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Marching through the flat plains of the Border Princes, Malari cast… - The Sound and the Fury.... [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
The Sound and the Fury....

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[Mar. 17th, 2007|07:43 pm]
The Sound and the Fury....
Marching through the flat plains of the Border Princes, Malari cast his mystically-sharpened vision to the jagged hills to the northwest.  "Any of you pathetic mewling fools have a clue about what might reside in those mountains?"  For the first time in almost a month the multitude of voices in his mind fell silent.  "I thought not.  Useless as a Bretonian bitch with childe."  He smiled inwardly, thinking over the cacophany that often threatened to steal the remnants of his sanity, yet the Lord of Mystery had not given him his gift without consideration.  With the voices came centuries of wisdom and magical knowledge he could not attain otherwise.  It was a trade he would take again without hesitation.

Flexing his left hand, he had begun to notice that it was stiffening up more and more regularly.  Perhaps an old wound come calling, or some of the incense and other toxins he used to commune with those beyond.  The pain was negligable, though it did focus his mind somewhat.  Perhaps another 'gift' was fostering.

Clearing his throat, the Chosen of Tzeench turned to survey the warband he had gathered.  Those that marched with him did so out of a multitude of reasons, fear, desire, the promise of something great.  And then came the 'others'.  Those who had gathered when he spilled his blood on the shattered crystal altar in the cold north.  Some were almost recognizable and others were beyond anything most minds could bear.  He like to imagine that it was his will that shaped them, that from somewhere deep within his fractured mind there was a place that could contain and control them.  That was true power.

The smell of burned and rotting flesh was absent this day and something about its absence was agitating to the Chosen.  Licking his cracked and bleeding lips, Malari turned to point down at a small band of stragglers that were having trouble keeping up.  "You will keep the pace or you will feed those who can!" He snarled, ten voices off-harmony with one another as he spoke.  His anger was more than palpable, daemon and human alike moving away from him quickly as his will projected power surrounding him and shoving others away.  "Do not DARE disappoint me."  And with that he returned his gaze to the mountains, turning his daemonic steed to the northwest and riding on.

The mountains proved unable to hinder the Chaos horde, through skill, magic and sheer will, Malari marched his warband through the narrow passes, only stopping when one of his daemon-creatures dropped a bloody dwarf corpse at the feet of his steed.  If there was anything the Chosen would have to get used to, it would be looking up for his minions.  The daemonic sky-sharks sailed along regardless of the direction of speed of the wind, obviously riding the winds of magic to sustain themselves.  Closing his eyes, Malari reached back in his consciousness to mentally grasp one of the less vocal psychic forms there.  A fallen chosen, he knew from their shared memories.  "Come to me, Iriastic.  I need your skill at the daemon-tongue."  The mind-speech was strong, but the psychic-form's fear was almost stronger.  "Purple is a color that indeed tastes bitter."  Was the reply, though Malari knew the personality was willing.  After a moment he felt his blood boil, his mind both shielded and connected to the sky-shark.  "Where small food?" He thought-sent to the flying daemon, its flight faultering for a moment before swinging a serrated and bladed tentacle to a narrow pass ahead.

"Ready yourselves." Malari projected to his warband, pointing his sword towards the pass. "This is a chance for us to retain some dwarven rune weapons."  He thought to himself, "This trip through the mountains could not have been better, regardless of the dwarves reputation of being somewhat magically resistant."  His psychic 'advisors' were clammoring consistently now, battle was something they all could appreciate, especially when Tzeench's will was set upon those who believe themselves immune to its effects.  "It is one thing to have a weak-minded elf try to ensorcell you, it is another thing entirely to have Tzeench's Legion drowning you in its wake."  His laughter echoed off the canyon walls, the sound something more like a pack of wild animals being slaughtered than true happiness.  Yet deep inside there was a warm satisfaction.  The Chosen had something to prove to his Master.  It would begin and end with the those who considered themselves outside the realm of magic's touch.