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skxrbrand · 1 year

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The night sky weeps red, painted over in bloody, unnatural hues. Stricken with a luminosity that should not be; that turns the pale disc of the full moon a pallid infernal hue. It casts the scene in red; the battlefield-to-be. Before the next sunset, it will be redder still, the corrupted earth whet with blood and dotted with the dead and dying.

The thought brings a curling sneer to Skarbrand’s snout and he approaches with a zeal that escapes his fellow warriors. Even the Khornate marauders cast their eyes about in barely-hidden alarm and it is much deserved, for the Blood God’s gaze is upon them, singular and focused. They quail, as is expected of mortals before a deity, but the attention only makes Skarbrand bolder. He can already see them-- the prize fighters in the battle to come. Two Deathbringers, the beat of their wings thundering in his ears like the deepest battle drums.

Three Bloodthirsters converge and the world weeps at their coming, the mere presence of the daemons an assault on reality itself. The sand bleeds. So do the rocks, the few trees stubbornly taking root within the arid badlands, and even the blades of the war hosts. Waves of madness sweep over the encroaching armies. The heavy red clouds threaten to spill their bloody contents. Red and black lightning curls and arches in the air, flashing into and out of existence. It is a veritable hell on earth, a small swathe of the Blood God’s realm brought to the world of mortals.

Skarbrand’s march ceases, as do the mishmash of mortals and daemons at his back. The twin Bloodthirsters land, their own army at theirs. It is as the scout stated-- they fewer in number, but mightier in arms and character. However, as he peered closer, the Reaper noticed something amiss about the twin Bloodthirsters. He could smell Khazaan, his familiar scent having not changed a whit even as a Bloodthirster rather than an daemon-axe. However, the other Greater Daemon... That was not Kha’xanzyr. It was Z’ruhgl, the Brassbound; muzzled, cuffed, and for looking all the world like a rabid animal. Flicking his odd-eyes about, he did not see hide or hair of the blue-eyed Bloodthirster anywhere. Skarbrand rose a lip at it all, calling out over the meters of arid land separating their two armies.

“ Gorger of Gore!” Began the Reaper, “ Where is our brother, the Architect? Where is your third Bloodthirster? Do not tell me he ran even after Kharneth blessed him with an army. Do not tell me he fled before the battle proper, even after freeing this frivolous fool to do his bidding! Does he fear me that much?” Skarbrand paced to as from as he spoke, disappointed but also gleeful he could inspire that much fear in his sibling. “ He should! As should you.”

The toothy grin Khazaan was trying, and failing, to hide did not dim a single solitary iota however. The Tippler turned to Z’ruhgl, all but tearing his muzzle free. The binds on his wrist were broken next. He barked something to the half-mad Bloodthirster, something Skarbrand couldn’t quite hear, but whatever he said had made Z’ruhgl yet another enemy. The Reaper was glad for it; this fight would be dull with only one Deathbringer to duel.

The Brassbound’s charge was frenzied, the Bloodthirster nearly tripping over himself in his haste to engage the Reaper. Khazaan was on his heels and at once, a great roar went up from the opposing army. Blades and axes rose, hooves, claws, and boots shook the earth. Skarbrand looked to his own army, gesturing with a roared command and the thrusting point of his Nameless axe. It was the ratmen, forced to the vanguard, who would absorb the blow. Drown the enemy in their prodigious numbers, tire them by forcing them to hack through body after body, while the real warriors did the real killing. Skarbrand’s forces had their own zeal, their faith put in their leader and their sheer numbers advantage. As it stood, the Exiled host had the Crimson skulls three-to-one. Skarbrand ignored the flow of bodies at his back. He only had two targets and to cut down anyone fool enough to try to become yet another challenger...

Being the rangier Deathbringer of the pair, it was Z’ruhgl who reached him first. His speed spoke of his time in the 7th host, leading those Bloodthirsters against the quick and lithe forces of the Pleasure God. Their horns collided, locking together in a dance of dominance. Skarbrand was bulkier by far however and when the initial shock of the collision waned, he pushed his lankier brother back and back, one hoof at a time. He ignored the absurdly sharp claws in his shoulders or the way the Brassbound screamed curses and obscenities in his face. It wasn’t until Khazaan finally caught up did they gridlock. Tall, no, but the Gorger was dense.

