Birth of a Dark Elf, A Warhammer tale of Vengance.

[Saint Of M]

Self rating PG to PG-13 fpr violance.

Prolog.

“What have I done?” asked the would-be king of the elves to himself. He was in his black, formfitting armor. It was as black as a daemon’s heart, with gold trim intricately weaving its way around the sharp shoulder pads and helm. The Chest plat itself was made in several layers of sheets that allowed for greater protection, and maneuverability. On it was the depiction of a daemon’s scull, with a pair of glowing red rubies where its eyes should be. The elf’s face, while not completely hidden by the helm, was still obscured by it, save for a pair of green eyes that seemed to be resonating with both his pain and his greed. It was crowned with a pair of black iron horns stabbing skyward. Another golden pair of horns slithered around the base of the first set, than shot skyward themselves. A cape was draped around his back, flowing through the harsh winds. Like his heart and his armor, it was pitch black, save for a pattern of red runes interwoven along the base of the cloth. His name was Price Malekith.

He looked out upon what was left of his kingdom from the balcony of his keep. He had divided his people, slain the second Phoenix king, his father’s successor Bel Shanaar, and had entered the Flames of Asuryian with a tainted soul. When his father, Aenerion, the savior of the elves, had walked into the Sacred Flames of the phoenix, he had done so with the hope his sacrifice would save his people. It did, but not the way he expected. Instead of being consumed by the flames, he was empowered by them. With the strength needed to fight daemonic hordes of chaos, he began his campaign to rid the world of their presence.

In his arrogance Malekith assumed the Sacred Flames would accept him like they did his father. For his arrogance, the flames began to consume his body. By a sheer force of will, he leaped out of the sacred flames, barely alive or conscious. His elite soldiers, the feared Black Guard carried him back to his homeland of Nargaryth, where his mother, Morathie nursed him backed to health. It took only a year for him to recover, but he knew full and well he was dying. It seemed like an eternity in one hellish nightmare after another. He knew he could barely stand, much less fight the oncoming forces of the Bel Shanaar loyalists. He ordered a renegade priest of the smith god by the name of Hotek to forge him a suit for armor, and bind it onto his flesh. It took three days to finish both infusing the armor with protective magics and graphing it to his lord’s body. It had been four months since then, the dark energies radiating off of it sustaining him, giving him ten times the strength he had prior to being ravaged by the sacred flames. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to come up with a strategy that would turn the tide to his favor.

Prior to his father’s death, Anerion’s friend Calador the First had himself and half the mages of the Elvin nation create a vortex to suck the magical energies feeding the Chaos Gods’ forces dry. With nothing to sustain them in this world, they would be forced them back to their realm. It was here that Anerion fought to his death, buying the mages the much needed time to cast their spell. And now his son had his sorcerers undo it. Unable to control its immense power, the vortex caused a backlash, killing most of the wizards. Worst yet, it had summoned a massive tidal wave, large enough to destroy his home on Nargaryth; the true home of Anerion.

The Dark Lord stroked his chin; a habit of his when he was deep in thought. “Had it not been for the dependence of Calador, and their Ulithian lackeys”, he said to himself. “This would have never had happened. They have brought this unto themselves. May the Phoenix have mercy upon them, for I swear, there will be no rest till the last drop of blood of these traitorous kin has been shed!”

The dark lord’s fine tuned ears detected the footsteps of a nervous recruit. The young elf, just old enough to enter the armed forces, wore the standard heavy coned helmet, a basic two piece breastplate, and a full set of chainmail armor. His under robe was a dark purple, the national color of Nargarythe. The dark lord didn’t even wait for the spearmen to go through the doorway before he began his integration. “Well?” Malektith asked in a cold, almost unnatural voice.

“We have received the final signal. The last Nargarythian has made it the castles sire. All of your followers are in. What dose thou command?” the spearman asked nervously. “Shall we commence with the enchantment?”

Malekitith turned to the young man. His menacing eyes briefly glowed brightly. “Do it.”

