMON OF MALAL AND CULTISTS LURKING ABOUT THE LAND. He began. A GREATER DAEMON, I BELIEVE IT WAS? FIND HER AND SEEK AUDIENCE. THE SHADOWBROOD HOLDS MORE HATRED FOR KHORNE'S KIND THAN IT DOES MY OWN. AND WHAT IS THE ENEMY OF YOUR ENEMY BUT A FRIEND TO BE?

The Cult Magus, his sigil branded proudly in their forehead, bowed and scraped.

" As the Blood Lord wills it." They said, the mortals behind them repeating the sentiment in one voice.

[skxrbrand]

Middenheim, City of the Wolf

Armor might've been a better investment, the Reaper thinks idly as he strides alongside his new 'brothers'. Some wear the armor and have the baring of Ulrican knights, but Skarbrand can sense their corruption even if he cannot see the mark of Khorne upon their skin. Mutants walk beside men, and even the Cloven Ones can be spotted here in the bowels of the city.

The sewer smells of filth, of Nurglish lepers and carries the acrid stench of skaven fur. It leads to the secret cells and meeting places of the Hordes of Chaos; no inn or tavern will be big enough to host what they plan to do. The brotherhood is soon joined by other hosts, Skarbrand easily recognizing the sigils on their leaders. The Bloody Blades, the Brazen Brotherhood, even a sect of the seldom seen Brass Sisters. But what grabbed his attention the most was the leader of the Crimson Skulls. Klaus was a severe man who seemed to vibrate with the desire to commit violence. His men were an image of their leader: broad and possessed of yet-to-be-revealed purpose.

Purpose that had something to do with the glyphs cut into the mortal's skin, he was sure. Every Cult had brought their offering: enemies captured from the rival chaos cults and proper Sigmar and Ulricans alike. Enemies with the aethyr in their blood, tool of cowards, cheats, and deceivers. By far, the larger and establish Crimson Skulls had boasted the most, trotting mages, wizards, and whatsuch to what would surely be their doom. The aethyr kin, mutilated so they could utter no spells (or just for the hell of it), were shuffled to the center of a large altar. From the smell and this dried pools of blood, this had to be an arena of slaughter, one of several secret places dotted about the great Wolf City.

The cults kept to themselves, disinterested in overtures much as a host of Blood Daemons wouldn't be. It was only until the Wolfborne, at last, walked in did the anticipation in the blood soaked chamber rise noticeably. Striding at the head of the host was him: Khade, called Hallebjorn. The Reaper could feel his godly power from here, even so far away. They brought in their own prisoners, many from the Red Crowns and the Purple Hands, they Tzeentch-marks made public; a boast from the Wolfborne as much as an attack against the secret nature of the Changer's agents.

He strode apart from his own warriors, eyes glittering with mirth, and his presence was such that it drew every eye in the coliseum.

" My brothers in blood, sisters in slaughter! The day is come." He spoke, projecting himself as the last of the offerings were shoved into the killing floor. The executioners, a chosen few from each cult to vanguard the slaughter, shouldered their way to the edges of the circle, shoving and batting down any unruly prisoners with the butts of their axes and halberds.

" The sorcerer has been dragged by the hair into the open, the mage exposed for all to see. With their blood, this city will know war as it never has! True war, a bloodletting to please the God of Blood!" The men cheered. Hallebjorn unsheathed his axe, an ornate thing pulsing with fell runes, and pointed at the terrified wizards and warlocks, witches and sorcerers. But before he could give the order, Klaus stepped forward, his voice a growl to command the eyes.

"And who is the God of Blood in your eyes, Wolfborne?" The Cult Magus' steely gaze was a challenge. He began pacing a path to the other Cult Leader, men melting out of his way to allow passage. He did not even notice Skarbrand, the wall of a man, so caught up was he in his address. The Reaper could see them closely now. The Runes. Runes of summoning.

