Quasi-RP Blog for Malal from Warhammer Fantasy. Follows and Interacts from Khaos Undivided, Heliinx, and Skxrbrand. Please read Information Post, before interacting! Thank you.
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After Kharnethâs defeat, Malal and his rival, @vermaux, rise up as proper gods. The stronger of the pair, Malal rules the surface of the Beastlands while Vermaux rules the underground.
Roused by the call of the Beast, Malal stirs and in the doing, rouses the Ruinous Powers, especially Khorne.
Thryrr is a Bray, that lowest rung in the brutal hierarchy of the Beastmen. It was exactly this fact, and the harsh life that came along with it, that saw Ashmaw defecting from his heard and taking not a few of the Ungor and his fellow Brays along with him. Not just leaving, Thryrr spits upon the very name of the gods and the existence that he feels they have cursed him with. Thusly, he turns to Malal's side.
Normally, a Brayherd would not notice a ungor or two breaking off from the pack, but a split this size was a different story. Since Ungors and Brays are the weapon and armor makers in most Warherds, this treachery was not going to be tolerated.
But the reprisal was not as easy as the Beastlord expected. He never considers the lesser-beasts might stand their ground and all the war parties he sends into the deep forests to bring the defectives back to be tortured, beaten, and sacrificed never return. When he goes himself, he finds out why: using their stealth and their skill with bow and arrow, Thryrr leads his rebels against their persuers in devastating guerilla warfare.
Thryrr himself faces down the enraged Beastlord and manages to secure a close victory through the use of poisoned arrows and his rusty spear. He dances out of the way of Beastlord's heavy axe, waiting until the toxins slow and finally weaken him enough for the kill. Then, he plunges his dagger into his former leader's chest and rips his heart out for the glory of Malal.
It is this act that sees him blessed, his sooty brown fur regrowing as black and white. His renown sees him coming into service of the Greater Daemon SÄbon, whom he sees as a holy spawn of the Malignant Lord. If she wished it, he would follow her unto death.
Kruall the Blessed
Kruall's fortunes were many, as far as Ungors went. He was born larger, stronger, and more clever than his kin and when he reached maturity, even his horns were noteworthy. Kruall was one of the few half-horns born among the Ungor ranks; respected (and envied) among his kin and no so often targeted by the true-gors of his herd. During the raucous feasting and celebration following a successful raid or the simple coming of the full Chaos Moon, beastwomen even deign to share his company from time to time.
But Kruall desires more, as all creatures of Chaos do. However, his station as an Ungor, even a fairly powerful one, limits what he can attain in reality. How cruel is it! For the gods to make him so like the perfect Gors and Wargors that swagger about the Brayherd, granted the the best armor, weapons, and chosen first by the females of the herd...yet, he is not one of them? No matter how he bullies the other Ungors or pushes his suite with his betters.
Though amused, not all Gors handle his challenges in good grace, and one seeks to soundly put Kruall in his place: at the bottom of the hierarchy. The battle is one-sided and Kruall's loss is humiliating, punctuated by the winner urinating on him to show his dominance.
It's the last straw for Kruall, unwilling to show his face to the lesser ungors not face the grinning maws of his betters. He deserts the Brayherd and when fervent prayers to the gods result in nothing, he deserts them too... Where he once reserved his hatred for men and their makings, Kruall feels that same black hatred aimed at his kin.
And hears the first whisperings of Malal in his ears...
Idonea had picked a hell of a place to hide herself, SÄbon would give the Red Sage than much. Tumultuous at the best of times, the presence of a ravening hoard of Khornate daemons only made the riotous slab of land even moreso. And worse, it had made tracking the sage down a more urgent matter.
Va'rrick was no run of the meal Gore-Daemon, either, but the Lord of the Fifth Host of Murder. He was no Skarbrand, but all the same...not a foe worth sneezing at. SÄbon had scarcely forgotten the fates of her two brothers, Freysin and Xogrym, and just thinking of them made her chest ache. How they must've languished in their iron-prisons, mere tools for the terrible whim of the Exile!
SÄbon licked the stump of her arm, considering the events of the previous weeks. She had crossed paths with the Bloodthirster not long ago and found her fears of his strength were completely valid. He hadn't emerged unscathed, but in the end, it was SÄbon who fled their duel sans a limb. Dogged as any of the Hound's daemons, Va'rrick and his hosts had kept up the chase. It had taken the lives of several beastmen tribes sworn to her father, Malal the Malignancy, to throw him off of her trail. But it was only a matter of time before she was found again and not even the most fervant of the god-touched whiteblack beastkin could stand up against a murder-hungry blood horde.
