NationStates Jolt Archive

Kazrak relished the thrill of the hunt, as he and his herd of fellow beasts, crouched low, crept up on the unsuspecting village in the dead of night. This would have been the third attack on thecommunities surrounding the vast Drakwald forrest this month, and it would not be the last. The warband had been growing rich from the plunder of the poorly defended villages, and fat from the livestock and captives they'd slaughtered and consumed. Khazrak believed that they were growing too fat, and that sooner or later the humans would try to attack back. Of course, he reminded himself that he wasn't the Beastlord, and that none of the other Gors cared what he thought, even if he was their leader.

As the herd crept towards the outer fence, Lord Gorfang, who marched with his Bestigors, raised his oxen horn to his thick lips and blew a mighty blast as if challanging the night itself. At the pre-arranged signal, the two beast herds, mixed regiments of the large, brutish Gors, and the smaller, weaker, but expendable Ungors, leapt or tore through the outer fence, and rushed the small stockade. The Gors started hacking at the wooden wall with their heavy axes, while the Ungors swarmed around and yelled and wave their spears about. The wall came apart quickly, and the horde rushed in, By then, the alarm has been raised, and villagers rushed here and there, the men arming themselves with what they could, while the women and children fled. The herds, of roughly ten Gors and fifteen Ungors, tried first to rush the line of men forming up in the village square. But most of them had bows, and a half-dozen Ungors died from their fire before the herd fell back. As they regrouped, Lord Gorfang and the Bestigors came through the breech, and as they wore both heavy armour and shield, they charged the bow-line without fear. The twenty Bestigors and the Beastlord covered the distance of the square with ease, but four of the elite Gors and the Beastlord himself were felled by arrow fire, with Gorfang taking an arrow to the throat, his sturdy armour failing him. Despite the death of their Lord, the Gors fought on, slaughtering the humans in brutal melee. It wasn't long before the men were killed by their well-muscled and brutish opponents, and those women and children who had not fled were rounded up. The livestock, women, and dead men were dragged off, while the meatless children were impaled upon the stockade. Then, the village was set ablaze.

It was a glorious feast that night, though not an untroubled one.

Another village burned, again, the darkness of the night was broken, by the bright flames of pain, again, humans, men, women, children, had suffered a horrible fate.

Their slaughtered, impaled bodies cried for revenge, the night filled with their silent cries, their screams, their pain.

The man came late, watching the burning village, the slaughtered children, the beasts that fell victim to the arrows of the defenders.

The survivers, the women and children that had found the time to flee, hadn`t returned yet... Which was good, considering what they would see here... their children, dead. Their men, only blood and a few limbs showed where they had fallen to the beasts, the children, slaughtered, impaled...

He couldn´t watch it any longer, and went away.

Something has to be done.

Perhaps, next time, he would be there, to help in the time of need.

For a short moment, one could, eventually, see his skin, lighted by the burning village. It was gray, like stone.

The feast was glorious, as a full fifty humans had been brought back, along with at least a dozen well-fed cows, and a few horses and other beasts of burden. Around the sacred Herdstone, deep in the forest, the band celebrated. Several great fires were started as the meat was butchered and divided up. The Minotaurs, guardians of the Herstones, shared the largest portion with the Bestigors, along with the best positions close to the fires. The regualr Gors were next, and what little was left was thrown out to the Ungors and slave-orcs near the edges of the camp's clearing. When they had finished, they few bones and scraps left were tossed to the warhounds in their pen, and they fought each other viciously for them. The feasting was great, but once everyone had their meals, the band's Shaman, Nhasgrim, stood below the heardstone and called to the assembled band.

"Tribe Redskull, listen! Lord Gorfang dead. New tribe leader needed. Who thinks strong enough? Come! Challenge!"

The leader of the Bestigors, Gorfang's second, Groktar, came forward. He had shed his armour for the expected duel between prospective leaders, as was cutom.

"I strong enough! None can defeat. I leader!"

Seeing his chance, Kazrak stepped into the space that had been cleared, and issued the same words. Seeing that his challange had been met, Groktar and Kazrak lowerd their heads, and promptly charged each other. Which a resounding crack, their thick skulls met, and both staggard back slighly. They lunged forward again, but now they both tried to clutch and grab each other, while throwing kicks and punches. Groktar was the stronger, but Kazrak was quicker. Dodging a heavy blow aimed for his skull, Kazrak landed a hard jab to the elder Gor's side. He was repaid with a stiff uppercut to the jaw, and blood was sent spraying as Kazrak was knocked over.

