The Shattering of Kaspia
Lokmongor scanned the sprawlings lands of Kaspia from the balcony of his ruined province. The blasted plains stretched for thousands of miles with low hills, great holes where lakes once resided, and gaping crevasses where rivers once streamed. Enormous mountains flanked either side of his home, forming a ruinous bowl of pocketed earth. Sporadic bunches of mutated trees in green and crimson dotted the wealth of his lands, beautifying and uglying the domain all the same. His helmeted gaze observed several tiny silhouettes walk along the encircling bastion that was his citadel. Ruined walls, fortified thrice over with scrap and talismans, defended the pivotal entrance into Urshic territory from mountain edge to mountain edge. In his mind, it was the most well-defended pass across wartorn Terra, save only for Kalagann’s fortress-palace of Mosrovoth.
A fresh cry pierced the air drawing his attention away from the demesne. A group of his men, genewarriors each clad in Urshic fur and blessed powered armor, tortured a figure in front of the mutated trees. Vitae flowed like water into the ground that nurtured the aberrant flora. Their roots squirmed like agitated creatures, drinking deeply from the gift granted by his underlings. To his disappointment, the warriors fell to their knees and threw out prayers to the Primordials in fervent chants. Lokmongor understood the adulation to a lesser extent for those very flora were gifted by the powers-that-be. Nothing should’ve prospered in Ursh’s southern wasteland, yet the life that drank was evidence of their resilience.
His home - the great ruined fortress-hive of Kaspia - was the blaspemous opposite of such fruitful life. Each step of his greaves threatened to shatter the faltering citadel underfoot. Rust covered every inch of their sole settlement, save only for the areas that preserved and cultivated the blessed flora. Where once a hundred spires would rise up into Terra’s blasphemous sky, now only ten remain to accommodate their presence. Lokmongor had protected this place for thirty-six years, protected Ursh for twenty more, and swore allegiance to the Primordials for ten further. He, alone, knew that only the blessings of volkhv could uphold this place for eons to come.
A courtyard - his very own - opened several floors below as he ventured further down his demense. Tiny blades of crimson-hued grass spread out in a wide circle that rivaled the likes of ancient war zmaj. Thin aquaducts filled with flowing vitae funneled into an eight-pointed star at the center of the opening. Several pale men were hoisted up on long pikes with their innards dangling from their chests and their blood flowing into vast pots of bubbling ichor. A volkhv loudly sang in the forgotten tongue in the center of the star. Six warriors from his retinue kneeled around the blessed priest as servants dumped fresh blood onto their armor. Horns decorated their helmets, spikes upon their pauldrons, and brass chains upon their belts. The priest must’ve noticed him as the singing was momentarily halted to address his arrival.
“General Lokmongor, you honor us with your presence. By the Primordial Will, your vityaz are being blessed for their heroic deeds.” The volkhv spoke with a rhythmic chant upon his lips, each word uttered with a dramatic sway of his body. Although dark robes swathed his body, Lokmongor knew well that blessed armor lay beneath. He detested the way that their order danced, yet it was something that he was willing to put up with for the glory of Ursh. The vityaz around the priest picked themselves up with ichor dripping from their armor.
“As it was ordained, blessed Yorjolav, they will need the blessings. The Himalazians have been spotted marching into the Khaganate through the former territories of the Ethnarchy. We’re expecting a splinter assault to attempt a pass through Kaspia.” The news of the Himalazian invasion did little to dour the ritual. His knights grew fanatically excited, each gripping their weapon and trembling with the uncontained joy of a berserker. He understood their anticipation well for even he was ready to tear into actual warriors for once and not his own populace.
The volkhv, Yorjolav, spread an unnerving smile full of rotten, dagger-sharp teeth beneath his hood. “As it was foreseen, General! What would you ask of your humble servant?” Lokmongor watched the priest drop down to subservient kneel, unfolding his arms out to fully bow in the General’s presence.
“Set the blessed order to begin the Ritual of Krovdozhd, anoint every vityaz across the Kaspian clans with the Mark,” Lokmongor began to order with the affluence of a elder commander, unsheathing the great warblade from his back and settling the tip into the courtyard ground. His cloak of skin and chains wavered as the weapon was pulled from a scabbard of writhing flesh. The general continued without missing a beat. “And prepare our zmaj for combat. I will ride her into a war of fury and blood.”