With any and all of the remaining wizards and sorceresses, they cast their spells upon their fortresses and castle, freeing them from their earthen bondage, and lifting them into the air. For the next five thousand years, the world would learn to fear these outcasts, taking to the seas in these flying cities known as Black Arks. Taking shelter in a mostly uncharted part of the world, they built a new empire on the backs of countless slaves. Malekeith, the once noble prince and general, now sits on his new throne as the Witch King. He was sustained by the dark magic he weilded like his sword, needing neither food nor sleep. While the High elves on their ancestral home of Ulthaine have gone through several leaders, he has out live all but the most of his own followers. With a mighty decree, his forces are set loose to plunder the world, taking back countless riches and slaves. What they can’t plunder, they destroy leaving whole regions littered with death and destruction. As Malekith gave himself a new name, so have they: Druchii. But the world better knows them as Dark Elves.

[Saint Of M]

Chapter 1

“Get me that infernal sextant, so we can figure out where the Abyss we’re going!” yelled the captain impatiently. He was an older man, well worn with the hardships of the sea and by nonstop conflict. But like most of his people, he aged with much grace.

He picked up a half emptied bottle of wine and finished its contents. It was an inadequate grade, but it was still had a decent texture to it. If anything else, it motivated him to move his Black Ark, a flying fortress made in the image of those used to save the Dark Elf people, home. His well attuned Elvin ears picked up his commander’s footsteps. “So, how did the raid go, Mill’Scion?”

The commander, who was of average appearance and apparel, sighed heavily. “It is Druchii protocol that all captains join their crew during a raid; less the crew sees him as weak and feeble. Otherwise the crew might mutiny, giving rise for one of his rivals to take his place. As a captain of a Black Ark, a key part of breaking the Asur's [High Elves'] defenses, much less the fact I was in the same group as yourself, you should know the answer of your own question.” Mill'Scion said stoically. This emotionless tone, which irritated the captain to no end, was part of every facet of this elf's life. The running rumor amongst the crew was only his dead wife could make him smile, and only his young son could make him laugh. He looked towards the Dark Elf commanding the helm. " I sense we are heading straight into a storm. Turn north to avoid it.” The giant floating fortress shifted as the corsair obeyed his superior.

“I know the expedition went well. If not, then I would be a little more irate then I am now due to the loss of all but one of our navigators; the latter now lays unconscious in the doctors quarter of the Green plague. But you have an amazing eye for detail; one much of this crew lacks.” A deck hand gave the sextant to his captain, and then went back to his post. “I just want to know how high my prophets were goining to be!”

“In that case, we chose a good spot. Apparently that was the largest port city of our High Elf Cousins, or at least it was until we razzed it.” His pale lips curved into a cruel smile. It was the first the captain had seen in long time. “Strangely enough, the rest of the world went there to trade. Humans from their little Empire of theirs, as well as the Britonians, Estillans, Cathaians, Indians, Nipponeis, and Tillaians living there or resupplying before they go on to sell their trade or seek adventure elsewhere. We also counted Dwarves, Halflings, Ogres, and even a few greenskins here and there.” He paused, waiting till his commander ordered him to continue. “Had it not been for the fact we had set up our scouts and our dark riders to cut off their escape routes on the land, and our wave dancing vassals over the ocean, they would have most likely escaped. Fortunately enough, none did so until we made landfall.

“That is when we could get through their defenses. Our early efforts to get through were met with stone catapult fire, and eventually that of the bolt throwers and black powder weapons. After a certain point, bowmen and hand gunners of every kind lined up against the walls to take us on, while their flying units met ours in combat. Even our very own Dragon Sorceress joined in with our Hell drake riders to defeat the would-be defenders. Her mount supped well that afternoon.

“The defenders didn’t last long. We took over their war machines, and used it upon their own citizens. By the end of the night we had captured six hundred slaves, most of which were either human or Goblin workers, with a few Dwarves here and there, and at least two hunded and sixty five High elves. We had only sixty escaped alive. While it’s hard to say how many of our fellow corsairs we lost in the initial strike to take the port due to the high number of sunken vassals filled with drugged up slaves, once we got off our ships we only lost two hundred corsairs, twenty dark riders, two noble borns, a half dozen shades, and one assassin.