Hallebjorn sneered, glaring at the challenger for daring to interrupt his ritual. Many of the cultists did the same; how dare this man delay the Blood God's feast? But Klaus cared not, for he had been blessed by Khorne's own daemons. He shed his armor, then his tunic, and the gathered Khornates beheld his rune carved skin. Ugly sigils in the tongue of the daemons.

" I have spoken with a Herald of the Great Slaughter. And he names you traitor."

" You have been fooled is what you have been. Old, slow minded dog that you are. Tzeentch has pulled the wool over your eyes. This is a trick but you are too stupid to see it."

" Trick?" Klaus barked, brandishing a rune-carved arm, " The blood I spilled to bear this blessing is no lie. Your words are! You are no worshipper of the Great Hound. But all the same you will feed him. You all will!" The Leader proclaimed. As he did the Crimson Skulls, alone the near equal of every other blood-cult combined, raised their weapons. Klaus roared his next order to the other cults, who were quickly pulling out axe, sword, blade, and shield.

" Kill them all! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

Skarbrand grinned. He watched the Crimson Skulls charge and felt aethyric power thrum in the air as the prisoners were the first to be cut down. He saw the blood cults roar in response and push back, just as eager for blood as the Crimson Skulls. Klaus was slaughtering a path to Hallebjorn....

...and with each death, the glyphs on his skin grew brighter.

[skxrbrand]

PREV / Middenheim's Underbelly, City of the Wolf, Empire of Man

Exile or not.

Disowned or not.

The desire to spill blood was as much a part of Skarbrand as his own flesh and blood, his own claws and teeth. And when the Arena buried in within the dark underbelly of the city turned into a killing field, the Reaper fell quickly to slaughtering all who came near. Throats were torn, limbs were hacked off, men fell and screamed and were trodden on by leather and metal boots, their cries cut brutally short. This body was weaker than his true form, the many scars and cuts carved into it a testament to the fact. The Reaper bled hot ichor from dozens of wounds, crushing skulls and crunching bone with his bare fist.

He paid no heed to Klaus and Hallebjorn, the two men squaring off to begin their own confrontation. The leader of the Crimson Skulls wore a crazed, victorious expression, his skin practically glowing with the crimson light coming from his ritual wounds. Hallebjorn was fierce and stern by comparison, a cool sort of fury. His sentinels came forward to protect their lord and died to Klaus' axe, the shirtless man now full out cackling.

The sound grew deeper and as it did, the air seemed heavier, as if soured by a brooding presence. Skarbrand noticed the change before any of the brawling, slaying mortals did, halting his killing endeavors to witness the happening. Klaus' laughter had turned, malevolent mirth morphing into murderous rage. He watched the mortal's form snap and warp, the blood pooled around him crawling towards his body to offer him mass. To offer the thing he was becoming shape and solidity...

The Arena was slicked in gore, deep enough that if he dared look down, Skarbrand could see clearly his own reflection. But he was so transfixed by the thing breaking it's way into this world he did not see the other things nearer to him doing the same. Not until hot talons has seized his ankle, piercing and burning flesh. Skarbrand's roar was pained and surprised and he kicked the head off the hand's owner once it had broken the surface, killing them.

But that was only one of them. All around them, horned heads were pulling themselves from bloody pools, followed by shoulders, arms, and hands bearing Hellblades. Daemons were upon them and from the skull rune emblazoned on their brows, Skarbrand knew them as the Skaradrim, Hunters of the Blood God's most hated foes. And in that moment he knew: this had been a trap from the start.

A final roar announced the Bloodthirster's success in trespassing into the mortal realm. A soldier Skarbrand was unfamiliar with but it, too, had been of the Skaradrim from the runes and icons it wore. There was fury about the beast, but also confusion. Indignation twisted it's bestial face. He hadn't been summoned so much as drawn here, as water through a straw. Unwitting, unwilling, but all the same ready to do battle and honor the god of blood.

