Malifact's Characters
Age - Somewhere in the region of 110 Gender: Male Race: Human Height: 6ft 5" Allegiance: Chaos Undivided Armour: Dark Chaos Armour covers his hulking form and it bears intricate markings and runes written in a blasphemous tongue. The armour is trimmed with rusted iron. His helm covers his entire face, a blank emotionless canvas for foes to project their fears onto. Two horns like that of of a ram sprout from his helmet. It is hard to tell if they are a part of the helm, of actually growing from Malifact's head. Within the narrow eye slits, two burning eyes flicker away. This is the true give away to Malifact's feelings, as the colour changes with his mood. The shield is a conductor of Chaotic energies, and so the energies gathered over time are released when the shield is struck. The force of the released energies stuns, and knocks back the opponent, leaving him vulnerable to attack. A pelt made from the hide of a notorious Doombull named Raarga hangs from his broad shoulders. Some say this cloak is imbued with magical properties, granting Malifact that extra edge in combat, but this has not been proven. Weapons: A great sword is wielded by Malifact into combat. For a lesser man, this would take two hands to wield, but certainly not Malifact, as he also carries a large shield. The sword was ritually forged in the Chaos Wastes themselves, from the Chaos imbued minerals that are mined there. Cooled in a cauldron of wolf's blood, and locked in a chamber with burning Warpstone incense, the blade is indeed formidable. Rather than wielding a daemon sword, Malifact's sword is laden with his own personality. The sword is a part of his being, an extension of his soul. To lose this would deal a great blow to him. It's silver edge crackles with Malifact's emotions, like electricity. Fighting Style: Malifact has his status elevated to that of Sol Invictus of Invicto Incarnate. His favour with the Gods has increased his power tenfold. His time in the Chaos Wastes has enhanced his mind and body to new levels. Effectively having the mental capacity of a Daemon Prince, Malifact has acces to powers previously thought impossible. In combat, Malifact delights in making the enemy's stomach tighten in fear. The sense of adrenaline flowing through their body gives Malifact grim satisfaction. To achieve this, Malifact gets inside the enemies head with his considerable mental might. He assails them with horrifying visions and corrupts all five of their senses. He makes the enemy see what he wants them to see. When it comes to melee, Malifact is exeptionally hard to make physical contact with. He can twist the Winds around to shield his form and even then , he is encased in all that armour. If you live for any length of time while fighting Malifact, it is because he is not bored of fighting you yet. Features: Trophies that hang from barbed chains adorn his armour. Severed hands twitch, and taken heads leer as if kept alive by the aura of fear emanating from Malifact's body. His feet have warped back into great hooves, like they once were in his more savage days. As a mark of his newfound status "Sol Invictus", two black, feathered wings sprout from his shoulderblades. Personality: Malifact is a quiet man. He prefers silence over meaningless words. He is a man that likes to get things done. One lesson he has learned from life is that arrogance and greed are risky traits. Both were the downfall of his Father. Instead of foolish boasting he prefers to show his skill through actions, not words. He takes great amusement in letting his foes shout themselves hoarse about all their achievments and their skull tallies, then batting them aside like children. Malifact doesn't take too kindly to Southerners. Those who have embraced Chaos, but are originally from the South, he will tolerate, but only just. He always keeps a silent eye on them, watching for any wrong move. This has caused friction between himself and a few other members of Invicto, but he usually keeps himself in check. Something of a loner, Malifact always prefers to travel alone. He will ally himself with someone he trusts, however. His fierce loyalty ensures those he looks up to have his unwavering faith. But this also is the root cause of one of his negative traits. Those he deems 'uninteresting' will be ignored unless they directly adress him. This is a problem when Malifact is leading a group. He prefers to lead those he can rely on (which he does so with an iron fist). Anyone else can be expected to recieve nigh on suicidal tasks. Curse/Goal: The Curse of the Reverted. Malifact has tasted Daemonhood, but he let his guard down in his moment of triumph. The sorceror Rek'lats summoned him into a sword, where he was imprisoned for decades. The ambitious Chaos Warrior, Mhelkon, wielded Malifact in combat to great effect, but upon Malifact's release, he has since learned a Daemon's wrath. When Malifact was released, he found himself bound to his old mortal shell. No one knows why, but Malifact believes it to be a punishment from the God's for being too reckless. Now, Malifact has dedicated his life to not attaining Daemonhood, but to making as much of a difference as he can in the war on this doomed world. History: Chapter One: Childhood Memories The dusty plains stretched for as far as the eye could see. The sky was grey and cloudy. Bushes eeked out a life in the harsh land, the soil reluctantly allowing it to take root. How any plantlife survived here was a mystery. But then again, Troll Country is a very mysterious place. A young boy sat a few metres away from his camp on a large rock. He had long brown hair which reached his upper back. It was