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| Hordes and Helfire; The Second Haggiroth "Novel" | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Mar 2 2005, 11:43 PM (373 Views) | |
| Haggiroth | Mar 2 2005, 11:43 PM Post #1 |
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Changer of Ways
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Prologue: Rising from Tchared Remains Travel was hard as they made their way back North from the avalanche, returning back out from the wastelands of Naggaroth and into the muddied snow, where they lived, fought, rested and lived their days with their families. All of the seven knew had lost their families because of these odd journeys into ruin, and were now led by this young scamp, Haggiroth! Though a sword of elven design, that flew with elven grace, showed he was quite the warrior. No pointy earred prince would release a sword like that easily, and princes were quite lethal from the legends. Some of them enough to take on demons and such. But those could just be myths. Anyway, this "Haggiroth" looked like a man not to be trifled with, especially after his scrap with that sorcerer for no apparent reason. But under his rule, they might hopefully prosper. It was their fifth day past the towers where all of them first met, the pillars of the sky having vanished back into the horizon. Haggiroth was walking on as he did before, determined and angry, his sword held close to his hand and his staff always held in his other, the Arbiter as he called it. That feud between him and his friend seemed to leave him scarred and dazed, no matter how determined he tried to look as he swept through the deserts of snow. Eyes were blazing, throats were gasping and nostrils flaring with the effort to keep up the hasty jog. as night approached. One man, Canith, had already collapsed and the runt had to be placed on a sleigh that was dragged along using hand-held ropes, each rope taking two men so they didn't low too much. Another campfire, not a rare sight amongst the hundreds of tribes in the Wastelands, let along in the Hung. These short people seemed to be popping up a lot lately, though mst of them were just wandering in their twos. The group ran into the camp, without slowing. Mutated dogs bacrked, bile cascading down their muzzles in rivers. Obviously malnutritioned. Men instantly took up throwing axes and weaponry, women also among these people. A camp of at least thirty nomads, grizzled and old, hardly any of them young and not a single horseman among the Hung. All in ligt leather though, with their rough stone axes, they were rather feeble and gaped when they looked upon the heavily armoured Haggiroth. However, the largest of the men did not feel challenged. With a roar, he charged towards the young man spitting curses, phlegm swamping his beard. With a mere glance and a raise of his staff-hand, a mushroom of flame shrouded the man, his tent and his hounds from sight, ending them. The fire would fade as soon as it appeared, leaving nothing but ashes and the dark, unhealthy soil of the Waste open to the eyes from under a foot of snow. People gibbered, dogs whined and Haggiroth began to turn, facing the camp and let out a roar, a beastial roar that contained words. "I am the servant of Tchar, Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways! Fear him and worship him for we are all his puppets and our fates are his! Bow to the grandeur and wisdom of Tzeentch and embrace the new order of the Tcharites!" The crowd suddenly shook from the speech made, quivering while the seven other 'Tcharites' remained standing, rigid. Tyr was shocked, suddenly walking over to Haggiroth in an outrage. "Okay, boy. You are ging too far already! First you proclaim yourself our leader, then you give us a name and decide what God we worship? What kind of man are you?!" Metamorphis was the answer that Haggiroth gave, in a motion of a hand. With that motion, flames of Azure sprouted from the man's body, consuming him. The next day, the entire camp was disassembled and all of the nomads were officially now warrior of Tzeentch, with no existance to live other than him. The mewlings remains of Tyr were dragged away from where they lay, bubbling flesh buried beneath the snow. For the first time ever, it showed. Haggiroth wa a monster, a true being true to Chaos and only chaos, the favour of Tzeentch swarming around his form like a horde of ravens around a corpse. That final struggle on the mountain released all potential as well as all flaws. Including mercy and care. The pace was harsh as they continued, roaming through forests where ever they found them, slaughtering every sickening creature inside. If they had weapons worthy of use, those weapons were snatched from the corpses. Dark elf raiding parties were captured, slaughtered and looted. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the week that followed Tyr's death passed with flying colours for Haggiroth. No longer the Slaughterer, no longer as a mundane servant that the Arbiter thought of him. He now had the beginnings of a horde: Two vast regiments of twenty marauders each, armed with axes, clubs, maces and elven swords, of stone, pig iron, elven steel and oher corrupted and impure metals. He was hoping to see more of these foolish elves popping up, they needed better quality weapons than that the trading village that existed before had. A that very moment, it was in an early morning and most of the neanderthals were asleep, lying around the fire on rugs while Haggiroth sat directly in front of it, pushing the embers with his sword, the armour gleaming brightl from the moisture melted snow provided. Slowly, he began to stand up, awakening from his session with the Gods, the vision that he just had. When he was finallying standing, he let out a roar. "Wake up you little idiots and prepare to run! "Let nothing stand in the way of the Tcharites! Crush, slash and brn everything you see that is hostile! Let the snow run red with the blood of elves!" Maybe Haggiroth the Changing still held some of the mundane traits a title like "The Slaughterer" provided. |