It was all these things that made the the Whisperer amenable to the newest Chaos Power festering in the realm of mortals. Khade, the Red God, and the true god of blood according to his cultists. She had been intrigued, and perhaps the slightest bit annoyed, at the insistence of his messengers. No matter how many she slew, more sought her ear, goading her to the largest city-state in the southern realms: Myrmidens.
And so she had gone, slinking through the bowels of the man-city at the behest of this so-called god. SÄbon had had her doubts...and yet she had been well attended; a cadre of ungors and brays, two of whom she had called her personal champions, flitting over the shingles of house rooftops along with her in the dead of night. She needed no direction, for the spoor of a deity was unmistakable...and set her quills to trembling.
But she would rather face banishment than be called a coward, and so she pushed on, delivering herself into the waiting hands of the Red Cultist set to receive them. She ignored their pleasantries, having little patience for the flattery of mortals. The Red Cultist made their home in the center of the capital, deep beneath the earth, hiding away the madness, their mutations, and their fell felid god.
âȘ đđ đđđđ! đđđ đđđđđđ đđđđđ đđđđđđđ đđ đđđđ đđđ đđđđđđđđ. Khade spoke, pleased beyond words and smug at how the Greater Daemon of Malal seemed to cower ever so slightly in his presence. SÄbon's claws were at the ready, having not expected this despite what all of her senses had been warning her of. So, the Red God was real? There was a real being of flesh and blood and power beneath Myrmidens, infecting the life above with it's foulness?
âȘ đđđ đđđđđ. Khade spoke again, as if in answer to her silent queries. đ đđ đđ đđđđ. đ đđ đđ đđđđ đđ đđđđ đđđ đ đđđđđ. đđđ đđ đđđđđ đ đđđđđđđ.
" You speak of the Khorne Lord." SÄbon found her voice at last, and it was iron despite her trepidations.
âȘ đđđđđđđđđđđ đđđ. Spat the God-Fractal. đđ đđđđđđđ đđđ.
"And you pursue the Red Sage, I presume?" SÄbon quirked a brow ridge, " We may share an enemy, but our purposes are opposite. My father requires that shard for his own goals."
âȘ đđđđđ'đ đđđđ đđ đđđ đđđđđ đđ đđđđđđ. Khade argued, settling back in his throne of skinned wizards, mystics, and seers. đđ đđ đđđ đđđ đ đđ đđ đđđđ.
SÄbon frowned, " I will not go against my Lord's edicts."
AH, NOW I UNDERSTAND. Khadulâs interest is palpable, his presence impossibly physical.
OURS IS DIFFERENT FROM THE MORTAL CONCEPT OF RULE. YOU ARE A THING OF DEVASTATION AND ANNIHILATION. DESOLATION IS YOUR KINGDOM, OBLIVION YOUR DECREE, NEITHER GOD NOR MAN IMMUNE.
There is some delay, as if he is considering.
IT IS NO WONDER YOUR RISING POWER AWAKENED ME, RUIN-THING. ACROSS REALMS AND REALITIES, SPACE AND TIMEâŠOURS IS A COMMON PURSUIT.
Beastmen are largely loathe to interact with the forces of Malal, be that his mortals or his daemons. They are chaos by nature, leaning towards perhaps one god or another, therefore Malal's creed is anathema to their entire existence. Commonly enough, the Daemons of Malal and Beasts of Chaos battle over supremacy of the Forests of Men. Malalians have the power, but the Beastmen by far outnumber them as well as have a natural knowledge of the wilds that Malalians do not.
However, when Beastmen do take the fifth path, it is almost always the lowest among them who turn: Brays, Turnskins, and Ungors. Because of this, and on top of their general weakness and lack of horns, these particular beastmen are relegated to the bottom of the pecking order where any treachery is the least damaging.
These Lesser Gors occasionally tire of the abuse heaped on them by the Gors of the tribe and strike out on their own into brayherds made of only their own kind, with the strongest of the Un-gors, called a Half Horn, leading them. However, these spitefully splintered groups rarely last long. Does tend to pair off with the strongest of beastmen for protection's sake, and so even un-gor does are loath to join their brethren. The original herd will inevitably go seeking this rebellious splinter group, forcibly beating them back in line and killing any leaders. If not them, then another herd-- the dexterity of the Ungor makes them invaluable to Brayherds as they are the only ones who can fashion armor and weapons.