tangled and dirty, and if a comb went through it it would look a lot longer. He had blue eyes which always seemed to be lost in thought. He never looked anyone in the eye unless he was angry. This told everyone that he was after a fight. He was tall for his age, but lanky. Other kids used to tease him for it, but they had long since stopped. Ever since the boy had killed another child, they left him well alone. He was always angry too. He didn't know why, but he just felt like hitting people all the time. The boy was in no mood for talking to people. He would probably end up hitting someone again. Droplets of rain began to fall. This made the boy feel much better. He tilted his face up letting the rain fall on his face. It soothed him, and calmed his anger. The boy had only just reached his eighth year and he had already killed many grown men. "Malifact! Get the hell over here NOW!" Shouted a man. Malifact quickly scrambled off the rock and ran to the man, who was the only person he feared: His Father. Malifact stood in front of his father who was sat in his tent. He was ripping chunks of flesh from a bone, most probably a human bone. Malifact's father was a huge man. His muscles glistened with sweat. He, like Malifact, was quick to anger. He could easily crush a man's skull with his bare hands. He had served Chaos his entire life, as a fanatical devotee. However, he was disappointed in his son, for being such a skinny little whelp. "Boy! Come closer!" Malifact reluctantly stepped forward. His father grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him to the wall. "Tomorrow, we are raiding an outpost. You are coming with us! Maybe you can get yourself killed in the process!" He threw Malifact away and he landed with a thud outside the tent. Malifact hated his father so much. He walked away fuming with anger, kicking over a bucket of stagnant water on the way. One day, his father would pay for treating him so badly. The next day, Malifact awoke to the sound of his Father yelling. "Get a move on, whelp! We're leaving soon!" He grabbed Malifact and threw him out of his tent, causing him to land roughly on the ground. He quickly ran around the camp looking for scraps of armour to defend himself with when the time came. ************************************************************* A wizened old man sat on a rough stool made from rotten wood. Matted grey hair covered his shoulders. The man looked weak and frail, but his eyes held a lifetime of wisdom. His eyes were greenish brown. His wrinkled face was usually emotionless, often vacant. The tribe considered him mad, but kept him around as a mark of respect. He was once a great warrior, right hand of the previous Warchief. He took a human bone from his pouch and picked up his bowl. He sprinkled a mix of herbs and roots into the bowl, taken from the surrounding area. Without hesitation, he took a ceremonial knife from his pouch, and began to cut into his arm. He let the blood drip into the bowl, and when he was satisfied, licked the cut clean. Using the bone, he began to grind it all together. That uppety oaf will regret his actions one day - Thought the man, looking at Malifact's Father, the current Warchief. He'll get his comeuppance - Then he looked at Malifact, who was desperately searching for some scraps of armour - Pity I wont be alive when it happens The mix inside the bowl had now formed into a paste. The man caught Malifact's eye and beckoned him over. He took some of the paste and put some on Malifact's cheeks as warpaint. He then took out a tiny crystal vial with with a clear substance. He poured it into the bowl and mixed once again, turning the paste into a liquid. "Now the Battle Potion will stay wet." Said the Man. He poured a measure of the liquid back into the small vial and handed it to Malifact. "Drink when battle comes. It will help." Malifact gave the man a kind look. "Thank you Jarg." Malifact said, then walked away. Jarg watched Malifact for a while. That boy is going to do great things... "This'll do..." Muttered Malifact, picking up a rusted chestpiece. It was old and worn, but it would do the job. He turned and looked at the rest of the camp. Men, women and children were all bustling about preparing for war. He heard one tribesman say to his son: "Jarek, when we get into the battle, stick next to me. Kill as many Southlings as possible! When you grow up, I swear by the Gods you will be a great warrior!" He tried to ignore it, but he couldn't. As much as he hated his father, he wished he would give him a pep talk like that. He began to feel his anger build up. No! Not now! Keep it in....You can do this...Save it for the battle ************************************************************* Half an hour later and the entire warband was on the move. They all galloped along at full speed on horseback. The resiliant Kurgan steeds made short work of the rough terrain of the Troll Country. Malifact was now clad in a rather laughable assortment of rusted, old armour. Many tribesmen sniggered at him as they passed by, but he returned it with a cold stare. He looked up to the head of the tribe at his father. He was easily noticable, as he was the largest figure there. His fur cloak flowed out from behind him like an unholy banner. Today, Malifact was going to prove that he was more than just a "pathetic little whelp". It had been around half a day, and dusk was setting in. The warband was approaching the Southling Outpost, which was build on top of a small hill. A few ramshackle barricades had been placed around the perimeter of the settlement. Not a problem. "Spread out, we'll engage them from all directions" Ordered Malifact's