Mohojoe's AoS28 Narrative tales

[Mohojoe]

 

First chapter of a series I'm going to be running based on my warband for hinterlands,  all critiques and feedback welcome, hope you enjoy it. 

 

 

Chapter 1 - Dead man walking

Tornburgh is a border town. A lawless settlement where money can buy you happiness or a dagger to the kidneys, depending on who you flash your coin at. It straddles the coastal edge of the swamp kingdom of Drang, yet owes no allegiance to the citadel. Its streets are full of merchants flogging smuggled goods, Slaves being auctioned to the highest bidder, unrecognisable food stalls and pleasure houses offering companionship for coin. None of this interested Wjolnir however as he fought his way through the midday crowds toward his destination. He pulled his hooded cloak tight to his chest as he darted into one of the many winding side alleys and made his way towards an unassuming timber building. He banged a fist against the door four times before the viewing panel was slid aside by a portly figure. "Your alive then! Who would have thought you would last this long" The large man cackled. The sound of sliding bolts was heard and the door was opened inwards and Wjolnir was beckoned in.

The room he entered had a tiled floor and was lined with shelves filled with countless bottles and flasks. The most impressive thing however was the assortment of strange glass tubes and vials all connected by pipes and arranged on the rooms desk. Inside these tubes a substance was bubbling away and acrid smoke could be smelt. "This way" motioned the portly gentleman as he directed Wjolnir to a dimly lit room with a fireplace and a wooden bed. "Its spreading James, it wont stop bloody spreading" Wjolnir spat as the door was closed behind him. " Well best you take off your cloak and show me then so I know what we are dealing with." Wjolnir nodded and began to remove his cloak and shirt. Beneath his travelling shirt stained bandages were wrapped around his chest and left shoulder. As he unravelled the bandages the putrid smell of decay permeated the air, a forewarning of his supernatural ailment. The large man wrinkled his nose in disgust and clamped a perfumed rag to his mouth as he watched. Beneath the filthy bandages Wjolnir's skin was purple, mottled and strewn with boils and open sores. The wounds weeped thick pus and distorted with the rise and fall of his chest. "Gods be damned Wally, you should be 6 feet under by now!" Cursed the alchemist. " I feel like I already am" Wjolnir replied as the man began to investigate his wounds all while inhaling deeply through his sweet smelling handkerchief. " Can we quit the freak show and get to business already" Wjolnir snapped. " I don't think you understand, Salves wont help you, and magic wont help you. Your path is predetermined. The fact that you have lasted this long is the blessings of Sigmar but I fear that your luck can only last so long before you fall to this. No one survives Nurgle's Rot and even your coin cant buy you out of this one Wally. In simple terms, you are a dead man walking."

 

Wjolnir left the alchemists with little of the enthusiasm he had arrived with. He pulled his hood up over his balding head and headed for the nearest tavern. If his destiny was to succumb to disease he would at least get blind drunk before hand...

[Mohojoe]

Chapter 2 – Headache

 

The liquor tasted like roasted almonds and burned as it slid down his throat. Wjolnir had barely touched the bottle in front of him however he had already begun perspiring and his head was swimming. He was seated in a dark corner of a dive bar called ‘The Boars Nipple’ minding his own business and considering his options. Nothing brings clarity to a man’s thoughts like his impending death.

He swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler while taking a strong drag of smoke from his pipe, exhaling billowy clouds from his nostrils. On one hand, he could stay here and drink away the coin he had saved over the years and on the other he could leave to ‘see the sites’ as he had often heard it called. In truth, he knew that he only had one option. As soon as people caught wind of his affliction he would be cast out of the settlement before he even had a chance to collect his belongings. That of course was if he wasn’t burned alive to cleanse his diseased body first. He shuddered at the thought and drained the spirit in his glass. He rose from his seat and dropped four coins on the bar, nodded to the owner and left. The streets were mostly abandoned this time of night, only the most committed of prostitutes were still working. Rain beat down against his face as he staggered down a deserted side street that lead to the docks. Behind him he heard footsteps ringing out on the cobble stones. As he turned to fuel his curiosity he was caught with a savage blow from a sword pommel across his face.