“What?” While casualties were expected in a raid, especially of one of this size, the fact that an assassin, an elite killing machine of the Dark Elf Race, died at the hands of dock hands and barley seasoned mercenaries. “Which assassin?”

“Apprentice Sua Gard’Stem. This would be his third raid, and fifth major battle. I know what you are thinking: he may be new, but this is such a low blow for someone like that to die here.
“Who killed him? What kind of monster could have done this?”

“A seventy year old Elvin child sir.”

“How much have you been drinking?”

“Not enough. The child has had some training in our form of fighting. Sua’s master was watching the fight, and reported to me what he had seen. By the time the assassin popped out of his hiding place, the kid had already killed nineteen corsairs using the Druchii style of swordplay. When the assassin came out, he threw his shield and sword into the crowed, and attacked the assassin with a pair of daggers. By the time the child has scratched him, 21 more corsairs had fallen, as well as a pair dark rider he pulled off their steeds. He then let the assassin place one wound on him, allowing him plenty of time to throw one of his daggers into his throat. In the end, we needed to throw one of our steal nets on him, and kick him repeatedly.”

“What is his condition now?”

“For someone being interrogated by the twins, he’s doing very well. He even managed to shove one of their whips down Frizzal’s throat before being beaten down again. I have been trying to get him to tell us who he is, and who his teacher was, but he hasn’t said anything yet.”

“Amazing. He managed to kill that many before he was taken out by our finest warriors. The Gods may have certainly given us such an interesting captive. If he doesn’t say anything by the end of the week, kill him.”

A week came and went, and the only one to meet a grizzly death was the captain; mauled to death by a young Hell Drake. As for the young boy, he gained the respect of the crew for going through seven constant days of torture, living off of piss and moldy bread. He survived, where lesser beings would have died and stronger elves would have confessed anything, he did not. He came close though, very close. Unable to hold the pain, he screamed this word over and over again: Ronin. Elvin, and later Nippon and Cathayin for a wondering warrior: a fighter without a place or a master.

He stood in his cell, wearing nothing but an old rag that covered his privates. His body was covered in scares, and racked with pain. “I wonder what father would say?” he asked himself. He knew that man was not his real father, but a Dark elf traitor who ran away from his platoon, along with several other Druchii and hid in a backwoods village. There he met the boy; his mother, and soon developed a relationship with them. He was the man who told him not to give up, and to live a life worth living. Was this prison cell worth living for? No, so he had to escape. His chance would come soon enough.

Two corsairs, walked in. They were donned in their traditional battle gear, which included lightweight armor, and a cloak made form a see dragon hide. As usual, they carried a pair of scimitars, as it was tradition for a corsair to carry at least two hand weapons. One of them pulled out a compact crossbow pistol, and fired a round into the boy's arm.

"We've landed. The Black Ark has stationed itself at Klarend Kar, and we will be dropping off most of the slaves here. The captain has selected ten for himself: Friends of yours no doubt. But as with the other spoils we have come back with, the rest will be divided up amongst the crew, the other cities, with Our Most High King Malekith taking the Lion’s share of the loot. You will be among the latter. Put this on; we want you looking presentable before the Witchking. Just incase, the dart I shot you with is drugged, so don't even think about making a break for it."

His compatriot, gave a slight smirk. Had it been any place elce, with anyone else, the boy would have thought it was a friendly one. "Don't worry too much though. It'll take effect within a few moments, so you better get those rags on. After that, we'll carry you to the boat. just don't go swimming for the next thirty minuts or you'll end up as fish food!"

The seccond elf opened his cell door, and threw package at the boy. The one the projectiles removed the boy's shackles, and backed off. He had heard the rumers, and didn't want to die at the hands of a child.


THey boy felt a little dizzy, the mussle in his body starting to grow numb. Had he the strength, he would have kill them, and take their weapons, but as he didn’t. Had he known the importance of what he had before him, he would have opened it with a little more glee. “This is…”

“We killed him this morning. It’s same bastard that killed our old captain a day ago. It may have been a juvenile, but boy was he a big one!”