Father. The Warband spread out and formed a rough circle around the settlement, waiting for the signal to attack. Of course, they weren't kept waiting for long. Malifact's father gave a deafening roar and charged, which was enough of a signal for the rest of them. This was a stupid idea, as the Southlings would have a small amount of time to prepare. But that didn't really bother the rest of them. Malifact quickly took the potion that Jarg gave him from his pocket, then tipped it into his mouth. The effects were immediate. He was instantly filled with insane battlelust, and the desire to fight everything. Malifact charged forward on his steed, then blacked out. ************************************************************* When the potion wore off, Malifact found himself standing over the mutilated body of a Kislevite soldier. He noticed that his head was missing, then realised that he was holding it in his hand. He could taste the coppery blood in his mouth, and he was covered from head to toe in the stuff. He looked around him and saw his fellow Tribesmen stalking about looking for loot, and trophies. The battle had clearly been won, and it seemed that Malifact had his fair share of blood. Bodies littered the ground, mostly Kislevite soldiers, with one or two marauders. Malifact studied his armour and saw that it was dented and battered. He cast off the bloodstained armour and began to wander the battlefield. There was a huge bonfire lit in the middle of the Settlement, which some men were heaping bodies onto. The fire lit up the entire outpost, as night had fallen by now. The sky was clear and the stars were shining brightly. The moans of the captured could be heard as some men nailed them to the walls, and began cutting them open, letting their entrails spill to the ground. Malifact had his first taste of full battle...and loved it. ************************************************************************** The Warband never had a chance of noticing that the main force of the Outpost had returned. In the pitch blackness of night, they encircled the Outpost and silently watched in disgust as the Northern Barbarians performed their blasphemous rituals. Allies of the Kislevites that were posted here, a patrol of The ‘Mark eyed their prey with a zealous hatred in their eyes. Accompanying the small force was a Bright Wizard. ************************************************************************** Malifact watched on with interest as he saw a burly tribesman hacking at a dead man’s wrist with a rusted knife. The man shone with sweat in the light of the crackling fire, and his hacking became increasingly fast as he grew more and more impatient. With a grunt of annoyance, he threw the knife away, and began to pull and the man’s hand, half hacked away. His muscles bunched and he tugged hard on the hand until it tore off. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pierced a nail through the palm of the hand which was attached to a chain on his belt. He walked away, the freshly harvested trophy bouncing from his thigh. Malifact scratched his head, then crept over to the dead man, only to be met with the echoing bang of a rifle. Luckily, the bullet hit a scrap of armour at an odd angle then ricocheted off, but the shock and the force of it knocked him sideways. As Malifact fell, he saw the face of the would be killer in the distance, his face slightly illuminated by the warm glow of the bonfire. The sound of the shot alerted the rest of the warband, and so they all scattered off around the outpost, choosing a target. Immediately, Malifact scrambled up and took the nearest weapon he could lay his hands on, in this case a crude hatchet. He spied the man that shot him reloading, his hands fumbling over his ammo pouch. Malifact jogged, then broke into a run, and then a full fledged sprint towards the foolish man, raising his hatchet over his head, issuing a battle cry. His voice was child like, but it carried an unnerving quality that could be associated with a full grown berserk warrior. The man’s eyes widened as he saw the crazed young boy charging at him, and so he threw down his ammo pouch and raised his gun into a defensive position. Malifact leapt from a rock, towards the man, both arms holding the hatchet, raised behind his head, legs drawn back for better impact. At eight years old, Malifact struck fear and stark realisation into a grown man’s heart. Fear and realisation of what was to come. Issuing his battle cry all the while, Malifact brought the hatchet down and it hit it’s mark with a meaty thunk. Yanking the hatched from the man’s skull, Malifact without hesitation ran into the next man who hadn’t noticed him. He leapt and landed on the man, knocking them both to the ground. Malifact dived on top of him and brought the hatchet down into his face. Caught up in the heat of the moment, Malifact didn’t stop beating the man’s face until it was a bloody pulp of splintered skull and oozing brain matter. Sensing someone behind him, he swung his axe round in a wide arc and lashed out behind him. The man who was behind him was a fellow tribesman, and Malifact had slit his belly open. The tribesman stared at Malifact in disbelief for a second, then his look quickly changed to one of anger. Even as his entrails spilled to the ground, the man reached forward, grasping for Malifact’s throat. Malifact didn’t care whose blood he spilled, just as long as there was hot blood flowing freely. Knocking away the man’s hand, Malifact dived towards the him, and tore his throat out with his teeth. The blood burst forth from the man’s neck and the coppery taste of it filled Malifact’s mouth. It drove him into a frenzy