Pain shot through Wjolnir’s temples as he hit the filthy floor. Cold hands pinned him down and his cloak was ripped away from him. He forced open his heavy eyelids and saw two grizzly faces bearing down upon him. Struggling he tried to force himself up and felt the blade of a sword pressed against his chest. “Don’t facking move, or I’ll cut yer bollocks off” grunted one of the thieves through yellow teeth. The other bandit grabbed for his coin pouch and he instinctively grabbed at the mans wrist. Pain shot through his shoulder as the first bandit thrust the short sword into his flesh. Wjolnir screamed in pain as the cold metal pierced his skin and muscle. The smell of rotting flesh erupted from the wound and a loud hissing sound could be heard. “What the ******!” yelled the bandit as he pulled his sword loose and stared at the bubbling blade. Wjolnir took full advantage of the bandits distraction and grabbed his wrist and forced the decaying  blade through his partners neck. His throat erupted in a scarlet flare as he choked on his own bile, while the other man was left still holding on to the swords handle. He stumbled back in shock  and tripped over his own feet. In a flash Wjolnir was on top of him, grabbing handfuls of his hair and slamming his head on the flagstones. Bone cracked with each impact as the base of his skull was scattered across the floor. The bandit feebly clawed at Wjolnir for mere moments before his hands laid twitching in the congealing blood around him as his head was smashed again and again until Wjolnir’s fists were smashing wet pulp and bone fragments into stone.

[Mohojoe]

Chapter 3 – Escape

 

He trembled with rage and his breath came in short angry bursts.  His shirt had been ripped off in the confrontation and he was now squatted, bare chested, over the corpse of the headless man. The small alley resembled a slaughterhouse, blood had pooled beneath the dead body and bits of brain and skull littered the area. Wjolnir had not avoided the bodily debris and was covered in what was left of the bandit’s face. His fists throbbed and ached from pummelling the bloody mass of flesh underneath him and as the adrenaline left his system he became more aware of that pain. His hands darted to his infected shoulder as he remembered his stab wound, however when he inspected it he could only feel mottled flesh and the tumorous tissue of his affliction. He had not imagined the wound, for blood and milky pus still clotted and dried on his chest. He thought that the infection had spread further up his neck but couldn’t be sure without a mirror. Gods, what had come over him! He had never considered himself a violent man and this, this was far outside of his morale capabilities. A sudden sense of shame overwhelmed him and he scrambled to his feet off the desecrated body. A cloying sense of fear creeped in like a cold breeze and his head swam with the realisation of how fucked he really was. He couldn’t stay in the settlement now, someone would have heard the commotion and the thugs that passed for the town guard were probably already alerted. True, these bandits probably wouldn’t be missed by many but no one wants a killer around while they sleep. Wjolnir bent down and retrieved his coin purse from the first bandit’s fingers. They were colder than fingers ought to be and had already begun to stiffen. He pocketed his coin and fled toward the docks.

Wjolnir fumbled with the knots that bound his vessel to the mooring post, his usually deft fingers failing him in his panic. His vessel was nothing more than a small sailing boat with a cabin on the rear of its deck. It had no name painted into the hull and no fancy etching or paint work. In the smuggling trade, it had paid to be inconspicuous when travelling and he thanked the gods for that foresight now. Gripping a long wooden pole from within the boat he pushed away from the dock and began to punt the boat towards the flow of the water way. The sail raised easily in the steady evening breeze and began to carry him away from the town. He left the boat to its own devices momentarily while he nipped into the cabin and retrieved a flask of fresh water, a chainmail hauberk and a fur lined coat. He rinsed the filth of the attack from himself with the water and took a long gulp from the flask. The water was cool and made his teeth ache intensely for a moment before dulling away. The chainmail hauberk proved far colder than the water however its metallic rings felt almost soothing against the rotting flesh of his tainted shoulder. Finally, he slipped the coat around his aching body and stepped back on to the deck and the glistening moonlight. The boat had veered toward the bank slightly so he grabbed the wheel behind the mast and corrected its course. From the deck of the boat he could see torchlight at the docks behind him. Judging by the number of torches he could see it appeared that this was not the early rising fishermen attending their vessels. Pulling a tightly would cord above him he dropped the main sail fully and aimed for the ocean. He had no location in mind, however anywhere but here sounded fine to him at that moment.