"I the stronger!" bellowed Groktar. "Bow!"

Rather then giving up, Kazrak stood and renewed his challange, and again the two butted heads. Despite taking a powerfull blow to the shin, Kazrak managed to again step away from a heavy knock-out punch. This time, he threw out his now bleeding leg, and tripped Groktar. Seizing the initive, he quickly put his hoof down on the other Gor's neck, pinning him in place. Kazrak, however, was not mercifull, and with a wet crunch, he broke the elder Gor's neck.

"I the stronger. I Beastlord!"

"Yes," intoned the old shaman. 'You leader. Now do duty and consume the fallen!"

As was custom, the bodies of both the old leader and the vanquished challenger where cooked, and shared amongst the new leader and that herdstone's guardians. While this was taking place, the shaman etched into the herdstone the name of their new leader, and the tale of his coming to power.

Now, Kazrak was Lord, and now they would care what he thought.

The attacks came more and moer often, as Kazrak's deeds attracted more and more of his fellows, as well as some of the other horrors of the Drakwald Forrest, to his banner. Within a month of taking the role of Beastlord, Kazrak had led eighteen successfull attacks farther and farther away from the forrest. His tribe had nearly tripled in number, and had attracted such oddities as brutal Ogres and Trolls, as well as the woodland Centigors, half Beastman, half horse "cavalry." With eight different tribes under his heel, he had the rudements of a small empire.

Eventually, a few days before the end of October, the Great Bray Shamen approached Kazrak, and told him of his duty as Beastlord, and of the ritual of Bildhofen, and how he must bring a worthy opponent back to sacrifice to the gods. Kazrak understood this, and decided to summon all of his tribes, and lead his most daring attack yet - on the walled and fortified town of Arenburg.

A full two hundred Gors were assembeled, and half again as many Ungors. Kazrak would lead the fifty Bestigors he had, while the Centigors and warhounds would flank the town to prevent escape. Several hundred slave-orcs would join the Ungors in the first wave, while providing cover for the Trolls who would carry the ram they had made out of an enormus tree. The Minotaurs and Ogres brought up the rear, and would attack once the way was open. Once they were ready, they marched out at sunset. The host was a terrible sight upon the open plain, and they marched openly, not caring to conceal their movements, trusting the darkness to do it for them.

They would attack at dawn.

OOC: This stuff is brilliant. Can I get in anywhere? I love the Warhammer references.

OOC: This stuff is brilliant. Can I get in anywhere? I love the Warhammer references.

Shoot me a TG with any ideas you have, like how you would get in. I'm accomodating. :)

Arenburg wasn´t exactly the largest town in the world, but large enough. Many villagers had fled to it, when the attacks of the beast became more and more common.

So, at the moment, the town, that had about 5000 inhabitants, was actually twice as full.

It was night, and most people were sleeping, only guards at the fortifications, and a few other people were awake. Most of them were refugees who had lost just about everything, many of them had seen their loved ones fall to the beasts.

They were in fear and anger. Anger at the local lords, who didn´t do anything to defend them.

Marie, she had just lost her two sons, only her daughter, Isabelle, still lived. She would never forget what she had seen. However, as the disease already covered her face, it was alömost certain that her pain wouldn`t last too long...

Among the people in Arenburg, a stranger moved. He was covered in a large, black coat, and revealed almost nothing of himself. But where the coat didn`t cover him, one could see his greyish skin... it didn´t only look like stone, it was stone.

He tried to stay away from the people, he knew that they feared his kind, hated it.

As he hated himself.

It was a stormy night, it rained, although not too much. And it was cold, so cold... He jittered, remembering what he had seen in that village... and covered himself even more in his coat.

He didn´t know, yet, that it hadn`t been the last time he would see this horror...

The steady rain was little more then an irritant to the marching army, as it turned the road to mud beneath their hooves, and matted their coarse fur. Thunder sounded in the distance as they went on, and only by the lightning could one discern their shapes and movements. By the time they'd reached Arenburg, steam poured off of the lot of them because of the hard march.