of killing and death. None could have suspected Malifact of such terrible deeds, but looks can indeed be deceiving. The previously outnumbered warband began to slowly crush the attackers. The morale of the weakling southlings dwindled and they fell back to their saviour. The Bright Wizard. He stepped forward, illuminating the battlefield with his fiery aura. By this time, the outpost was filled only with corpses as the battle had moved. Both forces now fought on the arid plains of the Troll Country. Malifact narrowly avoided an incoming ball of pure flame being hurtled in his direction. The Wizard, who seemed old and fragile, was alive with energy. He hurtled balls of fire here and there, incinerating those who stood in his way. Malifact’s father led the charge against the Southern worms. “By the Gods, we will not fail!” He bellowed. His voice ran a tremor of fear through the ranks of the enemy, and in desperation some turn against their kinsmen. The combined force of the barbaric charge and the treachery from within crumbled the Ostermark patrol. Only the Wizard remained, and he held his ground firmly. But eventually he faltered, and the last thing he saw was young Malifact leaping up and smashing a jagged rock into his face. ************************************************************************** The previous day’s events hardened Malifact. At such a young age he had slain so many, and the tribe recognised this. Even Malifact’s father reluctantly let him claim the head of the wizard, and it now hung loosely hung from his belt. The Gods had not let his achievements go unnoticed, and within his deep blue eyes, the pupils turned to vertical slits. His teeth, caked in congealed blood, were now pointed and sharp. Even though they were minor gifts, to earn the attention of the Gods at such a young age was quite something. The tribe, newly reinforced with the traitorous Southlings, remained at the camp for a time. New weapons were forged, more trophies were collected, and a brief period of prosperity was enjoyed by the tribe. This was soon shattered, as it appeared that the tribe had encroached upon ancient hunting grounds, sacred to several tribes. The following night was going to be quite a struggle. ************************************************************************** Guttfestus took slow, lumbering steps towards the enemy encampment. Every footfall made a horrible squelching sound which brought a wide grin across Guttfestus’ cadaverous face. His blackened tongue lay motionless across his chin. Several maggots had taken to feasting upon the gangrenous tongue, and it tickled Guttfestus, causing a phlegm laced gargle to escape his throat in what was meant to be a giggle. Holding up a bloated hand, Guttfestus signalled his tribe to stop. The newcomers would make excellent additions to the tribe if they accepted his offer, and swore fealty to Great Father Nielglen. He caught a boil covered man’s eye, then silently ordered him to present his terms. The man ran up to the encampment and disappeared from site. For five minutes, Guttfestus waited until he saw something launch up into the sky from the camp. As it came closer, Guttfestus realised what it was. The man’s head landed with a thud at Guttfestus’ feet, and with a grunt of annoyance, he stamped on it, splitting it like a melon. The shambling horde of Guttfestus descended upon the newcomers camp to punish them for encroaching upon the sacred tribal lands. ************************************************************************** Malifact watched as his father threw the head up into the air, and the boil covered corpse fall to the ground. “We swear service to no-one!” He bellowed after it. A few minutes later, almost in reply, the first sounds of painful death filled the air. Grabbing a newly forged sword, Malifact sprinted over to see what the commotion was. He almost vomited as he saw a disease ridden man holding up a tribesman by the throat. His touch sent infection and disease rippling through the poor man’s body. Boils erupted over the surface of his skin, and several burst. His fingertips turned gangrenous, and it rapidly spread throughout his entire body. The diseased man let his victim fall to the ground in a crumpled heap. His gaze fixed on Malifact, and he laughed, with genuine good humour. After a while of laughing, his features twisted into a frown. The look of defiance that Malifact gave him clearly wasn’t what he expected. With a feral battlecry, Malifact launched the sword full force at the diseased man, and it plunged into his stomach. The man grunted slightly, then lumbered forwards towards Malifact. A great scythe was drawn from his back, his skin as the sheathe, and it swung in wide arcs, tempting Malifact forward. Malifact sprinted forwards, ducked then rolled underneath a scythe strike, and grabbed the sword that jutted out from the man’s belly. He wriggled it around, feeling the mushy entrails within sliding around, then roughly yanked it out. The man looked down at Malifact, clearly irritated by his defiance and reached forward. Malifact dodged, then leapt up, bringing the sword down over his head, and onto the man’s skull. An eyeball bulged out from the man’s head and it burst in a splash of foul smelling pus. A low moan escaped the man’s ravaged throat, then finally the diseases that ravaged his body, claimed his mind as well. He fell backwards and landed with a loud thud, his skin breaking as easily as wet paper. Triumphantly, Malifact let the rush of the kill overtake him once more, and turned ready to face more of the plague ridden raiders that invaded his camp… (Currently only Chapter 1. Will add more chapters as I write them up.