And Skarbrand wasn’t one to pursue a pointless maneuver. Before either of them, he realized the stalemate and swiftly broke it. Ripping his horns away and flinging the pair of them back in the same motion. But they were on him again in the next heartbeat; Skarbrand expected nothing less from a God-Butcher and Murder Host-Leader. He welcomed it, he relished it, the feeling a claws slicing into daemon-flesh, the heat of battle, the splash of hot blood across his teeth and talons. A some point, his axe snapped and he was forced to discard it. He did so by burying what was left of it in Khazaan’s knee, drawing a pained roar from his brother and hindering him for a few precious moments.

Between the pair of them, Z’ruhgl was proving the most dangerous. Fast, determined, and stricken with the blood fury as well as some other, unnamable madness. The Gorger was decently bruised, missing a horn, down a wing-- Z’ruhgl was scarcely touched, saved for the odd set of claw marks here and there. But that was due to change, as Skarbrand caught his next charge. Hooked their horns together so that the Brassbound could not flee. From the corner of his eyes, he spied Khazaan and aimed a cruel, open-mawed grin his way.

“ An embarrassment! This disgraced warrior, brought low by a loathsome Slaaneshi, outdoes the second guardian of the God Butchers? A disgrace! Perhaps Kharneth should switch your punishments; make Z’ruhgl my axe and lock you in the Volcano’s heart!” Skarbrand jested cruelly. Khazaan was incensed, but Z’rughl was a whirlwind of fulminating wrath. From the corner of his eye, Skarbrand saw Khazaan finally wrench the axe loose and charge in, perhaps to pries Z’ruhgl loose but it was too late. The fuse had been lit and the red skin of the disgraced Bloodthirster bore a luminosity to rival the stars.

He exploded, a shower of gore and concussive force marking his literal passing. The ground cratered, both the Reaper and the Tippler were knocked clean off of their hooves at the explosion, blinded by the blood in their eyes. Bits of bone needled into Skarbrand’s skin, shrapnel from the veritable daemon-bomb that had gone off. The Exile, genuinely winded, truly dazed, fought to find his hooves and his senses. He touched his face, to find much of it ruined. It wasn’t just blood in his eyes; one of them was gone. The skin of his right side had been cracked, brass-flesh pulverized like a stone and leaking his steaming ichor onto the ground...

The battle had condensed into one, long white noise, the explosion ringing in the Greater Daemon’s ears. Dimly, he recognized new scents and new sounds mixing into the already messy, brutal battle. The baying of hounds, the stampede of calloused daemon-paws, the groaning of brass. A great pain in his back, however, brought him howling back into the present with crystal clarity. A pair of strong hands had come around the joint of his wings, gripping and pulling. Jaws had come around the back of his neck, sinking as deep as they could go. Searing, red lightning had crackled from both the assaulting teeth and fangs; that was when Skarbrand knew.

Kha’xanzyr had arrived, flanked by a sea of Flesh Hounds, reinforcing the battle. His mishmash of warriors had done well with their greater numbers, but they were tired. Dying, routing, spent and now harried by flesh-hungry daemon dogs. A trajectory for failure. Satisfied with the lightning scars wrought upon Skarbrand’s back, the Architect jerked his still clenched fists away in a smooth, ripping motion. With them, Skarbrand’s wings came away and the Exile called in agony, but the Architect was far from finished. He seized Skarbrand’s head and horns, his grin a truly ugly thing to behold, touched with same madness that had spelled Z’rughl’s end. The same cruelty that shined in the eyes of a Slaaneshi.

“ I told you we would gift your skull to Kharneth, did I not?” Hissed the larger Deathbringer, with a tug for emphasis. “ But I wonder if he would even take it with the slaaneshi reek coming off of your sorry hide.” Despite himself, Skarbrand rankled at the words, even as Kha’xanzyr guffawed in triumph and disgust, grinding his claws deeper into Skarbrand’s head and face.

“ Yes, I know all about your romps with the Arch-Tempter, Reaper. Disgusting. Shameful! As if you could not fall farther in the Blood God’s gaze.”

Khazaan was up, watching the proceedings and amused by them despite the considerable damage to his own body. “ You can’t mean it!” He chimed in, “The Wrathful Reaper laying with the pleasure daemons? Father’s favorite? And you called Z’ruhgl a disgrace.” It was all the provocation for a second the wind Skarbrand had needed.