They were spotted as they formed up near the gate, and as the alarm was rung, the four hulking Trolls surged up to the gate, bearing their makeshift ram. Heedless of the defenders arrows, the assembeled horde charged the wall, just as the Trolls smashed through. As Trolls were not the smartest of creatures, they were all for leading the charge, and the first two were quickly riddled with bowfire. But while lacking in brains, they did not lack in brawn, and many of the darts went unnoticed, and their wounds began closing beforre the men's very eyes.

The horde swarmed through the broken gate, moving as quickly as possible to get into close combat. Many of the orcs in the army had crude bows, and most moved to try to take the wall from the guards and get a good vantage over the town. As they broke through, the sun rose pale in the east, its light shrouded and dimmed by the heavy storm clouds. This troubled the beasts little, but gave the men hope, as such things usually do.

Kazrak felt the odds were in his favour - nine hundred of his best against five thousand peasents, of which maybe a thousand where capable men. He suspected that most of the rest were those villagers that had fled, plus the town's own fat merchant population. His theory was about to be tested either way.

He hadn`t been there when the attack started. He was still thinking about where the stone could be... He searched for it since... oh, yes, it had been nearly one year since he had been send out to find it.

The storm reached it´s climax when the attack started. He watched, not frightened, but... disturbed, slightly angry, at the approaching hordes.

The people here wouldn´t stand a chance. Perhaps a hundred trained guards, and another two hundred people with good weapons, the rest... meat with pointy sticks.

He needed to get out.

However, that wasn´t exactly simple, surrounded by the fleeing women and children, while watching the hordes coming near, slaughtering anything that stood in their way, no matter if it were men, women, or children, young or old ones.

He watched a woman, pregnant, perhaps in her eight months, when the orcs approached her... she could hardly defend herself... Then, the orcs, slaughtering her, eating her eyes, cutting her belly, holding up the unborn child in triumph, smashing it to the ground, celebrating this festival of blood...

This can`t be.

This can`t be allowed.

Slowly, he drew his sword...

He watched a few orcs fall, riddled with arrows, a troll, ignoring it´s wounds, smashing another three villagers, trashing their bodies, walking in their blood and tissue...

Another orc fell, this time, by his sword. Quickly, he reached the troll, so far an invincible beast, looking as if it came straight from hell, as it was covered with blood, the rests of human lungs, and other... 'things'.

He wondered if the troll would recover, after he had decapitated it. Quickly, he turned towards the other beasts.

You will pay.

However, he didn´t cry, or scream, he fought silent, concentrated... A crude axe hit him, without doing much...

It´s stone, my friend, you have to do a bit more than that.

And another one fell victim to his blade, a minotaur. Next was a bestigor, than another...

While he killed, he saw the lines of men fall... only few were left, still they fought on... But they fell, one by one...

The storm was weak now, the first light for a long time fell upon them...

Even fewer then Karzark had guessed where able to oppose him, and that made the Beastlord all the more content. He lead the second wave, slaughtering those who could withstand the Orcs and Gors. His spirit was emboldened with every stroke of his axe, with every head and arm sent flying. The blade he had taken from the cheiftan of the Smashed Skull tribe, one of the larger ones in the forrest. Dull, black runes were etched into it, but when coated in blood, they absorbed it, and grew brighter.

By the time Kazrak laid eyes on the Stranger, the runes on his axe were glowing white-hot.

It was odd, but as soon as they moved towards each other, time just seemed to slow. The combatants of both sides ignored them, and carried on their own looting and pillaging.

It was just them, and no one else....

He killed two more, was hit by a crude, cheap sword, that splintered on his skin... Then he saw something... unusual.

It was a bestigor, something one would expect on the battlefield... But this one seemed to be different.

He saw his sword...

Interesting... So he must be the leader...

He stopped his orgy of blood, waited.

This seemed like some sort of challenge, even for him...

After a moment, he attacked, knowing that the superior strenght of the bestigor could very well become a danger for him. With a jump and a warcry, he swung his sword, faked an crude attack from above, and then, he striked from below.

Hopefully, he isn`t expecting it.

