Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

The axe made a sound like a wounded cat as vines and roots rose up about its haft and slid into the wood. The haft cracked and burst, growing. The blade, blessed by Nurgle, lay where it was, avoided and ignored. Goral wondered if anyone would ever find it. Or would it lay here forever, a tainted patch in this verdant hell?

Maybe that had been Grandfather’s will all along. Infection grew from the smallest scratch, after all. He looked up at the creature, struggling to meet its gaze. His bones ached where they were not numb, and his blood was seeping into the soil. Even Grandfather’s blessings couldn’t save him. But the pain, as ever, brought clarity. I am… done, he thought. He had striven and failed and now the grass would shroud his bones. Was this what his Lady had seen, in her pox clouds? Was this moment the cause of her sadness on that final day? Had she despaired of him? He thought so, and gave silent thanks for it.

Goral looked into the dull, black eyes of his killer, and saw a most beautiful despair there. Like him, it had surrendered. Not to Nurgle, but perhaps to something worse, for its surrender had brought it no comfort. There was no joy in its eyes, no serenity. Goral smiled weakly and said, ‘You are truly beautiful, my lady. And far more damned than I.’ And when the first roots pierced his armour and the flesh beneath, Lord-Duke Goral of Festerfane smiled in contentment.

The Outcast watches the last of the defilers vanish into the soil. His rotted body, like the others, will be purged and cleansed before it is used to feed the roots of this place. The Writhing Weald grows strong on the bodies of those who seek to kill it.

And yet… she feels no satisfaction at this. She wonders what he said, in his hummingbird voice, too high and swift for her to understand. A curse, perhaps. The Outcast knows all about curses, for she is wreathed in them. They inundate her and strengthen her. More, she is a curse. Alarielle’s curse.

She hears the Everqueen’s voice on the wind, murmuring soft comforts to the trees and the sylvaneth who hide in their depths. Her words send the other Outcasts fleeing, seeking their safe places now that they are no longer needed. The reaping has passed, the Everqueen whispers, let the wind fade.

The Outcast looks up, into the canopy which twists and coils in on itself and becomes a face, vast and wise and hateful. Her face. Mother and betrayer, queen and usurper, friend and foe. To the Outcast, Alarielle slides from one to the next with every breath. She is unpredictable and terrible and weak.

The reaping has passed, Drycha Hamadreth. Cease your song, daughter.

The voice is soft, and insistent. Persistent, it dapples her mind like dew, spreading warmth, driving back the cold. And as it spreads, the Outcast hears the song, swelling out of a hundred-hundred glades, resonating within the very heart of her. In the song are echoes of other years and other lives, of time out of time, and broken worlds. The song is ancient and redolent of a world-that-was, and it rises to a triumphal thunder in her mind.

It weighs on her, burying her in its warmth. The heartstones echo with it, and as before, the Outcast wishes to feel once more the warmth of the blooming and the suns. To remember the taste of sweet waters. She is Drycha Hamadreth, first daughter of the sylvaneth. She is auspicious and honoured. She hears the song, and feels its warmth blow through her.

And then, all at once, it is gone.

The reaping is done for now, best beloved one. Sleep. Sleep.

Enraged, the Outcast stiffens. The fires of her fury, growing dim, are stoked anew. She remembers now. She will not sleep. The reaping has come, and there is yet more to be done. She is not beloved. She is unloved. She is forgotten, until the forests scream in pain, and the world trembles. Until the very realmroots call out in desperation.

No, she is awake now and she will not go back to sleep. Alarielle’s voice falls silent and her presence recedes. Perhaps she is angry at her wayward daughter, or maybe even pleased, but the Outcast does not care.

A storm is coming and Drycha Hamadreth will fight at its forefront.

She is the roar of the forest fire and the crushing weight of the avalanche. She is the moment of madness which makes animals foam and gnaw the air. She is all of these things and worse. She is the dark at the heart of the forest, and she is angry. The song of the sylvaneth is not for her or those she will call up.

Only the war-song, howling down from the high places to the low.