Thusly, ever Half Horn Chieftain knows that he lives on borrowed time and that if, or more like when, the original herd catches up to him his fate will be grisly indeed. In order to avoid reprisal from the mother-herd, some Half-Horns will call upon the Hierarch, forsaking the Dark Gods. And sometimes, Malal will answer: he will send a Champion to lead the Herd or perhaps even mutate the current Ungor Beastlord and some of his warriors into a powerful creature of Chaos in order to fend off the aggression of Beastkin who search for them.
He marks his chosen with fur of solid black, solid white, or black and white patterns.
Why keep the Sages on the Mortal Realm? Not why bury them deep in the Heart of your own if they were so powerful?
Malal had wondered such things many times. Khorne was not particularly witty, but his father wasn't that foolish either. The Blood God had a reason even if Misbegotten knew it not. If it was not broken, perhaps they shouldn't try to fix it, he reasoned.
But, he would not be so foolish as to imprison his quarry close to each other. And he was wise to do so, for all it would take was one disaster, one oversight, to lose all he had gained. The Blade of the Beast, powerful though it was, was not enough. Not enough to kill a god and he was sure Rhakan had seen to it that it was so. But, there was nothing stopping Malal from constructing his own blade of utter destruction.
That was where the three Sages came in.
He had not taken the loss of three of his champions well. Only Sabon remained as his strongest and she was taking it even harder. Not a raging beast, or particularly bloodthirster, the Anarche had shut herself away to wallow and grieve her siblings and some would blame the disaster that befell one of the Shadow-Gaol on her. But, Malal, while furious, had been unconvinced she could've stopped the sudden surge of power even if she were of a mind to.
Idonea, the Scarlet Sage, had escaped. Her surge of unmaking power had loosened her chains and weakened her jailers. And rather than hunt them down, the Shadowgod sent words to his Seers and Diviners to retain what they still had.
The shadow of his top scion, once animate, now inert and lifeless. The spirit of his son doesn't slither back to his realm as all his fallen soldiers eventually do and then does Malanyth realize something is wrong. But he cannot peer into Kharneth's kingdom, for he is not Tzeentch or even Slaanesh for all they blood they share.
He has lost few champions in his life and so each one still stings. Absent is the experienced numbing that girds the hearts of the reigning four within the New Power. It hurts. Alongside the pain that is already there, constantly there, never ceasing.
The shadows grow long and all the gods sneer in contempt as the so-called Chaos God of Terror mourns his favorite champion's loss....
She takes a messy bite of a Bloodthirster liver, swallowing the burning flesh and then holding the dripping organ out to her sister. SÄbon makes a face.
" No thanks."
"Suit yourself, more for me." ArlaĂȘy shrugs, then continues to enjoy her treat, keeping an eye out for their brother. Her Khorne-thrall had sighted An'ggrath near the Badlands on the way back, healed and dangerous. Xögrym had desired him, perhaps to put an end to the Reaper once and for all.
She was just about to complain when she turned and at last saw their brother, loping over to the pair of them. In one fist were heavy, shadow-chains with fell beasts straining at the other end. Xögrym said nothing, just giving them each a look.
âSo. What happened to finding the Sages of Khorne?â
Xögrym tensed, but otherwise didnât react to the sudden presence in his chambers. Another of his siblings, peering at him with judgemental eyes. He regarded her lazily, then unlocked in the chair he had found. That he had been taking a half-nap in before he was disturbed.
â There was a matter than needed my addressing.â Was his simple response.
He heard her morph into the room. The youngest of his sisters and siblings:Â SÄbon. A timid little heretic she had been, but now she was a cold and imposing Anarche of Malal. Fondly, he flit his tongue, a grin playing about his skeletal face.
â To what do we owe the pleasure, baby Saby?â
He couldnât see her face through her eyelids, but the Malicious knew she was scowling. He could hear it in her voice next she spoke,
â Do not call me that.â SÄbon approached her lounging sibling. She didnât fancy the knuckles-walk her kin liked to do, strickly a two-hooves Greater Daemon. It did little to distract from her dimunitiveness.
â Donât you have your own tasks? I believe seeing to the rats?â
â I have seen to them. And their trail has led me to Anâggrath. Another one of your marks that you are shirking.â
â He is a powerful mark. XhĂąrn tells me he put ugly, grevious wounds upon even Skarbrandâs hide.â
â A fight that the skaven engineered. They are trying to take him from our thrall. Kill him with the next best thing: Skarbrand.â
â Not a bad plan....â Xögrym murmurs. â In fact.... your visit is fortuitous. I am expecting a visit from the Reaper. And Anâggrath is still loose. But with you, myself, and ArlaĂȘy, perhaps we can erase this thorn in our sides once and for all. Kill two birds with a singular stone.â