Kazrak was, by now, a vetran of many fights, and he thrust his shield down to block the attack, while swinging his heavy axe at the foe's torso. He was dismayed when the sword came up to parry, but, this wasn't much of a suprise. He made several quick, prescise chops, hoping to lull the Stranger into thinking that he wasn't a terribly original fighter. By the third attack, he saw the Stranger fall for the trap, leaving his legs open. Kazrak took the cahnce, and slashed down on the Stranger's thighs. Stone or not, the axe bit deep.

OOC: Mind if I join in? And usually the defender posts losses, not the attacker.

OOC: Mind if I join in? And usually the defender posts losses, not the attacker.

ooc: In this particular case, the outcome is already planned, making it possible.

ic:

Not too good, eh?

Although it was the leader, it didn´t seem to be a too creative fighter... although he had pretty good defences.

However...

I will slaughter you, beast.

So he thought, confident he would win against this primitive beasts...

And he let slip his defence.

He realised it too late, too late to dodge the axe, and, while the city burned and the citizens were slaughtered, he heard his tights split...

He fell to the ground, amazed by the sheer strenght of hthis particular beast, at the same time angered at himself, making such a stupid mistake... that wasn`t how he had learned to fight... he was too arrogant.

However, it was to late, nothing could be done about it... not anymore...

He swung his sword, deliberately trying to get this beast, eventually hitting him somewhere were it didn`t matter much, and then, with the next hit, he passed out...

Meanwhile, the city suffered the worst of nightmares.

OOC: I am still unclear, was that a yes or a no?

If you find a valid reason... btw... *kicks Drakwald*

OOC: My Skaven are waiting for an opening.

OOC: I have a very good one: Character development.

IC: A shadowy figure overlooks the battle raging in the village below, shaking his head in disgust at the violence unfolding below him. He was no stranger to battle, far from it. He had fought countless battles for countless generals for countless reasons he couldn't remeber. His heritage called to him, begging him to leap into the fray, slashing open the bellies of orcs, bathing in their blood. No, not yet. The time is not right... He thought to himself as he watched an orc decapitate a villager with a crude axe. The shadow fingered his twin katanas, his bloodlust rising in his veins. He would kill something this night, but not yet...

Kazrak roared in triumph as he felled the Stranger. He saw that the man tried to stand, but remembering that he was responsible for bringing a sacrifice back for Gemisnachut, he kicked the Stranger in the face instead and took his sword. He grabed up a length of rope coiled around a dead horse nearby, while keeping an eye on his dazed enemy, to make sure he didn't try to run for it. He came back to see the man trying to stand, dispite his one useless leg. Kazrak was not a gentle creature by any means, and proceeded to kick him again in the wounded leg to get him on the ground. He ties the Stranger up quickly, and proceeds to beat him about the head untill he's throughly senseless.

As he does so, the cheer goes up from all around, as the tribe proclaims its victory. In responce, Kazrak raises his horn and blows a long note, giving th call to head home. Many captives had been taken, and the loot was plenty. Kazrak grinned, and as they marched out of the burning town, he found that most of the dead were mere orcs and Ungors, all of which could be replaced in droves and were very expendable. A few Gors lay dead, but he was satisfied that his force had given far more then they recieved.

The red dawn crept up over the hills as they returned to the forrest. The only signs of their passing was the blackened, bloodstained husk that was Arenburg, and the trodden earth left in their wake...

Efficent fighters, no doubt. I doubt they are a match for one such as myself.

The shadowy figure muses to himself, watching the tribe move onward.

OOC: Still here. Just so you know I haven't wandered off.

Then, well, do something! Or else the Stranger is doomed...

The pain was horrible. He couldn´t remember such pain since... since he had become what he was now...

Unable to move, he tried to make out where they brought him too...

Not good...

That was an understatement. Escaping this woods was... unlikely.

He just hoped his master would act sufficiently...

---

Far away, in a dark, old tower, perhaps a thousand years old:

"This... isn`t good."

A tall man, clothed in red, stood in front of some sort of... altar.

He didn`t know why his minion was heading where he was heading too, but that he was heading to a place he shouldn´t go too... not alone... that he knew.

"Ok... he isn`t stupid enough to go there alone... so what is happening there?"

He spoke to himself, and finally, he came to a conclusion.