Yorjolav jolted upward with uncontained ecstasy. His body writhed as if possessed by the things that he worshipped. Both of his hands reached for the sky, revealing the blackened gauntlets carefully hidden beneath his robe. A vomit of Old Tongue exploded from his lips in a reverent chant. Lokmongor knew well that the call for war was something that his volkhv craved, more so than any other province in Ursh. He didn’t wait for the priest to finish, gesturing for his vityaz to join him in preparation of the Himalazians.
The crimson-forested hills of Kaspia were silent. In the times before a battle, Lokmongor could appreciate the eerie silence leading up to a crescendo of unimaginable violence. Night had fallen as his warriors prepared to fight the forces of the Himalazian coward-leader. The war-migou, painted in brilliant shades of red, strained against their chained restraints anchored to the lower walls. Pyres as tall as striders and as wide as tanks were lit in even intervals across the ramparts. Volkhv of Yorjolav’s order spread their holy word with swaying censers of belching ash and ceremonial pots of boiling blood. His vityaz, and those of the other clans, patrolled throughout the hordes of twitching lesser warriors. Axes, chainweapons, lumbering guns, and more were equipped in vast quantities along the walls. The knights, however, bore blades akin to his own with weeping sigils, whispering secrets, tempting songs, and boiling runes.
He jostled lightly as the zmaj that he rode groaned with anticipation. The crimson-scaled thing was a magnificent warbeast unlike any other on wartorn Terra. Grown by the volkhv in secret hatcheries across Ursh, his zmaj was a nightmare creature of webbing, teeth, and wings. Every second spent sitting upon her would’ve burnt his skin to cinders were it not for the chief blessing of the Krovsozdatel. She bore no saddle upon her scales as chains and horns sufficed for ample handholds. Her fangs dripped with freshly consumed ichor, droplets splashing against a pile of carcasses beneath her maw.
In the distance, Lokmongor could make out Yorjolav on the wall with a group of volkhv surrounding him. Even from here, the singing was audible to his ears. Each of their eyes were glowing with ethereal power, blessings from the Primordial Sea. Blood flowed from beneath their robes, either from bloodletting or from the holy endeavor they took. No sooner had their singing stopped did the rain come. Great torrents of fresh ichor dripped from the black clouds encircling the whole of Kaspia. A smile grew on his charred lips as his warriors turned to the sky with a cacophony of prayers. The sea of blessed trees groaned with appreciation, leaning towards the sky in an unnatural inclination for their desired substance.
Thankfully, he thought, it would do little to halt the courage of true warriors. His desire for battle only grew as the first of the Emperor’s dogs revealed themselves. Wings of metal soared over the hills sailing from the territory of the Ethnarchy. Fat-bellied planes in yellow hues with emblems of the raptor and lightning descended towards the citadel. Lokmongor scoffed in disappointment as he raised an armored gauntlet to the sky, gesturing forward with a single wave to unseen onlookers. His citadel exploded into a flurry of action as the ten remaining spires unleashed torrents of deadly flak into the onrushing Imperials. Armaments, thrice-blessed and fortified for decades, spat piercing death through the hulls of their opponents. Great plumes of fire illuminated the crimson woods surrounding the province, revealing hordes of red-garbed soldiers rushing towards their walls.
“слава Уршу!” Lokmongor roared, unsheathing the greatblade from his back and hoisting it into the air like a battle-standard. His zmaj joined him in a nightmarish shriek, unhinging all three of its mouths to cry into the bloody sky. A kick from his greaves saw the zmaj leap into the air with unnatural ease. Pale red wings unfolded to either side of him as his divine creature propelled through the rain. Belching machines on metallic wings joined him in a tight formation of death.
The vityaz on the walls followed after him with battlecries of their own, ushering the warrior-hordes of the clans into a frenzy. A tidal wave of flesh, scalding skin, and armored fur flung itself off of the walls to join the battle. Each of the holy knights remained behind, wielding their wicked blades with barely contained bloodlust. Masses of servants erupted into action, manning turrets on the ramparts and supplying materials for the volkhv. Lokmongor exploded into laughter as his demesne fully lunged into the grooves of war. It would be a wonderful, bloody day for Ursh.
Lokmongor watched the two tides of rushing flesh collide in a great melee. Lances of brilliant red danced across the distance in controlled groups of volley fire, blades dug into carapaced-fur, and explosions from deadly munitions plumed along hill and crevasse alike. The crimson trees adapted to the violence, tearing the Imperials and Urshites in a blood fueled frenzy. The General knew well that the flora of his province was one of the key reasons for failed invasions. The hallowed earth would provide them victories ordained by the Primordials. Great machines on tracked treads drew his attention to the hills in the distance. Cannons vomited shells of thermonuclear devastation, bathing friend and foe in an inferno of promethic death. Imperial warriors in strange garb ignited vast fields of blood-grass with promethium-fueled flamethrowers. The Imperials, much to his chagrin, had been prepared for the assault; however, Lokmongor knew it was in vain. War migou, unchained from the walls, plunged into combat with reckless abandon. The few armored vehicles that could maneuver around the trees were decimated by behemoths of flesh sixfold blessed by the volkhv.