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| Gurkhal | Mar 3 2005, 01:58 AM Post #2 |
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Master of the Eleven Foot Stick of Supreme Sticking
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Hurray! Blood and deaht! We want DESTRUCTION!!! These "novels" are really good. Hope this one will be as good as the last. B) |
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| Haggiroth | Mar 4 2005, 11:31 PM Post #3 |
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Changer of Ways
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As you can see, this is a more hack 'n slash, fast running novel that the other one. There is probably going to be much more action and much less sentiment. Not that there was much in As Cold As Ice anyway. |
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| The Flying Beaver | Mar 5 2005, 10:33 AM Post #4 |
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Clanlord
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I may be a tzeench story, but I won't deny that it was a well written tzeench story. Good job man, I can't wait to se the next part. |
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| snyggejygge | Mar 5 2005, 04:25 PM Post #5 |
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High Zar of Khorne
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I like it. |
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| daemonic badger | Mar 6 2005, 04:02 AM Post #6 |
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Feaster of Pain and Pleasure
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ot looks good.... altoigh i think i missed abit as i dot seem to rember reading the arbiters demise.. ill go search throgh the other topic EDIT: and here was me thinking that 'tchared remains' i s a splelling mistake, something thats no stranger to me... |
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| Haggiroth | Mar 11 2005, 11:54 PM Post #7 |
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Changer of Ways
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Chapter 1: Remembrance Beautiful screams, coming out of those vocal cords of the twisted Elven race. Ruby blood, draining from their sineous veins. The blood spilt on steel, and the smell of smoke. The hair of elves, slipping through gauntleted hands. The taste of sweet, witch elf flesh in his mouth. THese were all of the things that Haggioth's senses detected, and never in his time on this disgusting planet had he experianced such ecstacy, such a grand, wonderful time! He chewed for a moment, before spitting the disfigured skin from the female elf's face, on to the half-naked body. Stupid elves. Their want to be beautiful would be their end, as small clothes do nothing to protect you. A small regiment of five elves, possibly just the infamous corsairs, began to charge towards him, trying to dash his brains on to the floor and slaughter him. But their charge fell short, and they dropped back. With a powerful and warped laugh, Haggiroth leap forward, practically on to his foes. A spurt of flame erupted from his staff, slaughtering three of them where they were standing. Two others were just stunned, protected by their cloaks. But quickly, their ugly heads were skewered on the Spirit Blade, as he had come to know the weapon. Tossing off the heads and licking the blood off his sword, he turned around to survey the rest of the carnage. Two large groups of fifteen marauders, only two members gone from the first and one from the latter. This fight was all but over, the elves being run down before they could even run. Raising both of his weapons, staff and sword, Haggiroth let out a roar. "Tzeen!" "Tzeen fram Kharn! Tzeen fram Slaan! Tzeen fram Nurgh! Tzeentch ar Neth! Tzeen tar Tzeentch!" Days after the fight, this speech was let out. Change from rage. Change from pleasure. Change from decay. Tzeentch is master. Change to Tzeentch. This roar would be echoed by the growing tribe, now four large regiments of marauders taking up the powerful roar, snarling grins on their faces as they repeated their new champion. Haggiroth chuckled, returning into his tent and lying down on a rug of hide, maybe from a canine or some creature like that. He moped, his brow, from the heat outside. There were several fires and one large bonfire, and another in this cursed tent. What he found entertaining was that even with those few hordes he had, he still had gained a rather powerful thing: A group of the infamous horsemen of Hung. His influence was spreading rapidly and he knew it. He stood up after a few minutes inside the