He quickly left the room, heading towards the lower chambers, wheer more of his minions lived...

It was time to send someone to follow the footsteps of his second- most important man...

And while the night came, and crows ate from the corpses near the prison of the city, while the moon gleamed in the gloom sky of the night, small group started their hunt.

---

ooc: Knowledge received by: When my dear, and now imprisoned, warrior was 'changed' from human to what he is now, a small tracking device had been implemented. Not hard to find out, however, removing should proof harder...

The shadow moved silently down into the village, keeping a katana handy. He spies what looks like a single survivor, lying wounded in the street. He disappears into the shadows, uncertain if the man is friend or foe.

Note: The Stranger is wounded, and being dragged into the Drakwald Forrest by Kazrak. The town of Arenburg is pretty much a smoldering ruin with no living inhabitants. Several hundred have been carried off alive, however. And, its dawn as the warband enters the forrest. Enhjoy!

The man is dead, his organs spilled out into the street. The shadow steps over him, moving quickly after the retreating warband. The unknown warrior spies a man being dragged behind two large creatures. With a running start, he launches himself into the air, flinging a small knife into the eye of one of the beasts, the sharp blade driving into its brain. The second felt the bite of his katanas, forged from meteroite steel, blackened by the heat of re-entry. The perfect edge removes the beast's head with little effort on his part, and the shadow lands in a crouch. He hastily drags the Stranger into the cover of the trees, collecting his trusty knife before doing so.

-Damn Forum-

From the rear of the coloum, Kazrak heard a sudden scream, then another. They were those of the Minotaurs, the rearguards coralling the slaves and keeping the orc drivers in check. Soo the entire coloum was yelling, as something was trying to free the humans. With a ear-splitting bellow, Kazrak raised his clenched fist, and waived it at the melee that was forming armound their dinner. Content the the warband would deal with the problem, Kazrak and his Bestigors continued to march on towards the Herdstone, the Stranger in tow.

Whatever hope the Shadow had in secrecy dissappeared as swifty as the first Minotaur fell. The slavedrivers started whipping their charges to start running, while the Ungors charged forward with a wall of spears. Behind them, Gors pushed their way through the mob, trying to get up to the front. For an undiciplined rabble, they were very well organized.

The shadow moved its scaly hands in a peculiar motion, green energy tracing the movements, then the shadow and the stranger seemd to simply to... disappear. A chameleon spell had been cast, hiding the pair from view. Quickly moving the wounded man to a different location, the shadow keeps the knife in the coils of its tail, ready to throw at a moment's notice.

OOC: And I'll wait for the controller of the stranger to return before I post again, I'm not controlling his character any more, it just ain't polite.

The shadow moved its scaly hands in a peculiar motion, green energy tracing the movements, then the shadow and the stranger seemd to simply to... disappear. A chameleon spell had been cast, hiding the pair from view. Quickly moving the wounded man to a different location, the shadow keeps the knife in the coils of its tail, ready to throw at a moment's notice.

OOC: And I'll wait for the controller of the stranger to return before I post again, I'm not controlling his character any more, it just ain't polite.

(ooc: But... you'd have to go through the whole army to even get to him... read better!)

Kazrak felt the fur on his back tingle and stand on end. He knew that feeling. Magic, he thought. He looked down at the Stranger, and then over to the Bray Shaman that accompanied him. Without a word, the Shaman turned around, and started waving his arms about while dancing and chanting. A counter-spell. Kazrak didn't want to be around to see the result either way, so he ordered his herd onwards, into the forrest.

Jumping up into a tree, the shadow conceals himself withing the branches, his black cloak blending with with the shadows cast by the leaves. 'Blood will stain this ground, that is for certain.' He waits quietly, the knife shifting from his tail to his right hand.

The army marches on, deep into the trackless wilderness. Paths did not go here, and the trees twisted and strained under the evil that they hid. Deep near the mountains that rose up out of the depths of the forrest was the Great Heardstone, the most holy of altars to the gods. Here, once a year, a great sacrifice was made to Chaos by the greatest Chieftan among them, decided by the Bray Council. The Herd of Khazrak left no trail; they were too woodcrafty to be so careless with their sacred altar. They dragged the Stranger along, and while the rearguards covered the physical trail, Khazrak's Shaman wove enchantments about them to ward off scrying magic that might track them. He ordered a halt, which irked the Beastlord, who was in a hurry.