It looked around to the men nearest to it, those that were still alive anyway. "WHO DARES SUMMON IRA'SKARR TO THIS MISERABLE PLANE?" Demanded the beast in a bellow. All the men stepped back. All but one: Wolfborne Cult Leader Hallebjorn. Skarbrand could see a small, mirthless grin about the ginger man's face. Yes, this was definitely the God-Fractal. To stare down a Bloodthirster with a mocking grin he had to be.

Ikar'skarr of the Skaradrim levelled his axe at the Cult Magus, bearing all of it's iron-hard teeth. " YOUR PRESUMPTIONS WILL COST YOU LIFE, LIMB AND SKULL." It declared, again in a roar. Hallebjorn had said something, something too soft for the Reaper to hear, but the other Bloodthirster had heard it loud and clear. He'd heard and he'd objected, bringing down his skull-axe to pulverize the man. But it was not mortal flesh that his axe met.

The weapon rang out, a keening sound as if the being within the blade had been in agony. It vibrated violently in Ikar'skarr's grip, then shattered into metal splinters. Many of them hit the Bloodthirster, his blood host of Hounds and Bloodletters, and the men and women still alive and fighting. Hallebjorn was untouched, the air about him heavy and thick with potential. So thick it seemed to obscure him. The Bloodthirster shook off his shock and daze, looking again at the 'mortal' and knew he was anything but. He was undamaged, save his clothing, and that was when Ira'skarr saw it.

The Reaper was sure he saw the bigger daemon tremble.

Branded into Hallebjorn's chest was the Khadeium Rune. He was a warrior-sage, an unraveller of magic. The Unmaker himself come again. Flattened ears spoke of Ira'skarr's trepidation, for what was he but a being of magic? A creature of the warp, the stuff of the aethyr given a definite shape? Suddenly aware he was being watched and perhaps seeking to make up for that earlier hesitance, the Bloodthirster of the Third Host stood and swelled himself with infernal flame. Then, he opened his jaws and released terror and fury both on the Unmaker.

But Hallebjorn did not melt or crumble. Indeed, he did the opposite, the flame seeming to feed him. He grew, and grew, and grew, until he towered even over the inferno. Until he was staring down at Ira'skarr and Skarbrand both, the sole living beings before him. The men had been killed. The lesser blood daemons had been sucked away to feed the Unmaker's coming.

With Ira'skarr frozen in place, the Firstling looked to Skarbrand.

₪ YOU HAVE FOUND ME AT THE LAST. He said, bemused. A PORTION OF ME, AT LEAST.

"As you bid." Skarbrand replied.

₪ AH YES. THE PORTION OF ME CONFINED TO THE NORTH.

Skarbrand gave a growl, sliding into a combat stance. Khade chuffed.

₪ IF I WANTED YOU DEAD LITTLE DAEMON, IT WOULD BE SO. BUT YOU HAVE GRANTED HIS-AND-MY DESIRE. YOU WILL LEAVE HERE WITH YOUR LIFE.

He looked at Ira'skarr, who gave Skarbrand and Khade both the most hateful of looks.

₪ YOU, HOWEVER, WILL NOT.

The Blood Hunter roared. He leapt in the air, propelled by his great wings. Khade caught him with contempt, more than three sizes the height of the tiny Greater Daemon. He held Ira'skarr as a child might hold a struggling beetle it had caught, looking over him with interest. But then boredom and disgust wrinkled his beaked snout. He leaned in, his voice a thoughtful rasp.

₪ AH. I SEE THE GAME. YOU ARE MY BROTHER'S SON, BUT MY ENEMY'S PAWN. I SEE THE GAME, I SEE THE GAME.

Then, with a sickening crunch, he pressed his hands together, the daemon betwixt them roaring, then squealing, and finally dying as Khade crushed it flat. He leaned down, sniffing the black gore on his hands, licking at it. As he did this, ever single one on his eyes flesh upon Skarbrand.

₪ I TAKE MY LEAVE. THE SENTINELS OF THIS CITY WILL HAVE HEARD OF THIS GREAT SHEDDING OF BLOOD. THEY WILL CERTAINTLY SMELL IT. TAKE YOUR PARAMOUR AND LEAVE.