tent, the armour that was fused on to his skin weighing him down and tiring him. He looked out on to the field of snow, with the massive spires towering in the distance. Blood littered the snow, blood of elves and animals. The sweat of men also fell as they roared their praise to the Changer of Ways, standing in front the fires. He continued to watch on, without hunger and without sight as he leant on his staff, examining a few of these people. He looked down at one of the few younglings, a man possibly less than twenty years old. Half an hour later, one of the men walked up to Haggiroth to ask something of him, staring up at the great being who was doing naught but staring into the distance, his eyes clouding over. It was best no to disturb those who were communicating with the gods as shaman did. But no, Haggiroth was not talking to Tzeentch. Nothing like that. Every great man, every worker has probably been reminded of their childhood, the great and beautiful life they once held, the pampered life. Even though norse warriors are much less pampered than those of Empire children, Haggiroth was still treated muh better than an adult. He wasn't given certain amount of rations, he wasn't forced to do any certain jobs and hardly much hard work, even though he was trained to become a warrior and eaten every now and again. But never faced the death penalty. But no. It wasn't the halls of Gyrt he remembered with such fondness. Rather more, it was when he was with the Arbiter - Ujirik, to call him by his real name. Back then, he was saved much more by the man. He was barely even allowed to attack a single Sabretusk! The grand rhinox he felled was possibly the greatest kill he had ever acheived until the Doombull. He smiled as memories of his true fatherly figure, the Arbiter, slowly drooled back into his mind, memories he had once promised to himself to keep chained up and hidden, even from his own prying mind. But forgetting a man who acted like your father for most of the life that you can remember is rather hard. He remembered the stance of him as he threw fire and swamped enemies with flames. He remembered his glorious roar and battle cry, of that arrogant speech he let loose among the elves. He was truely a brave man, to threaten his own life, and a fool to threaten Haggiroth's so much more. He frowned for a moment in his dreams, and moved on to another memory of his- He was halted in his tracks, his thoughts suddenly stilling as he released himself from the embrace of those memories. A man was standing by his side, peering up at him with curiosity before he worded his question. "When will we move out?" Haggiroth frowned, walking into his tent to sit in front of the fire. He scattered an odd dust on to the flames that caused them to become a flaring white, followed by blue and green, before it finally returned to its original state. Warped, mutated screams and curses could be heard from the bowels of the fire, demons aching to serve their master by the side of the Tcharite. Haggiroth took in a breath after the ritual and finally spoke. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow we will move out. There are more elf scout parties to eliminate, and countless more foes to slaughter. "Tomorrow, shall herald change in this insignificant earth. And nothing will stand its he who leads it. All is ashes, all is dust. All shall fade into the Warp and be consumed. Nothing can stand in the way of true Chaos. Nothing can stand in the of Tchar." The soldier gaped for a moment before leaving hurriedly. He had never heard such a speech from this man or any other warlord. This man was dangerous. He was not any rag-tag champion. But a true leader. |
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| Gurkhal | Mar 12 2005, 01:24 AM Post #8 |
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Master of the Eleven Foot Stick of Supreme Sticking
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Good story. You do like to have your character fighting elves, don't you? ;) Not that it is anything wrong it... |
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| The Flying Beaver | Mar 12 2005, 05:08 AM Post #9 |
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Clanlord
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hey, fighting elves makes a stroy better! One question Haggiroth. Is this story going to be for the campaign? |
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| Haggiroth | Mar 17 2005, 11:24 PM Post #10 |
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Changer of Ways
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It will be in the end. Editting Chapter One now. |
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| Haggiroth | Mar 18 2005, 11:39 PM Post #11 |
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Changer of Ways
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Chapter One is finally complete. Observe, my little neanderthals. |
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| daemonic badger | Mar 19 2005, 04:30 PM Post #12 |
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Feaster of Pain and Pleasure
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good.me like good story. well written. latough your charcter got a bit late in on the wholke 'kill the mrtal wold' thing. |
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3:38 AM Jul 12