Tuesday, 2 January 2018

The Call to War

The rain had ceased it downpour for the moment, scattered around Arthyr and his warband were the remains of a dozen squigs and at least as many Grots. Arthyr looked around to get an idea of the damage sustained to his brave Aelves; most were injured and a couple were lying with their life blood mingling in the mud and grime. He had felt their spirits pass from this mortal realm and said a quiet prayer to Kurnous.

Before he could finish his prayer and contemplate their losses, the sound of angelic wings broke through the sound of distant thunder. Uhtred landed heavily splashing mud across Arthyr's soaked cloak. The two old friends, soaked and tired, embraced each others hands in the warriors grip and nodded a welcome.

"Arthyr, war approaches. The Flamescar Plateau is being invaded by the forces of Chaos, Death and Destruction. We cannot let the treasures and knowledge of the ancient Agloraxi fall into their hands. Our scryers at Spiteshade have also seen us battling together again, hunting and slaying the minions of Chaos."

The message delivered by Uhtred to Arthyr was not easy for him to hear. His friend and ally needed his help, but he had yet to reach the Tower of the Eternal Wood. He knew that if he were to abandon his quest now the Tower would likely be overrun by greenskin.

"I must take a moment to meditate on this news old friend." Arthyr replied.

Arthyr stalked across the clearing and sat cross legged under the closest tree, closed his eyes and focused on the magical vortex under Spiteshade. There his mind met with his chief spellsinger - Mandia Nightlock. There she confirmed the news and the importance of leaving his quest and mustering his forces to leave for the realm of fire.

"Uhtred Greenwing, we leave to hunt!" Arthyr called as he rose.

The rain started again, shrouding the Sentinels of Spiteshade as they vanished into a swirling mist, leaving the Tower of the Eternal Wood to the greenskins for now...

No comments:

Post a Comment

The Bad Moon Rises

Arthyr sat cross legged in his ornate wooden throne, slowly sharpening the Modryn Blade as he reflected on the news of his brothers death. T...