"Where are you going?" Skarbrand stepped forward, still slicked in gore.

₪ I WOULD WASH THE BLOOD OF OFF MYSELF FIRST. Was Khade's only response. He shifted back into a man, the once lightless sigil on his chest now a dim, persistent red. Then he was gone and Skarbrand was alone, the sole survivor of the great killing...

[skxrbrand]

Middenheim, City of the Wolf

"It isn't the Slaaneshi that we should be worried about."

The deep timbres of Hallebjorn's voice cut through the commotion in the Great Meeting Hall, some seedy tavern or other in the more crime ridden parts of the Wolf City. Eyes shifted over to him, for he had been quiet aside from the typical hailings, during the meeting up until now. It was not a congregation between himself and his underlings, but the leaders of other Cults. Magus' too twisted and feral to walk in broad daylight. The Bloody Blades, The Brass Sisters, The Brazen Brotherhood, and the most largest and most powerful among them: The Crimson Skulls. With the most amount of warriors and the deepest connections, it's leader was unsurprisingly the first to lash out with tongue.

" And what place have you to speak on our worries, Magus Hallebjorn. You only lead the Wolfborne." The Magus of the Crimson Skulls, Klaus Scarthson, growled at the red-haired god-strand. He rose from his chair, an imposing wall of a man.

" Truly said. But the truth of my words changes not. The Slaaneshi are the foes of Khorne and his children and have ever been." Halle-Khade mollified. " But it is not they who controls this city."

" Fool. It is always the damned Slaaneshi. Every pouty lipped nobleman, every heavy-set noblewoman. Do you think those fools pray to Tzeentch? They are just as likely to call the Blood God their patron."

The gathered magi all laughed, a mirthless, mocking sound. Only Hallebjorn remained stoned faced, steel eyed, and staring. Klaus' lips turned into a scowl. " Rumors abound your own blood-sworn, Hallebjorn. Ever since you came to power, there has been a whiff of magic on the air, or so says the ex-cultists who leave because of it. Those you do not kill, anyway. Your efforts avail you for nothing. Khorne despises magic; he orders all mages, wizards and other such aethyr scum flayed and gutted." Klaus stepped forward, hand on his blade. The other Other Magus' were glaring bloody murder at him as well. Hallebjorn did laugh then, airy, shaking his shaking head.

" I am one of Khorne's own chosen. You have seen the marks on my skin, Klaus. The Wolfborne expel the weak and we kill spies. What remains is a core of strength, to do the bidding of Great Kharneth." He replied, " This is some trick of the Changer and you do not see it. How the Purple Hand seek to set brother against brother. Slaanesh may be hated, but Tzeentch is the greatest Rival of the Blood God. I do not lose sleep over artists and streetwalkers. It is the liars and schemers and spies that take my interest."

Uncertainty played across the features of Klaus. Halle-Khade reached inside of his furred cloak, causing the Magus around him to tense. But he only produced a myriad of Tzeentch marked accoutrements, be that coin, weapon, even the skin and scalps of foes.

" These men wore our Bloodfather's colors, but spoke with the voices of the Changer. They were among my fraternity and we Wolfborne as but a small cult compared to the Crimson Skulls, Lord Klaus." The implication was clear. If Wolfborne had been infiltrated, Crimson Skulls and all others certaintly had been. Halle-Khade leaned forward, his weight creaking the old, circular table they all sat at. He had successfully recaptured the ear of his kin.

" The City frowns upon Khorne's sacrament, so bloodying our blades is unwise. However, the Purple Hand have their own hated kin."

"The Red Crowns." Another Magus, the Gore-mistress of the Brass Sisters, spoke up. Halle-Khade nodded.

" We shall do to them what they seek to do to us. Turn brother against brother."

[skxrbrand]

Middenheim, City of the Wolf

"How curious..."

