Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘You are not alone in such tribulation, and I do not absolve you of blame. But know this, Leafmaster. Clan Arleath held when others did not. The Wrathwaters, though tainted, remained a part of my domain.’ She held out a hand and stroked his bark, comforting the troubled spirit. ‘You resisted a long time. Long enough.’

‘Thank you, queen of the forests. Clan Arleath shall repay the debt in whatever fashion is required. We owe our existence to you, mother of hope.’

‘Mother of hope no more,’ Alarielle replied, her expression turning grim. ‘The avenger, the scourge, the cleansing sun I have become. None failed the Jade Kingdoms more than I, and none has more for which to atone.’

‘No, my queen, that is not so…’

‘It was not the lords of the clans that turned back at the very brink of victory. It was not my ancient warriors that lacked the heart to finish what had been begun.’

Diraceth said nothing, not understanding what she meant. Even he, an age old as he was, could not remember the first wars against Chaos, when the Realm of Life had been wrested from their grip and the sylvaneth first born.

Alarielle remembered well enough, and too well the part she failed to play. How could she judge any of her children harshly, who had done more than she to resist the encroachment of Nurgle’s touch, who had battled daily against the incursions of the skaven? While she had slumbered, afraid and spent, her people had died without hope.

‘I have returned, but I cannot bring hope,’ she told the treelord ancient. ‘We stand upon the brink of oblivion and have only taken a single step from the edge. My return will herald not hope, but war, and suffering on a scale none but the immortals have known. I am strife-bringer, woe-seeder. Look not to me for hope, Diraceth, for I have none.’

‘Then why…?’

‘Because we must fight or surrender. Victory is so far away that even I cannot see it, but it is not victory for which we strive at the moment. This is a war to survive, to push back from the precipice, to claw our lands free of the grip of darkness and corruption.’ Alarielle stepped back, her canopy-wings turning to golden streamers behind her. ‘I guarantee nothing, Leafmaster, but bloodshed, misery and death. I am clothed in the light of the sun, but I cast the shadow of the grave. Without hope, without even hope of hope, will you fight beside me?’

The Leafmaster lowered himself to one knee, a lengthy process accompanied by much creaking and swaying of his branches.

‘You fight without hope, majestic sunqueen, but I cannot deny mine at your return. In the mire of despair I almost succumbed. With the great lords and ladies of the Royal Glades to stand witness, I swear I will not show such weakness again.’

Alarielle gestured for him to rise. He retreated to the company of his clan-kin as the Everqueen addressed her entire council. Her voice carried without effort, as thunderous as a waterfall and yet like the sigh of a playful breeze.

‘There was greater purpose in coming to the Wrathwaters than freeing Diraceth and his kin. The path to the Vale of Winternight has been opened.’

A fractious rustling disturbed the council. The Willowqueen of Harvestboon voiced the discontent.

‘We are not yet strong enough to reclaim the Vale of Winternight, dawnqueen. And little will its liberation add to our cause.’

‘What of the besieged clans of the Verdant Cliffs?’ suggested the Archduke of Ironbark.

‘Or the Mooncrags?’ added the Oakenbrow High King. ‘My bud-brother holds still against Foulslug and his corrupted host. A brave ally.’

‘We owe it to those that stayed loyal, my queen,’ said the Willowqueen. ‘More allies will bring greater strength.’

‘The bargain has already been struck!’ The voice was a whip crack like snapping limbs, silencing the others. The members of the Royal Moot turned like a forest bending in a new wind, directing their glares to the speaker — the Keeper of Dreadwood. Bark blackened along one side by recent battle, the scarred ancient stepped forwards. Fanged and clawed spite-revenants swung through his limbs, whispering angrily to their master.

‘The Dreadwood fight no less than any other Royal Glade,’ the Keeper snarled. He thrust an accusing limb at the councillors, fingers stained dark with the blood of humans and skaven — and the sap of other sylvaneth, if the dark rumours were true. ‘At the Emerald Moors my kin and folk fought beside you, Everqueen, for promise that my forest-kin of the Winternight would be freed from captivity.’

‘A fortress holds them,’ said the Oakenbrow ancient. ‘Many heartseeds will be scattered to take it from the enemy.’

‘No fortress can stand against the will of the forest,’ countered the Keeper. He looked at the Everqueen. ‘And the Royal Moot does not stand against the will of its ruler. What say you, Alarielle the warrior-reborn?’