Age - Somewhere in the region of 110 Gender: Male Race: Human Height: 6ft 5" Allegiance: Chaos Undivided Armour: Dark Chaos Armour covers his hulking form and it bears intricate markings and runes written in a blasphemous tongue. The armour is trimmed with rusted iron. His helm covers his entire face, a blank emotionless canvas for foes to project their fears onto. Two horns like that of of a ram sprout from his helmet. It is hard to tell if they are a part of the helm, of actually growing from Malifact's head. Within the narrow eye slits, two burning eyes flicker away. This is the true give away to Malifact's feelings, as the colour changes with his mood. The shield is a conductor of Chaotic energies, and so the energies gathered over time are released when the shield is struck. The force of the released energies stuns, and knocks back the opponent, leaving him vulnerable to attack. A pelt made from the hide of a notorious Doombull named Raarga hangs from his broad shoulders. Some say this cloak is imbued with magical properties, granting Malifact that extra edge in combat, but this has not been proven. Weapons: A great sword is wielded by Malifact into combat. For a lesser man, this would take two hands to wield, but certainly not Malifact, as he also carries a large shield. The sword was ritually forged in the Chaos Wastes themselves, from the Chaos imbued minerals that are mined there. Cooled in a cauldron of wolf's blood, and locked in a chamber with burning Warpstone incense, the blade is indeed formidable. Rather than wielding a daemon sword, Malifact's sword is laden with his own personality. The sword is a part of his being, an extension of his soul. To lose this would deal a great blow to him. It's silver edge crackles with Malifact's emotions, like electricity. Fighting Style: Malifact has his status elevated to that of Sol Invictus of Invicto Incarnate. His favour with the Gods has increased his power tenfold. His time in the Chaos Wastes has enhanced his mind and body to new levels. Effectively having the mental capacity of a Daemon Prince, Malifact has acces to powers previously thought impossible. In combat, Malifact delights in making the enemy's stomach tighten in fear. The sense of adrenaline flowing through their body gives Malifact grim satisfaction. To achieve this, Malifact gets inside the enemies head with his considerable mental might. He assails them with horrifying visions and corrupts all five of their senses. He makes the enemy see what he wants them to see. When it comes to melee, Malifact is exeptionally hard to make physical contact with. He can twist the Winds around to shield his form and even then , he is encased in all that armour. If you live for any length of time while fighting Malifact, it is because he is not bored of fighting you yet. Features: Trophies that hang from barbed chains adorn his armour. Severed hands twitch, and taken heads leer as if kept alive by the aura of fear emanating from Malifact's body. His feet have warped back into great hooves, like they once were in his more savage days. As a mark of his newfound status "Sol Invictus", two black, feathered wings sprout from his shoulderblades. Personality: Malifact is a quiet man. He prefers silence over meaningless words. He is a man that likes to get things done. One lesson he has learned from life is that arrogance and greed are risky traits. Both were the downfall of his Father. Instead of foolish boasting he prefers to show his skill through actions, not words. He takes great amusement in letting his foes shout themselves hoarse about all their achievments and their skull tallies, then batting them aside like children. Malifact doesn't take too kindly to Southerners. Those who have embraced Chaos, but are originally from the South, he will tolerate, but only just. He always keeps a silent eye on them, watching for any wrong move. This has caused friction between himself and a few other members of Invicto, but he usually keeps himself in check. Something of a loner, Malifact always prefers to travel alone. He will ally himself with someone he trusts, however. His fierce loyalty ensures those he looks up to have his unwavering faith. But this also is the root cause of one of his negative traits. Those he deems 'uninteresting' will be ignored unless they directly adress him. This is a problem when Malifact is leading a group. He prefers to lead those he can rely on (which he does so with an iron fist). Anyone else can be expected to recieve nigh on suicidal tasks. Curse/Goal: The Curse of the Reverted. Malifact has tasted Daemonhood, but he let his guard down in his moment of triumph. The sorceror Rek'lats summoned him into a sword, where he was imprisoned for decades. The ambitious Chaos Warrior, Mhelkon, wielded Malifact in combat to great effect, but upon Malifact's release, he has since learned a Daemon's wrath. When Malifact was released, he found himself bound to his old mortal shell. No one knows why, but Malifact believes it to be a punishment from the God's for being too reckless. Now, Malifact has dedicated his life to not attaining Daemonhood, but to making as much of a difference as he can in the war on this doomed world. History: Chapter One: Childhood Memories The dusty plains stretched for as far as the eye could see. The sky was grey and cloudy. Bushes eeked out a life in the harsh land, the soil reluctantly allowing it to take root. How any plantlife survived here was a mystery. But then again, Troll Country is a very mysterious place. A young boy sat a few metres away from his camp on a large rock. He had long brown hair which reached his upper back. It was tangled and