He spoke with two voices, mortal and burgeoning god. Before him, books. So many, many books, and on just as many subjects. Most were serious and darksome matters, concerning magic and the world and the myriad evils within. Others were innocent; great works of fiction, or not so great. Within the intimidating Khorne-consecrated hall of the Cult of the Eight Blades, even children's books could be found among Hallebjorn's horde of knowledge.

He had sniffed out the cult just eight moons back, wearing robes and armor to conceal his form, but all could feel the thrum of the divine about him. It hadn't been long at all before Hallebjorn had climbed the ranks, spilling the blood of fellow cultists, empire foes, beasts, but more importantly killing and then assuming command of the Cult himself. He was an odd man compared to their previous leader. For one, their usual haunt had never been filled so many books.

Of course, Hallebjorn was no mere man, as the glowing runes on his skin attested, but another Fractal of the Firstling. The Cultist sung his praises, called him a true chosen of the Blood God to bear just bloody marks upon his skin, but he was greater than even that. And in an entirely different and wrong way that the dim minds of the Blood God's servants could not appreciate even with a lingering gaze. When their backs turned, he sneered at them. Fools. Of course, Khorne would cultivate dimwits to serve him.

But for now, that witlessness served his own ends. And if his chamber guards had opinions on their new leader's bookishness, they wisely did not share them. Tomes on the so called Dark Powers were hard to come by, but with enough fear and bloodshed, much could be accomplished. And now those tomes, just a few of them, were before him.

So interesting. No longer him, Akhar, Tchar, and his rowdy siblings, but three other players. Newer. Younger than even Khorne. Unknowns. Hallebjorn swallowed a croon. He felt a hunger, not unlike his desire for blood, swell within his chest and his mind and he reached for the first book: blue, bearing the icon of Tzeentch.

What schemes were the old bird cooking up now, he wondered?

[skxrbrand]

𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐙𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐀𝐑, 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐒

"𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐥𝐞?"

Ulf-Khade turned and looked behind him, at the smaller leonine form of his kin-self Halle-Khade. Despite the fact Halle-Khade had done most of the work battling Khorne's forces, cultivating cults in the south, and even speaking to the Prime Renegade Malal, he took up the rear in their unspoken hierarchy. Ulf-Khade had been awake longer, had been bigger, and had schemed so that his smaller self could even be in the first place. And so he took prominence, and Khorne's pilfered blade, shortly after landing and joining himself with the patchwork army of monsters marching north.

Halle-Khade had taken the long way. All the better to accumulate soldiers and slaves as well as weed out the weak. After thinking the question over a moment, he answered at last.

"𝐍𝐨. 𝐒𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥. 𝐖𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩." Though his help would've certainly made things easier, Ulf was sure they could win. Skarbrand would miss a glorious bloodletting and it would be his loss. Khade intended to wear the victory by his lonesome. His eyes flicked up and beheld a black sky. Not weather, but the obsidian eye of the Malignant One. Following, watching, wanting to see if the godling had what it took to stand against a Ruinous Power.

The smell of mortal flesh and blood and sounds of struggle drew the gaze of the two great leonine gods. Cultists, garbed in reds, silvers, and whites, threw two men before the two godlings. Immediately, they fell to their knees. Halle-Khade was the first to speak, stepping around his brother-self.

" 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬?"

" Spies and turncoats, your holiness."

"𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞." Ulf-Khade rumbled. They were far from the first and would not be the last of the turncoats found in the midst of the army. Such was the power of the Changer. He waved the Khadite Cultists away. "𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐭."

The humans left, dragging their prize with them. Ulf-Khade looked to his kin-self.

" 𝐖𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐫."

---

Weeks turned to days and days into hours, men and monsters weaving through the lava-rivers and bone forests leading to the Brazen Altar. Like an arterial leak, bright red spilled across the land and the black mountains rang to the sound of beastman calls, swords bashing against shields, and the unrelenting tread of a battle-hungry army.