“But this, this, why?”

“Well, considering you have the skill to kill forty of us, you might as well be an honorary member of the corsairs. Now put on that cloak, before we change our minds!” The child did, and went with them. Either out of the lacking the will to fight or to live, he complied with their request. “Oh, and to make sure you don’t do anything foolish. Our captain will keep your friends in good condition if and only if you obey our every command until we get to the Witch Kings Court. Otherwise, they go straight to the altar to be scarified.”

[Saint Of M]

Chapter 2.

“Welcome to Naggrond. Are you here for business or pleasure?”Asked a jaded city guard of the Dark elf city guard.

Next to him was his weapon of choice: the Drannach. Although the dark elves referred to their so called “sky piercer” as a spear, it was more or less a heavy bladed glaive. Others were built like normal spears, some had long sword like blades, some of which had were curved, and some even had a hook for catching horsemen as they charged them. This elf’s Drannach had a thick blade that might have been able to split a man in half.


Mill’Scion chose his words carefully, knowing full well a pair of the Witch King’s personal killing force, the Black Guard, was nearby. “I was always under the impression that an opportunity to be in the ‘Black Court’ was both.”

“Dose you’re business with our lord has anything to do with a high elf child that fights like a seasoned dark elf warrior?” Asked one of the guards. He wore the standard heavy black of armor of the Black guard. It had been layered with sheets of metal and thick, interwoven cloth to provide extra protection. In his right hand, he helps a wickedly curved halberd. The spiked helm and thick shoulder guards of the Black Guard didn’t help settle the nerves of the Black Ark Commander.

“Why do you ask?” asked Scion. He knew the personal body guards of Malekith were raised in one of the twenty or so towers that housed these killing machines, and they spent their youth doing nothing but training, killing, and plotting. If he had to go toe to toe with any of them, he was probably going to die.

“We just caught him killing three children picking on a Juvenile harpy.” The guard directed the commander with his free hand to two more Guardsmen and the two corsairs trying to restrain the boy.

“I suppose you are going to kill him now then? After all we can’t have any murdering scum bags running about.” Truth be told, he was prepared to lopp the boy's gaurds' heads off and use their skulls as soup bowls. This haddn't been the first time they had sipped up with the child, but they were the beast he could find.

Any and all loyal/compitent members of his crew were left on the ship to contend with any and all who would take his position by force. For added protection, hehad hired enough assassins to take out any of the would be Rabblerousers that came out from under their rocks. But that was currently the least of his worries.

Thankfully, his fears did not come to pass. “Other than being caught in view of the public during the light of day," begane the Black Gaurd. "We’re rather impressed with the youth. None of us had seen a child kill someone that quickly since our days at the academy. But we do insist that you come with us, to prevent the deaths of more of the Highborns.” This was not a request, but a demand. With five more Guards from their tower, they were off to Malekith’s palace: The Black Spire.

The boy looked around his new surroundings. The city was protected by large outer walls, lined with ballistae and crossbowmen. They were thick enough to not be taken down by powerful siege weapons, and tall enough to make scaling them all but impossible. The Heavy metal gate doors were fifty feet high, and five feet thick, thirty feet wide. Almost all of the buildings were cylinder shaped towers in and of themselves, housing thousands of slaves, hundreds of soldiers, and whole clans of the Dark elf nobility. The opposite end of this was the simple houses and taverns that the lesser nobles and commoners lived in.

Most of the shops, and stands were manned by half staved and well beaten slaves as all dark elves feel their time is better spent working on fighting and training. Even among the Highborns, all Druchii were first and foremost warriors. The only true exception would be the few woman accepted into the dark covenants of Sorceresses who instead spent their time and energy trying to become more destructive wizzards.

The boy also noticed something else: While all elves are known for having fair skin, dark elves took this to a whole new level. Most of them looked like they had never seen the sun. Although odd at the time, he would learn to get use to it.

