Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘We’ll strip the bark from whatever passes for its bones, my lord,’ the huntsman said, whistling for his dogs. The wormy Chaos hounds yelped and bounded out of the glen, loping after the wounded treelord. They had gotten a taste of its roots and were excited to finish the job they had started. Goral knew how they felt.

He knew he should not leave. The Lady had said he must embed Lifebiter in the heart of this place to accomplish his quest. But there was time enough for that, after he’d indulged himself. Perhaps he would chain the thing, rather than kill it, and drag it back to Cankerwall. Such thoughts were pleasant, if untoward. They reeked of hope, but Goral thought Grandfather would forgive him his vices.

‘Sir Culgus — see to these damnable stones. Topple them and make this place fit for Nurgle’s chosen. I’m for the hunt,’ Goral said as he thudded his heels into Blighthoof’s flanks and urged his steed after Uctor and his hounds. A number of the others followed him, ignoring Culgus’ raspy commands. Goral laughed. He was inclined to leniency. After all, was Grandfather not indulgent of his children?

‘Come brothers, ride hard,’ he shouted, still laughing. ‘Our prey awaits us!’

In her delirium, the Outcast calls out. She casts her voice into the teeth of the world, listening as it echoes through shadows and knotholes. The wind carries her call to the secret places of this weald, this wood, where sane things fear to tread. She is not alone in her status as outcast, though some part of her believes that perhaps she was the first. There are others: broken things with cracked souls and minds riven by hunger and fear.

Inside her flesh, hive-spites stir, and she feels their confusion. They have slumbered too, these tiny spirits. As they awaken, they begin to speak in their high, buzzing voices, murmuring to her as children to their mother. They seek comfort and reassurance, but she has none to give them. There is nothing of the nurturer in her, nothing of the caretaker. The song of the sylvaneth is not for her, or hers. Only the song of the reaping. Only the war-song.

She begins to sing. And as she sings, she strides the root-road through the shadows of the forest, at once insubstantial and implacable. The forest is under attack. The sound of its pain catches and tears at her secret knots, loosening some and pulling others painfully taut. Memories mutter deep in her, the sound of them almost lost among the murmurings of her spites. She twitches, trying to see through the murk of what once was or what might have been, and find the trail of the now. Her feet seek the hard path of the present.

Something happened. That is all the Outcast knows. Some black moment, forever etched in the bark of the world. The Everqueen knows, but will not say. The Outcast shrieks again, in frustration now, rather than command. She can feel the edges of that black moment in the air and soil, like a wound that will not heal. It reverberates through her, searing her mind and filling her with dread purpose. The land is sick and dying, but not dead yet. Not yet, and never again. The Outcast will not allow it. Not again.

The thought snags, uncomfortably close to epiphany. The Outcast remembers lies and forgets truth, or so the Everqueen has said. That is why she is outcast. And the word of the Everqueen is law, thus her words must be true. But then why does the Outcast remember them? Questions hum through her mind like wasps in a hive. Her thoughts race like fire through dry grass, igniting old fears and desires. She has been asleep for so long… so long… Her roots ache with need, and the hive-spites nestled within her hiss eagerly.

It is time to hunt… to hunt… to hunt, she sings. The need is like a creek swelled by the springsfed tide, unnoticed until it is no longer ignorable, and then all-consuming, all at once. It races through her roots and branches, filling her.

The trees are singing as well, but she cannot hear them. She sees them swaying with the wind, their roots stretching deeper and deeper, seeking strength as she strides past, cloaked all in shadow. Leaves twitch back, afraid to touch her or be touched. She is anathema, forgotten, outcast. So Alarielle has said and the word of the Everqueen is law. The forests fear her, and rivers recede at her approach. Animals and spirits fall silent in her wake. Root-claws gouge the earth as she stalks forwards now, growing, unfolding. Sap runs and forms, layer after layer. Scything talons of bark and stone and vine sprout, swell and flatten. They thin to well-used points. They will tear iron and crush bone. The Outcast is still singing as she pulls herself through the shuddering trees, leaving tiny scratches on their trembling bark to remind them of this moment.