dirty, and if a comb went through it it would look a lot longer. He had blue eyes which always seemed to be lost in thought. He never looked anyone in the eye unless he was angry. This told everyone that he was after a fight. He was tall for his age, but lanky. Other kids used to tease him for it, but they had long since stopped. Ever since the boy had killed another child, they left him well alone. He was always angry too. He didn't know why, but he just felt like hitting people all the time. The boy was in no mood for talking to people. He would probably end up hitting someone again. Droplets of rain began to fall. This made the boy feel much better. He tilted his face up letting the rain fall on his face. It soothed him, and calmed his anger. The boy had only just reached his eighth year and he had already killed many grown men. "Malifact! Get the hell over here NOW!" Shouted a man. Malifact quickly scrambled off the rock and ran to the man, who was the only person he feared: His Father. Malifact stood in front of his father who was sat in his tent. He was ripping chunks of flesh from a bone, most probably a human bone. Malifact's father was a huge man. His muscles glistened with sweat. He, like Malifact, was quick to anger. He could easily crush a man's skull with his bare hands. He had served Chaos his entire life, as a fanatical devotee. However, he was disappointed in his son, for being such a skinny little whelp. "Boy! Come closer!" Malifact reluctantly stepped forward. His father grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him to the wall. "Tomorrow, we are raiding an outpost. You are coming with us! Maybe you can get yourself killed in the process!" He threw Malifact away and he landed with a thud outside the tent. Malifact hated his father so much. He walked away fuming with anger, kicking over a bucket of stagnant water on the way. One day, his father would pay for treating him so badly. The next day, Malifact awoke to the sound of his Father yelling. "Get a move on, whelp! We're leaving soon!" He grabbed Malifact and threw him out of his tent, causing him to land roughly on the ground. He quickly ran around the camp looking for scraps of armour to defend himself with when the time came. ************************************************************* A wizened old man sat on a rough stool made from rotten wood. Matted grey hair covered his shoulders. The man looked weak and frail, but his eyes held a lifetime of wisdom. His eyes were greenish brown. His wrinkled face was usually emotionless, often vacant. The tribe considered him mad, but kept him around as a mark of respect. He was once a great warrior, right hand of the previous Warchief. He took a human bone from his pouch and picked up his bowl. He sprinkled a mix of herbs and roots into the bowl, taken from the surrounding area. Without hesitation, he took a ceremonial knife from his pouch, and began to cut into his arm. He let the blood drip into the bowl, and when he was satisfied, licked the cut clean. Using the bone, he began to grind it all together. That uppety oaf will regret his actions one day - Thought the man, looking at Malifact's Father, the current Warchief. He'll get his comeuppance - Then he looked at Malifact, who was desperately searching for some scraps of armour - Pity I wont be alive when it happens The mix inside the bowl had now formed into a paste. The man caught Malifact's eye and beckoned him over. He took some of the paste and put some on Malifact's cheeks as warpaint. He then took out a tiny crystal vial with with a clear substance. He poured it into the bowl and mixed once again, turning the paste into a liquid. "Now the Battle Potion will stay wet." Said the Man. He poured a measure of the liquid back into the small vial and handed it to Malifact. "Drink when battle comes. It will help." Malifact gave the man a kind look. "Thank you Jarg." Malifact said, then walked away. Jarg watched Malifact for a while. That boy is going to do great things... "This'll do..." Muttered Malifact, picking up a rusted chestpiece. It was old and worn, but it would do the job. He turned and looked at the rest of the camp. Men, women and children were all bustling about preparing for war. He heard one tribesman say to his son: "Jarek, when we get into the battle, stick next to me. Kill as many Southlings as possible! When you grow up, I swear by the Gods you will be a great warrior!" He tried to ignore it, but he couldn't. As much as he hated his father, he wished he would give him a pep talk like that. He began to feel his anger build up. No! Not now! Keep it in....You can do this...Save it for the battle ************************************************************* Half an hour later and the entire warband was on the move. They all galloped along at full speed on horseback. The resiliant Kurgan steeds made short work of the rough terrain of the Troll Country. Malifact was now clad in a rather laughable assortment of rusted, old armour. Many tribesmen sniggered at him as they passed by, but he returned it with a cold stare. He looked up to the head of the tribe at his father. He was easily noticable, as he was the largest figure there. His fur cloak flowed out from behind him like an unholy banner. Today, Malifact was going to prove that he was more than just a "pathetic little whelp". It had been around half a day, and dusk was setting in. The warband was approaching the Southling Outpost, which was build on top of a small hill. A few ramshackle barricades had been placed around the perimeter of the settlement. Not a problem. "Spread out, we'll engage them from all directions" Ordered Malifact's Father. The Warband