Firestorm - The Hrukvorn Lodge IX - The Aftermath
The battle was over.
The entire area was wreathed in smog from the guns from the Ironweld artillery machines and the weapons of the Fyreslayers. Having seen the way the battle was going, Ertan the Apostate had quit the field with his disciples, leaving the followers of Tzeentch to their fate. The sorcerer woman - Ania - had been stricken down in a violent volley directed by Lord-Ordinator Ironbrow, though her body could not be found. Her followers - at least those who had not retreated or routed - were slaughtered. What was left of Karnack's followers were quickly cut down or else unaccounted for.
Folkvar-Grimnir coughed and wheezed as he hobbled across the battlefield, leaning on his grandaxe for support. He was covered in ash and blood and should have been killed many times over - but still he stood.
'You're alive,' growled a massive orruk encased in red armour rent in a dozen or more places and soaked in his own blood.
Folkvar-Grimnir began to laugh, but soon entered into a fit of coughing.
'Don't make me laugh, you dolt,' he said after spitting a red gob of phlegm into the ash.
'Fot you woz dead afta dem ghoulies mugged ya,' continued the orruk.
'They knocked me out of the fight, was all. I don't die so easily. And neither do you, apparently.'
The orruk waved a hand dismissively as he turned and approached Grisnakh's brutish mount, which was lying prone on the battlefield.
'About our arrangement...' called Folkvar after the orruk as he began to climb on top of the beast.
Facesmasha grinned over his shoulder at the duardin. 'And you? You gonna let us live?'
'That depends on whether or not you pay me,' replied the Runefather flatly.
Facesmasha leapt onto the large, flat skull of the beast called Ironklaw and tore what was left of Toofpulla's army from the tethering chains to allow himself to be fastened in. He pulled hard on the chains and the maw-krusha slowly rose to standing. Facesmasha guided the beast forward until it was stood face-to-face with Folkvar.
'Do you know wot da last fing Toofpulla says to us woz?' said Facesmasha, staring down his flat nose at the Runefather. ''Don't cross da fire-stunties,' 'e said. You's 'ard, Folkvar-Grimnir - you showed dat today.'
Facesmasha whistled and a pair of 'ardboyz shambled forward, struggling between them with a chest of considerable size and weight. With much grunting and cursing, they brought the chest before Folkvar and laid it down with a thump. The smaller of the two orruks heaved it open, revealing vast quantities of gold in all shapes and sizes inside. Runesmiter Alsvir rushed over and began to check over the contents, passing them to his junior once he was satisfied of their authenticity.
''appy?'
Folkvar gave a curt nod.
Facesmasha turned to address the Waaagh! he would now have to bully into submission, seemingly satisfied that he didn't have to worry about his allies turning on him in his moment of opportunity. From across the field, the Folkvar watched as Titus Ironbrow emerged from the smog and strode towards him.
'You're alive,' said Ironbrow with a grin, clapping a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.
'Barely, aye. Thagging ghosts...'
'There will be many more of them yet to come, my friend,' replied the Lord-Ordinator gravely. 'The portents, they are grim...'
'You're starting to sound like a duardin, manling, you know that?'
The Lord-Ordinator guffawed loudly. It had often occurred to Folkvar how bizarre it was that one so jovial should go about such grim work.
'And where to now, my friend?' said Ironbrow once his laughter had abated.
'Aren't you supposed to tell me, seer?'
'Aren't you the lord of Ashenhold, runefather?'
'Where did all this formality suddenly come from?' chided Folkvar. 'Standing close to those guns all day rattling your brain?'
'Blessed are the people of Ashenhold to have a lord of such wit!'
'Watch it!' growled Folkvar, half smirking as he fixed the Lord-Ordinator with a gaze.
'To Ashenhold, Folkvar-Grimnir?' asked Ironbrow, his joviality suddenly dispersed with as he once again assumed the role of respectful adviser.
'I suppose we should, shouldn't we?' replied Folkvar as he approach Brim, his magmadroth. 'I'm half expecting to find that Brightblade lunatic squatting in my halls when I get back. On to the next battle, I suppose...'