To the mortal eye, the land was dead and empty. It was stones and molten rock, barren of trees or grass or creatures. A seething wasteland, not unlike the Realm of Skulls proper. But the Khades were far from mortal and as soon as they stepped in proximity to the great brazen arena, they felt it. Their sibling-self was here and magic sat heavy over the land. Most of it took the form of a great dome arcing over the whole of the Altar. Little wonder who was inside of it.

The army drew in close, surrounding the arena, their fervor dying down into confusion at the apparent lack of foes. It was a trap, Khade thought. Of course it was. Tzeentch had known they were coming before they had known or even been awakened. The question now what was form was the opposition going to take.

𝑾𝑬 𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝑰𝑻 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑭𝑰𝑵𝑫 𝑶𝑼𝑻. Halle-Khade growled in the mind of his larger Kin-self. He put his hands together and then brought them apart, red electricity arcing between his talons. He stepped forward to touch the barrier, but Ulf held out a hand.

𝑾𝑨𝑰𝑻. Halle-Khade paused. Ulf-Khade turned to the army behind them, milling and idling. He pointed out a Sorcerer, a Red, white, and silver garbed Cultist of his own, and bade the youngling approach in his stead. The man did as he was bid, confused but obedient. He placed a hand to the barrier, wrangling the Winds into his master's lore, and as soon as did it happened. That cultist had died. He had screamed and swelled and bursts, his shout cut brutally short in a shower of gore. The land around him, around the perimeter of the barrier, had detonated with enough force to rattle both godlings and kill anyone unlucky enough to be close. The magic thinned as it delivered it's devastating payload: daemons of all stripes -- plague, war, and pleasure -- emerging from the swirling blue smoke and detritus. Daemonettes rushed into the vanguard, slicing and slaying. Khornate Daemons howled into the fore, hell blades swinging. Plague Daemons shambled behind them, slow but persistent, like death itself.

A thrill of terror lanced through both Khades. Had Tzeentch convinced the four to ally against him? As his army shook off their shock and began to fight back, he could see it more clearly. These daemons were wild and not in the manner in keeping with their respective deities. The Slaaneshi had no grace, the Khornates' innate battle skill suffered at the random bouts of cackling, the Plaguebearers' faces were fixed into grotesque rictus grins. The stink of Tzeentch sat heavy on all, and extra limbs, eyes, and even crystal shards abound in their bodies. They were the wrong colors, the wrong sizes-- they were mutants and far more than what could be found in the armies of the gods.

They were the Maze-Crazed. Ill-fated Daemons who had attacked the Labyrinth of Tzeentch and been lost in it's crystalline paths, driven insane by horrors that could break even the malevolent minds of the daemons of chaos. And Tzeentch had conspired to drop them in Khade's path, to be an obstacle.

Over it all were the Daemons of Tzeentch, whooping and cackling, riding their flying disks and arcane chariots. They were hurling magical spells into the army wherever men clumped up thickly, turning some into statues and others in organic piles of goop.

"𝑭𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑩𝑨𝑪𝑲!" Ulf-Khade roared over the chaos. His stolen, overlarge sword, newly scored with his own Runes of Undoing, manifested in his paw. Halle-Khade fell away with one great flap of his wings, but stumbled again to a halt when he saw what lurked at the rear of their army. The stones that they had trodden so carefully over were changing. They were growing tentacles and eyes and mass. They were turning from grey and black to blue and pink. Some morphed further, their daemonflesh turning into the feathered shapes of Lords of Change bearing staff and blade into battle. And they were hurling themselves into the flanks of the army, curvy daggers slicing and the fires of changing turning man and beast in mutant and monster.

Ulf-Khade snarled. He swung his blade and daemons died wherever he did. He unmade them where they stood and while the Daemons of Tzeentch had sense enough to avoid such a fate, the Maze-crazed were beyond self-preservation. Ulf-Khade reached of mental claws and latched onto his free kin-self's mind. Behind the barrier, he could feel the steady pulse of his kin-self yet to be freed.

The key to their victory.