The Reaper had seized Kha’xanzyr’s horn and tore it from his skull in one smooth motion, pulling an agonized roar from the other daemon. Khazaan moved, spurred by the attack, his axe held aloft, but Skarbrand was faster. He brought his newly acquired horn-blade up just as his brother’s wrathaxe swung down. The seething weapon ate deep into Skarbrand’s shoulder, nearly cleaving his arm off. Skarbrand’s weapon bit deep as well, jammed through the roof of Khazaan’s mouth and out the back of his skull. Confusion and rage played out over the Daemon’s face, as if struggling with the concept of defeat. Then he went limp.

Dead.

Both brothers regarded his corpse for a moment as it begin to fall away, returning to the Aethyr. Skarbrand broke the trance first, approaching the still form of his brother and tearing his heart free, reforming it by will into Slaughter, both his axe and body melting away to re-make the weapon. Kha'xanzyr rage was immediate. He flared his wings, knocking askew any enemy or ally who happened to be in range of them.

“ Do not touch that! Traitor! Snake-rake! You are not fit to wield Khazaan’s axe!” Electricity played about his form as his temper frayed, sparking along the edges of his own weapon. Blood dripped from his broken horn onto his snout, making a fearsome expression even moreso. Skarbrand was unimpressed by any of it, rumbling by way of response. “ Come then. Pry it from my claws, if you can, Kha’xanzyr.”

And then the dance of death began anew. For all his shortcomings, as the Bloodthirsters perceived them, Kha’xanzyr was still of the first host. Given to gloating, yes, but not a mindless, planless brute like Khazaan. He was strong, fast, and his axe struck true. But that was the Reaper’s hope, his own swings slow, clumsy with injury. Kha’xanzyr got comfortable, jeering, cocky.

“ I remember our duel in the Infernius Plains. I’ve mused on it many a time, many a time! The Great Melee of the God-Butchers! But it was really all about you was it not? Showing off to father, seeking power. Ambition! Well.” Kha’xanzyr growled, grimacing. “ It is my time time now! I will cut away the brutish and stupid fools that infest the Bloody Legions as Leader of the First Host! I will be Kharneth’s Right Hand and lead his legions to victory as you failed to do. And it has been a long time coming!”

He raised his axe and struck again, thinking the bloodied and beaten Reaper spent after hours of hacking away at him. But this was Skarbrand, greatest of daemonkind entire, then...and now. Skarbrand’s Curse comes forth in a rippling, sky-curdling tide that shatters his opponents axe before it ever makes contact. It rends Kha’xanzyr’s very armor and halts his assault with the sheer weight of it. Trees crack, the sand stirs, men turn upon their allies and even themselves, grabbing and tearing at any flesh they can get their claws into. The blue-eyed Bloodthirster freezes, struggling to move, struggling to keep his own sanity.

But Skarbrand has no such issues. He alone sees the killing field in perfect clarity, shuffling up to the staggering Deathbringer with a pained slowness.

“ I told you should I best you, you would return to being my slave. And this time, you would wear the mantle in silence, did I not?” Comes the Reaper’s words, a cruel echo of Kha'xanzyr’s own. When he looked upon his blood-brother, he saw fear in the lines of the Deathbringer’s face and it made him chuckle around the blood in his lungs. He pulled back a fist, then thrust it forward, crunching past Kha’xanzyr’s breastplate and into his sternum. His claws wrapped about the Daemon’s heart, pulling the still throbbing organ free. As he did, Kha’xanzyr’s form began to die away, reforming into Carnage. Fulfilling the pact, at long last.

Now, as then, he had been the strongest. The Greatest of the Greater Daemons.

Skarbrand glanced around, to find both armies had been near-utterly shattered around him. Not a living soul in sight. The vultures were already circling, heedless of the bloody red sky above them and caring only for the meal to come. He glanced to the sky with effort, heaving with breath. Determined not to collapse into banishment.

“Look upon me and despair father! For I am still the strongest and you tossed me by the wayside! Look upon me and feel the deepest envy, Nurgleth, Slaaneth, Tzeen’neth, for I will never be yours!”

He wasn’t sure if the other three were watching, but Kharneth definitely was and with his proclamation, the sky roiled. The dark clouds spilled over, drenching the land in yet more blood. A torrent of gore, the rumble of the earth and touch-down of lightning to scorch the land was evidence of the Blood God’s ire. It would be unwise to stay; it had been unwise to provoke him so. Skarbrand would not waste his rage-curse, the only reason he was able to move at all.

So, step after agonizing step, he left the killing field, heading back to Wyrmskull...

#longpost #PHEW #probably the longest longpost ive ever written #warhammer fantasy #skarbrand #Khorne #warhammer 3 #plot point

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