Two scantily clad woman walked past, who the black guard gave a wide wake. The boy would latter learn they were the Brides of the war God Khaine: The Witch elves. Few dared go near them, for fear they may stab them repeitedly, rip out their entrails, ate them raw infront of their victem, and either decide to kill him or do it all over again.

“That’s odd.” Commented the lead black guard, staring blankly at the dark clouds above..

“What is it?” Asked the one of the corsairs.

“It will be dark soon…too soon. We should have another hour before we should start worrying about it. Probably a sign of another incursion from the forces of Chaos no doubt.

“You look stoic, but you are too tense for the mere minions of the Dark Gods to worry you.”

“Tonight is Death night, and ye know the law. But don’t worry, I know of an inn we can stay in for the night. The owner owes me a favor.” Said the leading Black Guard.

“Hugh, is it Death night already? Damn, just when I get to see civilization, I get this crap.” Said the other corsair.

While the boy didn't compleatly understand what they were afraid of, he knew enough about the black gaurd to know he should be afraid as well. he had head stories of their viciouseness, and that they feared nothing save maybe the wrath of the Witch King. I guess if he survived this night, he could add one more thing they were afraid of on that short list.

With this in mind, the Black Guard quickly guided their charge to the inn in Questions: The Skull Summoner.

“Well, if it isn’t my old drinking buddy Nigh Radeer.” Said a one of the patrons outside. In his lap lay another popular weapon of the Druchii: The repeater crossbow. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I could use one Neffrettious. It’s been too long my comrade.”

[Saint Of M]

Chapter three

It had not been only a half an hour since the group entered the tavern, and in that time the captain and one other corsair secured some rooms they could share. As this was a popular spot for the Black Guard went to enjoy some alone time and spend a night without the fear of waking up with a dagger lodged in their spine, they had their own section of rooms. The last corsair somehow, some way, convinced the boy to get into a bar brawl. The room was well lit, with various grades and varieties of exotic woods making up the entire interior (all clear cut from across the world.) Mounted above the bare and brews were the skulls of former slaves and patrons that got too rowdy. But like a human asylum, there was always room for one more on that row. One in fact, was about to be added to the collection.

“Why am I doing this?” said the boy, prepping to face off against three thugs. The first one was a scrawny corsair wilding a pair of combat knives with spiked hand guards. The next was a noble who was easy on the eyes, in white ceremonial robes, with a fencing saber in hand. The last one was a lesser noble carrying a massive blade across his shoulders. He was big for an elf, and carried his large sword as well as his comrades carried their smaller blades. “It’s your fight. Why do I have to fight in your stead?”

“Because I said so, now go!” The boy did what he was told.

First came the corsair. The boy jumped into the air, and landed on the elf’s shoulders. Using his weight, he knocked the elf off balanced. With a sudden jerk from his feet, the boy snapped his foes neck. Next came the two with the swords. The boy then took a serving tray and used it to slide in between the two warriors. The one with the saber was the first to look back, just in time to get the tray thrown in his face. With his beautiful face damaged, he ran head long to smite the boy’s head off. His reward was a chair to the stomach, and a knee to the face.

“Too easy. You want to show your friends how it’s really done?” Berated the child, taking the saber from the other elf.

The last opponent charged at him as well. The noble shoved his blade forward, missing the child completely. But just when he thought he had an opening, the noble smacked the butt of his sword into his head.

“There is more than one end to a sword boy. Learn this well.” The elf slammed his blade just a hair shy his body, nicking a part of the child’s left ear. With some foot work, he sent the other noble’s weapon at the child’s retainer’s face (butt first.) “Next time pay your debt Ekolieus. BARKEEP!” he yelled. The startled slave woman ran up to him. She was human, of average appearance for a woman of the Empire. “This slob has killed another one your master’s patrons, destroyed several tables and chairs, and now has tried to kill the property of another tenant!” he said, pointing first to the unconscious noble, then to the boy. “Leave him out for the Hags!”

This was the first true show of kindness shown to the boy since coming to Naggrond. It was unusual, even unethical by Druchii standards, but the boy was glad just the same. “So, who’s paying for this?”

[Saint Of M]

Chapter Four.