A war wasn’t an apt name for this, Lokmongor decided. An annihilation sat aptly in his mind as he willed the zmaj downward towards a flank of Imperials. A jet of reality-defying flames bathed a long line of red-garbed soldiers in unquenching fire. Their armor and skin melted in seconds, yet their screams could be heard for minutes at a time. His zmaj shrieked out into the blood rain with bloodthirsty joy for it had slain many. Blood bubbled at the edges of his lips as he drank in the sight of the carnage. Were he a lesser man, then he’d certainly have fallen into possession by the Primordials. A glorious fate, yet Kalagann desired something different from him.
As his zmaj swept around for another cascade of tormenting flame, Lokmongor witnessed giants clad in green-yellow suits charging through the treelines. As a servant of Kalagann, he knew them immediately for what they were.
“Thunder warriors…” He quietly stated as his zmaj descended towards the ground with new-found prey. His blood boiled with anticipation as the Emperor’s greatest knights plowed through the battlefield. Opponents worthy of sacrifice to the Primordials, Lokmongor knew their battle would be legendary. He knew them as insane warriors, berserking madmen, and hulking giants of carnage incarnate. In essence, they were similar to himself and his vityaz.
The zmaj slammed into the ground closest to the rushing tide of genewarriors, flattening a lone operator under its scaly talons. It unfurled all three of its mouths to scream a maddening roar into the waylaid genewarriors. To his joy, however, the thunder warriors counter-charged his zmaj with the insane bravery he had come to know. One leapt at him with the force of a deity, aiming downward with a powered axe. Lokmongor flicked out with his screaming greatsword, bisecting the knight in mere seconds of contact. The upper part of the cleaved Imperial landed on the zmaj, desperately attempting to murder him with callous disregard of his injuries. It brought a maddening smile to his bloodied lips.
“By the Four do I treasure fighting you and your Emperor!” Lokmongor roared out as he stabbed the wounded thunder warrior through the skull, bisecting the corpse once more to affirm his kill. He felt the draw of the Blood-Taker filter through his veins, empowering him with each fight and each kill.
The rest of the genewarriors had gathered around the zmaj in a spread-out formation, narrowly avoiding his mount’s vicious attacks. One had managed to slice a talon from the creature’s foot, earning a swift decapitation from it’s bladed tail in brutal retaliation. Another pair had leapt onto the side of his beast, cutting into scales with chainblades and chainaxes. He had killed one with a swift jab of his greatblade, yet the other had dismounted after hearing their comrade cry in agony. They dove beneath his zmaj with the intent to sink their weapon into tender flesh. He cackled madly as another mouth opened across the creature’s belly, swallowing the genewarrior whole.
Satisfied with his kills, General Lokmongor willed the zmaj away from the desecrated site of his slaughter towards the walls of Kaspia. The battle had been going well. The migou feasted, the warriors butchered, and the defenses were winning a hundredfold against the Imperials. None of his vityaz had been forced to move from their defending position. The Imperial attack would be countered in a matter of minutes. Despite everything that spelled the obvious doom for the Himalazian dogs' advance, Lokmongor felt an uneasy feeling within his gut.
“Where are the rest of the himalazian genedogs?” He spoke aloud, voicing his concern to the blood-rain. No sooner had he asked the question did a portion of Kaspia’s frontal wall explode into a plumming cloud of destruction. He winced at the closeness of the explosion, brightening the darkened sky and illuminating the haunting woodlands around him. It would be the first of many as separate portions of his fortress-hive went up in flame, forcing him backwards and up into the air.
As the zmaj flew through the sky, Lokmongor discovered the source of his worries. Down in the depths of the mutated woods, Imperial giants cleaved the very woodland that protected their advance. Teams of auxilia strapped incomprehensible amounts of explosives to the writhing trunks of the trees. He witnessed a single thunder warrior heft the abominate log and launch it into his beloved fortress. The device exploded the moment it contacted the rusting defenses of Kaspia, destroying the fortified home that he had made. Dozens of such teams were spread out in sporadic patterns around the hive, demolishing the entrance into the Urshic heartland with savage joy.