spread out and formed a rough circle around the settlement, waiting for the signal to attack. Of course, they weren't kept waiting for long. Malifact's father gave a deafening roar and charged, which was enough of a signal for the rest of them. This was a stupid idea, as the Southlings would have a small amount of time to prepare. But that didn't really bother the rest of them. Malifact quickly took the potion that Jarg gave him from his pocket, then tipped it into his mouth. The effects were immediate. He was instantly filled with insane battlelust, and the desire to fight everything. Malifact charged forward on his steed, then blacked out. ************************************************************* When the potion wore off, Malifact found himself standing over the mutilated body of a Kislevite soldier. He noticed that his head was missing, then realised that he was holding it in his hand. He could taste the coppery blood in his mouth, and he was covered from head to toe in the stuff. He looked around him and saw his fellow Tribesmen stalking about looking for loot, and trophies. The battle had clearly been won, and it seemed that Malifact had his fair share of blood. Bodies littered the ground, mostly Kislevite soldiers, with one or two marauders. Malifact studied his armour and saw that it was dented and battered. He cast off the bloodstained armour and began to wander the battlefield. There was a huge bonfire lit in the middle of the Settlement, which some men were heaping bodies onto. The fire lit up the entire outpost, as night had fallen by now. The sky was clear and the stars were shining brightly. The moans of the captured could be heard as some men nailed them to the walls, and began cutting them open, letting their entrails spill to the ground. Malifact had his first taste of full battle...and loved it. ************************************************************************** The Warband never had a chance of noticing that the main force of the Outpost had returned. In the pitch blackness of night, they encircled the Outpost and silently watched in disgust as the Northern Barbarians performed their blasphemous rituals. Allies of the Kislevites that were posted here, a patrol of The ‘Mark eyed their prey with a zealous hatred in their eyes. Accompanying the small force was a Bright Wizard. ************************************************************************** Malifact watched on with interest as he saw a burly tribesman hacking at a dead man’s wrist with a rusted knife. The man shone with sweat in the light of the crackling fire, and his hacking became increasingly fast as he grew more and more impatient. With a grunt of annoyance, he threw the knife away, and began to pull and the man’s hand, half hacked away. His muscles bunched and he tugged hard on the hand until it tore off. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pierced a nail through the palm of the hand which was attached to a chain on his belt. He walked away, the freshly harvested trophy bouncing from his thigh. Malifact scratched his head, then crept over to the dead man, only to be met with the echoing bang of a rifle. Luckily, the bullet hit a scrap of armour at an odd angle then ricocheted off, but the shock and the force of it knocked him sideways. As Malifact fell, he saw the face of the would be killer in the distance, his face slightly illuminated by the warm glow of the bonfire. The sound of the shot alerted the rest of the warband, and so they all scattered off around the outpost, choosing a target. Immediately, Malifact scrambled up and took the nearest weapon he could lay his hands on, in this case a crude hatchet. He spied the man that shot him reloading, his hands fumbling over his ammo pouch. Malifact jogged, then broke into a run, and then a full fledged sprint towards the foolish man, raising his hatchet over his head, issuing a battle cry. His voice was child like, but it carried an unnerving quality that could be associated with a full grown berserk warrior. The man’s eyes widened as he saw the crazed young boy charging at him, and so he threw down his ammo pouch and raised his gun into a defensive position. Malifact leapt from a rock, towards the man, both arms holding the hatchet, raised behind his head, legs drawn back for better impact. At eight years old, Malifact struck fear and stark realisation into a grown man’s heart. Fear and realisation of what was to come. Issuing his battle cry all the while, Malifact brought the hatchet down and it hit it’s mark with a meaty thunk. Yanking the hatched from the man’s skull, Malifact without hesitation ran into the next man who hadn’t noticed him. He leapt and landed on the man, knocking them both to the ground. Malifact dived on top of him and brought the hatchet down into his face. Caught up in the heat of the moment, Malifact didn’t stop beating the man’s face until it was a bloody pulp of splintered skull and oozing brain matter. Sensing someone behind him, he swung his axe round in a wide arc and lashed out behind him. The man who was behind him was a fellow tribesman, and Malifact had slit his belly open. The tribesman stared at Malifact in disbelief for a second, then his look quickly changed to one of anger. Even as his entrails spilled to the ground, the man reached forward, grasping for Malifact’s throat. Malifact didn’t care whose blood he spilled, just as long as there was hot blood flowing freely. Knocking away the man’s hand, Malifact dived towards the him, and tore his throat out with his teeth. The blood burst forth from the man’s neck and the coppery taste of it filled Malifact’s mouth. It drove him into a frenzy of killing