"What is it? Do you sense something?"

"He important to someone. Must bind him properly."

From his satchel, the shaman produced a pair of shakles, and fastened them around the Stranger's wrists. Once locked, a small red rune on each shackle seemed to light, and with a hiss from the metal, the Stranger collapsed as if he had been struck in the stomach.

"He is bound. No spells can touch him. Not even his own. It is safe to go."

With a wave of the Lord's fist, the band continued, though more hurriedly. They could not afford to be late.

While the hordes continued to flee into the forests, unknown to them, someone followed.

While of relatively small statue, and generally looking quite, weak, there was some sort of... confidence in his eyes.

With him was a small group of mercenaries he hired for this job. Not that they were exceptionally willing to enter the forests the horde lived in, but the amount of money, and the amount of protection the... stranger guaranteed had finally made up for the risk.

Still, they weren`t that many, only about... ten of them.

But it had to be enough.

The stranger wasn`t sure how long they would need to actually reach the horde, and the man they were missing, but he assumed it wouldn`t be too long...

Of course, in the forests, it was more than likely that traps would wait for them.

But he was willing to take the risk. He could not fail. If he did, he would die. And with him, with the other one, all their dreams would die...

After travelling nonstop for a day, Khazrak could see the fires that surrounded the Great Herdstone off in the distance, the only light in the otherwise pitch-black forrest. Faintly he heard yells and cheers from the distance; the other heards had started the celebration. Khazrak didn't care, however, as it was custom for the selected Cheiftan to arrive last. The band was almost there, but they were slowed down by their slave train. It wasn't anything more then an annoyance, however, for full night had only just fallen, and midnight was a few hours off. It wouldn't take that long.

---

The clearing was just behind a line of bushes now, and the sound from the hundreds, if not thousands of druken, cavorting Beastmen was all that could really be heard. As Kazrak enters the massive clearing around teh towering monolith, everything falls silent. Everyone present, be they Cheiftan, Gor, or slave-orc, bowed to him and moved aside as he approached the altar, with the Stranger in tow. The rest of his herd file in behind him, and quickly see to getting the rest of the slaves to the cooking pits in time for the feast.

As he nears the blood-stained stone altar before the Herdstone, the Bray Council approaches and asks if he has a worthy host for the exalted daemon prince, messenger of the Gods, Nek'cal'ar'zrr. Puffing out his chest, he replies an affirmative "yes", and thrusts forward the Stanger to meet their collective gazes. They nod approvingly, as the shackles fall away on their own. Fou great Bestigors approach the Stranger, and drag him onto the altar. While the magical bindings are gone, the sheer evil that radiates from the Herdstone makes the stone man feel completely numb. They bind his nad and legs to stnoe, as all assembeled crowd around to watch what was about to happen. All was ready, and the hour was nigh...

He was bound there...

He didn´t exactly know what it was they planned, but he had a feeling it wasn´t something he would enjoy...

Well, he had no other opportunity but to wait and see what comes. After all, his body... his hated, horrible body... would protect him.

Least he hoped it. But then, being one third Golem and one third Demon was quite a bit of protection.

[ooc: i would post with the rescue party as well, but there is the slight problem that i have to coordinate stuff... therefore, tomorrow.]

The Stranger was bound to the Altar, hand and foot, immobile. To the left and behind his head, the Head of of the Council held a blackened silver stake and carved stone hammer in his hands. On each, dread runes of evil write with lives of their own, glowing with a painful inner fire, pulseating and twisting. They change constantly, spelling things in a tounge none dare speak aloud. Holding out his arms, he offers them up to Khazrak. Taking them both, without intruction, he holds the spike above the Stranger's forehead. With a terrible scream, one that reverberates through the woods and the minds of all present, the hammer swings down and stikes its blow. Another scream is heard, as the Daemon bound within the spike begins burrowing into the flesh and soul of its new host. His blood begins to boil, and his skin warps and changes as the very essence of Chaos starts to flow in his veins. He is the Possessed. The struggle between the two is no contest; Nek'cal'ar'zrr is a Daemon Prince of the highest order, esteemed by the Gods themselves, their Champion. What could the Stranger do? He fought till his soul's and strength's end, but even these were not enough. Nek'cal'ar'zrr had the mastery, and now claimed the earthly vessel for his won. As he did so, the bindings fell loose, letting their lord stand. All present bowed, all save Khazrak. Standing tall before the newly risen Daemon, he made it known that he was the Champion who had brought him the gift of Flesh.