[Mohojoe]

Chapter 4 – A Fathers Love

 

 

 

The hull of the boat cut effortlessly through the glistening water as it carried Wjolnir further along the coast line. On the horizon, the sun was beginning to rise and was soaking everything it touched with a peach glow. Any other time this would have lifted his spirits and brought back memories of his childhood summers, spent fishing for small trout in the villages river. Today however it just irritated him. It was a painful reminder of a pleasure he would soon have taken from him by his impending death. The only escape from the plague was death and anything else was just delaying the inevitable. That was if the Tornburgh mercenaries didn’t catch up with him first and put him to the sword. Despondency crept in and he considered putting himself out of his misery while he still had control of his destiny. The thought was a brief fleeting one that held no real bearing on him. He was far too much of a coward to make such a bold move. No, he would wait out his fate and spend his final days lamenting his luck and the cruel humour of the gods. No doubt when the time came for him to shuffle off this mortal coil he would cry and soil himself, making sure he had no dignity to take with him to the beyond. An unexpected giggle burst from his throat as the ridiculous image flashed through his mind’s eye. He idly wiped away tears that had been forming in his tired eyes with the back of his rough filthy hand and let a small grin escape from his chapped lips. He gripped the wheel and pulled it hard toward land.

 

Along the shore was a coniferous forest that dominated the landscape. The great green expanse was thickly packed and would allow him to travel inland without being seen. He knew of several small hamlets where he could live out his days in relative comfort on the coin he had saved throughout his career in the black market, keeping him in wine and women until he eventually succumbed to the rot in his body. He ran the boat at a relative speed into the shallows and the bottom of the vessel ran aground in the rocks, screeching to a halt. Usually this would have angered Wjolnir however he would never captain the boat again and resented the idea of it serving anyone else after him. A fickle thought perhaps but he had spent so long aboard the ship in his years that it felt like part of his very being, to have anyone else at the wheel would feel like adultery. Opening the thick framed timber door to the cabin he began to collect any belongings he thought he may need. Into a small leather knap sack he carefully packed a thick blanket, dried meats, his ancient tinder kit, a change of clothes and the remainder of his coin. He slid out of his fur jacket, carelessly dropping it in a pile at his feet. Over the top of his hauberk he buttoned up a white travelling shirt and slid a heavy woollen, hooded poncho over his head. The oversized hood covered his face and gave him the appearance of a peasant, a look that he hoped would prevent anyone attempting to relieve him of his belongings. He slung the knapsack over his good shoulder and stooped to pick up a rough iron axe with a hickory handle. The axe head was ground heavier on one side to allow the axe to be used for carving timber, however this would not hinder its use in felling a tree or scaring off would be attackers. With his belongings in check he sighed and made his way off his beloved boat. He vaulted the hull and landed with a splash in waist deep water. The shock of the cold water stole his breath and for a moment he could do nothing but exhale in short, sharp breaths as his body adjusted to the temperature. As his breath returned he started to wade toward the forest. His feet sank gently into the sandy, gravel strewn shore, making the walk harder than he had anticipated. By the time he had reached the boundary of the wood he felt drained. The forest looked far more imposing than it had done from the beach and he was beginning to question if entering it was such a good idea. After a small pause to get his breath back he threw caution to the wind and strode into the woodland as confidently as he could.