The Boy had a problem sleeping that night. It wasn’t so much that he was strapped to an Inn’s wall, but that his captors snoring sounded like a constipated dragon. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t break free. At the moment, he was simply content not to be dragged off to the temple tonight.

Tonight was the aptly named Death Night! The air became stagnate dread as soon an orgy of death and destruction would soon befall this city's inhabitants! On this night the Brides of Khaine, his Witch Elves and Hags, patrolled the streets, taking young babes to be indoctrinated in their cult, while anything older then a toddler to be scarifies. They are bled dried, their blood filling large cauldrons which the eldest of the Lord of Murder’s brides, the Hag Queens and the Ancient Crones, bathe in. Renewing their vows to their Lord of Murder, their youthful vigor and beauty is renewed. But as they age, the effects of the cauldron lasted for less and less time. While the younger crone, each roughly least 2000 to 4000 years old, would only need to bathe once every one or two years, where as the older ones slowly start looking their age within three to nine months of their last dip. In the morning there would be hundreds of dried husks, left for the scavenging harpies to feed on. The Witch elves cared not if their victims for free or not; lord or commoner. These cannibalistic women saw them all as their next meal.

There was a sudden scream, as a mother begged the Brides of Khaine to return her baby. This latter changed to begging for her own life. From the sounds of it, the Witch Elves had broken into the she elf’s home. The boy learned from a drunk, who still remained the ability to fight three other warriors who insulted his honer that the witch elves would do that from time to time if they didn’t find enough unfortunates to capture on the narrow streets and alleys. One could avoid this fate if they left generous donations for the Witch Elves throughout the year, or leaving a few slaves tied to the front porch on Death Night.

There was a shriek of ecstasy from one of the Witches, as they pulled another occupant from the house next door. That family didn’t give generously enough to the temple either.

Apparently the tavern was among those who made generous donations to the temple. The two made a deal: ANY fool that drank so much that he couldn’t properly wield a sword was there’s for the taking. Since then they have sent those foolishly to drink themselves into a stupor, in a cart to the Palace of Skulls, the local chapter of Witch Elves. This year was most fruitful for the temple as the raiding season did not fare well this year (causing many of the Corsairs, Reevers, and even stalwart captains to drown their sorrows.) There were so many of these once proud soldiers giving up on life, that the tavern would have paid its debts to the temple 30 years in advanced.

How one could consume that much alcohol confused the boy, as elves had a high resilience to alcohol. Comparably speaking, Dwarves and Ogres have the highest alcohol resistance, while a human would have long since been drunk under the table by the time an elf would have began feeling woozy.

The boy counted the bottles each of the elves emptied: Four to six bottles of the lowest grade of wines average; two and a half if they drank the dwarvan sludge.

Even if he was in a comfortable position, the constant screams of fear would have kept him awake.

Morning, The boy and his two handlers waited next to the bar keep. Like the boy, they didn’t sleep well either. The lad would soon learn only those who were buried in the family crypts sleep soundly on Death Night. The barkeep brought the elves something strong. Her owner had bought the woman for the sole purpose of cleaning up after the drunken brawls, but her skill in making potent cocktails had forced his hand, and put her in charge of the bar. “You too, eh?” She asked in the Druchii Tongue. Both corsairs stared at each other, then at the woman. “Figured as much.”

“Where’s Borgotha, wench?” replied the one elf .

“I haven’t seen him since he left to see his mistress. Presently his wife got tired of his flirtatious nature and left with some ship captain. If you think he’ll make it back wait a few hours before he sobers up and returns. Otherwise talk to his son. He’s the master of the house now.”

The two corsairs feared for the worst. They knew full well he probably had a ceremonial dagger shoved into his chest by now. They also knew his son was not on speaking terms with him.

“The one you seek is dead, and you two are wasting Lord Malekith’s precious time!” Yelled Nigh Radier. “Your captain took the liberty of having the slaves pack your belongings, and carry them to our destination. Now move it!” It was never a good idea to piss off an already angry black guard as it was common knowledge they are never happy unless they are in the act of killing something. The three in question quickly downed their glasses and joined them.