and death. None could have suspected Malifact of such terrible deeds, but looks can indeed be deceiving. The previously outnumbered warband began to slowly crush the attackers. The morale of the weakling southlings dwindled and they fell back to their saviour. The Bright Wizard. He stepped forward, illuminating the battlefield with his fiery aura. By this time, the outpost was filled only with corpses as the battle had moved. Both forces now fought on the arid plains of the Troll Country. Malifact narrowly avoided an incoming ball of pure flame being hurtled in his direction. The Wizard, who seemed old and fragile, was alive with energy. He hurtled balls of fire here and there, incinerating those who stood in his way. Malifact’s father led the charge against the Southern worms. “By the Gods, we will not fail!” He bellowed. His voice ran a tremor of fear through the ranks of the enemy, and in desperation some turn against their kinsmen. The combined force of the barbaric charge and the treachery from within crumbled the Ostermark patrol. Only the Wizard remained, and he held his ground firmly. But eventually he faltered, and the last thing he saw was young Malifact leaping up and smashing a jagged rock into his face. ************************************************************************** The previous day’s events hardened Malifact. At such a young age he had slain so many, and the tribe recognised this. Even Malifact’s father reluctantly let him claim the head of the wizard, and it now hung loosely hung from his belt. The Gods had not let his achievements go unnoticed, and within his deep blue eyes, the pupils turned to vertical slits. His teeth, caked in congealed blood, were now pointed and sharp. Even though they were minor gifts, to earn the attention of the Gods at such a young age was quite something. The tribe, newly reinforced with the traitorous Southlings, remained at the camp for a time. New weapons were forged, more trophies were collected, and a brief period of prosperity was enjoyed by the tribe. This was soon shattered, as it appeared that the tribe had encroached upon ancient hunting grounds, sacred to several tribes. The following night was going to be quite a struggle. ************************************************************************** Guttfestus took slow, lumbering steps towards the enemy encampment. Every footfall made a horrible squelching sound which brought a wide grin across Guttfestus’ cadaverous face. His blackened tongue lay motionless across his chin. Several maggots had taken to feasting upon the gangrenous tongue, and it tickled Guttfestus, causing a phlegm laced gargle to escape his throat in what was meant to be a giggle. Holding up a bloated hand, Guttfestus signalled his tribe to stop. The newcomers would make excellent additions to the tribe if they accepted his offer, and swore fealty to Great Father Nielglen. He caught a boil covered man’s eye, then silently ordered him to present his terms. The man ran up to the encampment and disappeared from site. For five minutes, Guttfestus waited until he saw something launch up into the sky from the camp. As it came closer, Guttfestus realised what it was. The man’s head landed with a thud at Guttfestus’ feet, and with a grunt of annoyance, he stamped on it, splitting it like a melon. The shambling horde of Guttfestus descended upon the newcomers camp to punish them for encroaching upon the sacred tribal lands. ************************************************************************** Malifact watched as his father threw the head up into the air, and the boil covered corpse fall to the ground. “We swear service to no-one!” He bellowed after it. A few minutes later, almost in reply, the first sounds of painful death filled the air. Grabbing a newly forged sword, Malifact sprinted over to see what the commotion was. He almost vomited as he saw a disease ridden man holding up a tribesman by the throat. His touch sent infection and disease rippling through the poor man’s body. Boils erupted over the surface of his skin, and several burst. His fingertips turned gangrenous, and it rapidly spread throughout his entire body. The diseased man let his victim fall to the ground in a crumpled heap. His gaze fixed on Malifact, and he laughed, with genuine good humour. After a while of laughing, his features twisted into a frown. The look of defiance that Malifact gave him clearly wasn’t what he expected. With a feral battlecry, Malifact launched the sword full force at the diseased man, and it plunged into his stomach. The man grunted slightly, then lumbered forwards towards Malifact. A great scythe was drawn from his back, his skin as the sheathe, and it swung in wide arcs, tempting Malifact forward. Malifact sprinted forwards, ducked then rolled underneath a scythe strike, and grabbed the sword that jutted out from the man’s belly. He wriggled it around, feeling the mushy entrails within sliding around, then roughly yanked it out. The man looked down at Malifact, clearly irritated by his defiance and reached forward. Malifact dodged, then leapt up, bringing the sword down over his head, and onto the man’s skull. An eyeball bulged out from the man’s head and it burst in a splash of foul smelling pus. A low moan escaped the man’s ravaged throat, then finally the diseases that ravaged his body, claimed his mind as well. He fell backwards and landed with a loud thud, his skin breaking as easily as wet paper. Triumphantly, Malifact let the rush of the kill overtake him once more, and turned ready to face more of the plague ridden raiders that invaded his camp… (Currently only Chapter 1. Will add more chapters as I write them up.