 

What seemed like hours had passed as he stumbled over fallen trees and forced himself through tightly packed gorse hedges. He had managed to scratch himself on the short thorns above his eyes and the sweat from his brow was stinging as it mingled with the wounds. He paused for a moment to take a pull from his flask and felt a sense of tranquillity wash over him as he soaked in the natural atmosphere. Little light made it through the thick canopy and it lent the forest a supernatural quality. He slid the heavy knapsack from his shoulder to the floor and sat down with his back against a great pine tree. He laid his hand axe by his side and helped himself to a strip of the dried beef from his provisions. Its texture was that of rough leather however he was used to the less than pleasurable rations he had carried with him on his travels. He sat in the dim light chewing the meat and scanning the surrounding area for any movement. A thick layer of moss covered the floor here and he could hear nothing but the evening bird song and the occasional rustle of the forests denizens. He rested his eyes and allowed himself to drift off, planning to continue his journey after a small nap.

 

In his dream, he was running from an unknown assailant through a boggy marsh, each step propelling him through the damp darkness toward a clearing ahead. A droning buzzing noise filled his ears overwhelming his senses, blocking out all other noise. It felt as if it was coming from within his mind instead of around him. Swarms of flies encircled him and darted at his face. He wildly flailed his arms trying to swot them away as he ran. The clearing was closer. He was almost there. He broke through the tree line and the swarm of flies dissipated in the light. He turned his head to see his attacker and saw a wave of shadow rushing toward him. Everything the shadow touched within the marsh shrivelled into an empty husk of itself. Trees collapsed under their own weight as rotten timber gave way, animals and birds decomposed in an instant and the very earth became logged with mould and fungal growth. His foot gave way underneath him as he slipped in the clearing and he fell face first into the wet moss. He panicked and tried to raise himself from the wet floor but found mould and filth growing at an alarming rate over his limbs, pinning him to the ground. He looked up in desperation and saw the ground before him erupt, earth and filth showered over him as a gargantuan figure rose from the crater. The figure was comprised of a huge mound of blubbery flesh that rose higher than the highest tree. The sheer bulk of the creature was impossible to comprehend and it moved in a way that didn’t seem physically possible. Its skin was mottled with pus filled boils, scars wounds and open sores that created a mosaic of pain. Its face was comprised of a long grinning mouth beneath dark pitted eyes that pierced into his very soul and showed a flicker of evil sentience that no man should ever see.  Its sour breath reeked of death, decay and faecal matter. The creatures great gut split open and swarms of giggling creatures burst forth dancing and frolicking in the beast’s entrails and bodily fluids, gnawing on his flesh and tearing through his milky yellow fat. Wjolnir retched and spilled the contents of his stomach into the dirt. The great being’s mouth parted revealing worm filled teeth etched with dark lines and stained as brown as earth. It spoke a single word and Wjolnir’s bladder failed him.  

“SERVE”

 

He awoke with a start and reached instinctively for his axe. He was dripping with sweat and his trousers were soaked with bitter smelling urine. The realisation that it had been a dream crept in and he began to relax as the shame of his ‘accident’ settled in. He reached into his knapsack for a change of clothes and cursed under his breath, was there no end to the torment he must endure? As he was rummaging through his belongings he caught site of a figure out of the corner of his eye. He rose sharply and raised his axe at the unknown person. In front of him, sitting cross legged on mound of moss was a tiny humanoid figure, draped in old torn robes giggling to itself. The face was obscured from his view by the things hood however the skin that was exposed was pitted, pale and translucent. The thin frame of the creature was withered and feeble. It altogether seemed sickly and weak however something primal within him screamed to turn and flee. “Explain yourself or I will sever your head from your body!” he shouted at the thing. It began giggling in a gurgling manner and pointed a thin emaciated finger at him, its hood slipping, exposing a sunken warped face that resembled skin stretched too loosely over a large drum. It spoke with a voice that seemed to come from within rather than from the creature’s mouth. “You have been chosen Master Wjolnir, I have come to aid your transcendence on behalf of the father”. The creatures gurgling laughter reached a crescendo of madness and Wjolnir’s blood ran cold.