Anger boiled over as he cried out in defiance. The zmaj responded to his will, rushing down on pale wings of crimson towards the forests of Kaspia. Unearthly flames jettisoned from its maw, claiming several demolition teams in gouts of diabolical inferno. He yanked the chain sidewards, forcing the scaled creature to turn and unleash further destruction. Lokmongor the Bloodied would see the Imperial routed, gutted, and sacrificed to Kalagann and the Primordials.
“So be it, in their name-” The general began to shout aloud as he spun the zmaj around. To his surprise, not even he thought that one of those devices could be launched at him. A log, fastened with explosives and writhing with hungry tentacles, impacted with his zmaj. An explosion saw the torso of his mount disappear in a great cascade of gore, vitae vomiting outwards in an endless torrent. He fell through the sky as his mount died, desperately attempting to untangle from its chains.
The tainted ground of Kaspia met his gaze as the zmaj finally finished its dying descent.
The darkness that had overtaken him quickly faded as he began to clamber out from beneath the zmaj, cutting away at the pale red scales with his whispering warblade. His body ached beneath the blessed power armor, each movement threatening to tear servos and tendons. Each cut, push, and shove from beneath the dead creature was a lesson in pain - one that he was inclined to learn once more. A final slice of stinking meat from the beast was all that was needed for the light of the sky to once more bless his field of view. Ichor drenched his ruined form as he stalked out from the corpse with his greatblade raised.
Wait, light?
The polluted, blood-drenched skies of Kaspia no longer graced him with a torrent of vitae. The brilliance of Luna in full form shone down upon the crimson-stained lands of the Urshites. He desperately scanned the horizon of the battlefield with rage beginning to quell the pain spread throughout his body. To his dismay, he could physically see the bespoke horizon of Kaspia. The ancient guardians of his fortress-hive - the mutated forests - had been cleaved from their roots and his walls had been destroyed. Combat still rang out across the badlands, though his forces lay in ruins as red-garbed Imperials bayoneted lying Urshites to death.
Lokmongor suddenly drew his blade up as a group began to approach him. Though their ground-trembling footsteps revealed them, the General saw the thunder warriors walk towards him with their brutal weapons ready to slaughter. One stood a head above the rest, marching from the forefront of the genewarrior gaggle with a two-handed axe in one hand and a body in the other. He narrowed his eyes beneath his helmet as they came to ground halt some feet away from him, outside of his warblade’s cleaving range. To his surprise, he heard the one in front of the Imperial pack laughing as they came forward.
“Bit of a tough one, aren’t you General? Sigilite warned us about you, but you weren’t anything special. Nor was your witch.” The woman finally spoke, laughing loudly with the rest of the thunder warriors arrayed around her. She tossed the corpse before him, revealing the mauled form of the volkvh, Yorjolav. He realized now why the ritual had failed.
“I will cut the tongue from your weeping head, woman.” Lokmongor responded, lowering the blade in preparation for a final stand. He hadn’t expected this outcome, yet the General was ready to fight with everything that he had left. His response seemed to further bemuse the thunder warrior.
“Let us see if you can do so without legs, Urshite.” She responded before gesturing with her free hand to the other thunder warrior. Quicker than he had been prepared to react, the genewarriors leveled their bulky armaments and spat deadly projectiles at him. A pair of shells pierced his legs, exploding both into wet piles of bone shrapnel and gore. Even still, Lokmongor focused his anger into a fine-tuned red haze to ignore the pain. He began to foam from the mouth as Primordial blessings took over.
“Disappointing. You lot, go get a trunk for him to get mounted on,” The giantess spoke as she strode forward, her ichor-covered gauntlets hefting the two-handed axe. Lokmongor snarled out in a frenzy, foam-blood spilling out from his lips as he dragged himself forward. The whispering greatblade threatened to slash out at her as she neared. She easily evaded it with a quick sidestep, bating aside the outstretched blade with the shaft of her axe. “I want Kalagann to know that one of his greatest generals was decapitated by none other than Primarch Bodiciia of the Verdant Raiders. That’ll knock Aeternus down a peg.”
The Urshite looked up with rage in his eyes as the thunder warrior raised her axe. He barked out at her with a crazed frenzy, Urshic words spilling out like a tidal wave of filth. It lasted no longer than it had began. With a single downward cleave of her axe, Lokmongor passed knowing that the great citadel of Kaspia had fallen. Flames like living tendrils trailed into the sky as the last of the Urshite barbarians were wiped from Kaspian valley.