The entire area was wreathed in smog from the guns from the Ironweld artillery machines and the weapons of the Fyreslayers. Having seen the way the battle was going, Ertan the Apostate had quit the field with his disciples, leaving the followers of Tzeentch to their fate. The sorcerer woman - Ania - had been stricken down in a violent volley directed by Lord-Ordinator Ironbrow, though her body could not be found. Her followers - at least those who had not retreated or routed - were slaughtered. What was left of Karnack's followers were quickly cut down or else unaccounted for.
Folkvar-Grimnir coughed and wheezed as he hobbled across the battlefield, leaning on his grandaxe for support. He was covered in ash and blood and should have been killed many times over - but still he stood.
'You're alive,' growled a massive orruk encased in red armour rent in a dozen or more places and soaked in his own blood.
Folkvar-Grimnir began to laugh, but soon entered into a fit of coughing.
'Don't make me laugh, you dolt,' he said after spitting a red gob of phlegm into the ash.
'Fot you woz dead afta dem ghoulies mugged ya,' continued the orruk.
'They knocked me out of the fight, was all. I don't die so easily. And neither do you, apparently.'
The orruk waved a hand dismissively as he turned and approached Grisnakh's brutish mount, which was lying prone on the battlefield.
'About our arrangement...' called Folkvar after the orruk as he began to climb on top of the beast.
Facesmasha grinned over his shoulder at the duardin. 'And you? You gonna let us live?'
'That depends on whether or not you pay me,' replied the Runefather flatly.
Facesmasha leapt onto the large, flat skull of the beast called Ironklaw and tore what was left of Toofpulla's army from the tethering chains to allow himself to be fastened in. He pulled hard on the chains and the maw-krusha slowly rose to standing. Facesmasha guided the beast forward until it was stood face-to-face with Folkvar.
'Do you know wot da last fing Toofpulla says to us woz?' said Facesmasha, staring down his flat nose at the Runefather. ''Don't cross da fire-stunties,' 'e said. You's 'ard, Folkvar-Grimnir - you showed dat today.'
Facesmasha whistled and a pair of 'ardboyz shambled forward, struggling between them with a chest of considerable size and weight. With much grunting and cursing, they brought the chest before Folkvar and laid it down with a thump. The smaller of the two orruks heaved it open, revealing vast quantities of gold in all shapes and sizes inside. Runesmiter Alsvir rushed over and began to check over the contents, passing them to his junior once he was satisfied of their authenticity.
''appy?'
Folkvar gave a curt nod.
Facesmasha turned to address the Waaagh! he would now have to bully into submission, seemingly satisfied that he didn't have to worry about his allies turning on him in his moment of opportunity. From across the field, the Folkvar watched as Titus Ironbrow emerged from the smog and strode towards him.
'You're alive,' said Ironbrow with a grin, clapping a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.
'Barely, aye. Thagging ghosts...'
'There will be many more of them yet to come, my friend,' replied the Lord-Ordinator gravely. 'The portents, they are grim...'
'You're starting to sound like a duardin, manling, you know that?'
The Lord-Ordinator guffawed loudly. It had often occurred to Folkvar how bizarre it was that one so jovial should go about such grim work.
'And where to now, my friend?' said Ironbrow once his laughter had abated.
'Aren't you supposed to tell me, seer?'
'Aren't you the lord of Ashenhold, runefather?'
'Where did all this formality suddenly come from?' chided Folkvar. 'Standing close to those guns all day rattling your brain?'
'Blessed are the people of Ashenhold to have a lord of such wit!'
'Watch it!' growled Folkvar, half smirking as he fixed the Lord-Ordinator with a gaze.
'To Ashenhold, Folkvar-Grimnir?' asked Ironbrow, his joviality suddenly dispersed with as he once again assumed the role of respectful adviser.
'I suppose we should, shouldn't we?' replied Folkvar as he approach Brim, his magmadroth. 'I'm half expecting to find that Brightblade lunatic squatting in my halls when I get back. On to the next battle, I suppose...'
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