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐘! 𝐖𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅! Ulf-Khade shouted, punctuating the sentiment with another swing of his sword. Daemons crawled up his leg, biting and ripping and tear what they could, heedless that he was a god and they were mere ants on his flesh. Ulf-Khade shook them off. He saw the shadow of his siblings-self fly over him, dropping clinging Horrors to their doom, and spread his wings to do the same. On their heels, chariots of Tzeentch raced and Feathered Lords soared. Ulf-Khade swung his blade behind him and split those with slow reflexes in twain. He caught a glimpse of the army behind him and saw far fewer warriors than when they had arrived.

Perhaps bringing Skarbrand and his forces along hadn't been such a bad idea after all. But it was too late now and pointless to dwell on those not-happenings. Halle-Khade slammed into the barrier like a meteor, rattling it, but it held. His claws scrabbled and found purchase against it as he sled down it's bowled surface. Then, he begin to beat against the barrier with his Abjuring lore, killing the magic. Ulf-Khade played sentinel, undoing any daemon that tried to stop his brother-self. The army was flagging. Sections were breaking off, losing heart, and routing only to be torn down by Feathered Fiends and Headless Hounds of Khorne. Whatever Halle-Khade was doing, it was taking too long.

Ulf-Khade beat his wings, carrying his massive sword and himself high, high into the sky. Into the clouds. He was flanked by Daemons, though some remained behind to torment Halle-Khade, setting his fur on ablaze with wyrdflame and scoring at his back with blade, horn, and claw. The stolen blade was heavy, and made the ascent difficult. But that only meant to descent would be destructive indeed. Whipping around in mid air, Ulf-Khade slew the last of his pursuers with a deadly arc of his weapon. And then he let himself fall, aiming the sword at the barrier, letting gravity pull him down and down and down.

The Undoing Runes sparked to life on either side of the sword, battering away enemy magics and dissipating enemy daemons. Ulf-Khade hit the weakened barrier like the fish of a god, his blade sinking through the barrier with a sound like crunchy glass. The force of the impact rolled through him, aching his bones and skin. He trembled, as did the earth, and in the distance he saw mountains crumble and fall. And then the barrier, too, began to shatter. Spiderweb cracks in it's Arcane surface spread from where the blade had pierced it, until it began to fall away, crumbling to dust wherever it struck ground.

The war paused to see the happenings. Even the Maze-crazed were stunned to stillness. With aching wings and bodies, both Khades hovered to ground, bent and heavy with the toll of war. But it would prove to be worth it. Out from the destruction came the final fractal, the biggest, strong, most potent of the pieces of the Unmaker thus far. Once enfleshed in Khorne's beloved Doomhound, Simaer-Khade stepped forward, fed to ascendence by the sheer bloodshed of the battle.

And he was massive. Terror gripped the daemons and even those mortals who swore fealty to the Red One. They abandoned their blades, even mid battle, and pressed their heads to the blood-soaked earth. Simaer-Khade sneered at them all, contemptuous and amused, then looked to it's smaller kin-selves. It extended a paw, which each of them took, and then began to absorb the godlings into itself. It became greater, it became strong, it became larger. No longer was Khorne's stolen sword a burden to it and it raised grabbed the blade, charging it with the fell power of it's lore. This it swept out in an arc, raw magic flying from the edge of the sword, immediately destroying any daemon it touched. Only the mortals were spared. Only by Khade's will did they leave.

"𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃. 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑, 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑, 𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐑, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋. 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃!"

Shouted the god and the few survivors of it's great war cheered and shouted in exultation at the fullness and potency of their god. Above them, the black sky rumbled in what Khade could only assume to be approval.

"𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒, 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃. 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄, 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄! 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇! 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒!"

It raised it's blade. The sky, the black and cloudy sky, gave one more contemplative rumble. Then, an onyx bolt lashed out and struck the tip of the sword. Khade roared and that roar turned into a scream as the Malignant One's power burned at his very being and his own magic ate away at Malal's. So it was until a tenuous balance was acquired. Two Gods. One flesh.

Under a black, gloomy sky Malal-Khade came to be!