"Khazrak One-eye, of the Herd of the Bloodied Fist, I salute you. For you alone of many have brought me, your lord, a worthy vessel. For that, the Gift's of the God's that I haev to give are know yours."

In his hands, substance formed from nothing. A black crown was fashioned, formed out of the swirling energies of the Ether that was at Nek'cal'ar'zrr's command. Holding it up, the Daemon set it up Khazrak's bowed head.

"Behold!" shouted the Daemon, "The Everchosen has been crowned; he who shal lead the armies to their victory! The power of the Gods is at his command, and so to him you will now bow down and take as lord!"

"And to Nek'cal'ar'zrr you too shall take as lord," returned Khazrak, in a new voice that was not entirely his own, "For he is the Emissary of the Gods, who shall provide the strength and cunning that shall guide my hand! Together we shall rule this land and its inhabitants. What say you?"

In a unified voice, the assembeled masses raised their weapons and cheered. It was a dreadful sight.

Nek'cal'ar'zrr gained more and more in power every moment. His mastery over his new flesh grew quickly, and soon he could change it too his will. He took the form of a human male, about 25 years old, tall, with dark hair and eyes. He knew that while Khazrak would keep the country in line, he was to go abroad, and become an unseen herald of woe. He relished in this task.

Long did Nek'cal'ar'zrr travel the wide lands of the earth, learning much of the changes that had been wrought since he was last counted amongst the living. Things had certain changed. Indeed, Drakwald had itself changed by the time he returned. No longer living above ground, the industrious Beastmen had delved a huge network of caves and tunnels below the ground. Shafts had been opened to the surface to allow for air and smoke to pass, but little light was there ever in this stinking pit. He was proud of his minions. They were even using a new type of weapons - gunpowder. Sure, their guns still had large axe-heads for bayonetts, but modern technology was creeping into their lives.

Finally, Nek'cal'ar'zrr setteled down for awhile. He had things to prepare before going abroad again.

He took a human name, Daeron, and had all call him thus. He also found another suitable host body, and had his younger brother and vassal, Nek'iz'lar'im, summoned up from the depths of of the Ether, and he named him Malkom. With the two reunited, they set to work on their long-devised plan.

It had come to Daeron's mind that if humanity and the word could not be taken by force, it should be thrown into enough confusion that it would crumble on its own accord. Thus, they began to make great works of subtle power, to spread about the world in order to bring about upheval and unrest. Within enchaneted black glass they bound daemons of Tzeentch; daemons of fortune and fate. The amulets that bore them wuold appear to being about luck and good fortune to the bearer, but would instead shunt their natural misfortune to those around them. Other works they wrought then, weapons of beauty and might, jewelry unsurpassed, and other things that might be given as gifts to the powerfull of the earth, but all of which were secretly cursed to, in the end, undo their bearers.

It wasn't long that Daeron took thought to ways of actually enslaving the power to his will, and it took even less time before he thought of a way. He began the crafting of nine great rings; rings that would grant formidable powers to their owners, including an increased lifespan. Naturally, there would be catches to these powers. The owner would become loathe to let others see their rings, and eventually to even take them off. After the age at which death was appointed to take them, they would live on, but in ever more unendurable torment. Depending on the will, they would eventually pass from this world, into that which lies between, and become Wraiths. To control them, he would fashion a master-ring, to which the other nine would be bound to serve. He imbued it to that sole purpose: domination of the others. He smiled as he assumed the ring, and set about spreading his special version of confusion and terror about the world.

By the time he and Malkom emerged from their smithy, several hundred years had gone by. Khazrak was still alive, luckily, and he granted them their leave.

First stop, Lavenrunz.

(Note!: The tone for this thread has been changed. It's no longer really an on-going RP, but more of a historical catalogue. First it's dealt with the rise of Khazrak, then Nek'cal'ar'zrr, and now his Crafting. It'll be added to when more things happen. Cheers.)