The church of the Broken Sword - Chaos Cult fluff New Chapter added 14.5

Grigori turned the blade over in his hand. The weighting was all off. It would be difficult to swing in combat, but that wasn't really the point. The blade was not forged to fell opponents, it was a symbol. At a glance one could have been fogiven for mistaking it as a regular longsword, but the blade had a deep gouge, cut out of it from tip to hilt. It looked almost as it two blades were joined, side by side conjoined at the hilt. A Sword, split in two. It was the symbol of his faith, The Church of the Broken Sword. Each member of the cult carried some trinket or sigil, each a sword, broken in some myriad way. The beauty of the symbol was it was instantly recognisable by another member of the church, but would seem as nothing but a damaged keepsake. The broken sword was symbolic of the Runefangs of the Empire, themselves icons of command and government. The Church sought to break the ule of the runefangs and their Electors, bringing about political change to favour the downtrodden working classes. At least this was the goals which were immediatley advertised to initiates. It was not difficult to find citizens, from students to farmworkers who were interested in the world of political change. It was even easier, once set upon that path, to poach the best of these initiates into the inner circle, and reveal to them the true nature of the cult. One of not only political, but utter change. One of devotion to Tzeentch.

Grigori's wrist rotated through 180 degrees, spinning the sword defensively as his father had taught him. He had been a horseman i nthe kislev winged lancers before injury had forced him to retire. He had taken his meagre pension and moved the family south to the Lands of Sigmar, where Grigori himself was raised. He had hated being brought up here, taunted by the other children becasue of the slight twang of his accent, the minuet diference in his appearence. As a youth he had come to resent these small, but significant, differneces between himself and those around him. After his father died, finally succoming to the frailty of his injured form, his mother had been forced into work, whoring for the local tavern come brothel. He had loathed the borthl almsot as much as he did himself, and this aching desire to change his surroundings had lead Grigori to the forbidden lores. As a social pariah, he had little difficulty finding time to study, and it was only a matter of time before he felt the soothing tendrils of the great changer, chattering at the abck of his mind. Grigori stood now within the very same building his mother had disgraced herself within. He continued to toy idoly with his symbolic weapon, the firelight dancing off the polished blade. As he glanced around the room, he saw as phantoms, the pools of blood he had spilt as he laid waste to this dreadful place. The innkeeper, ruthless pimp, had been the first to fall before him, his eyeballs bubbling out of his sockets and turning to mice as they hit the floor.

'Father Grigori'

He was knocked back to the present by the voice of his disciple. Johann stood in the doorway, his heavy cream robes cast orange in the firelight. Grigori could tell from the way the initiate stoof that he had been riding for a long time.

'I am sorry to interupt your meditation your holiness, but I was instructed to deliver this toyour immediatley upon my return.'

Johann handed over a sealed scroll casing, cut from blue veined marble. Grigori nodded his thanks and shooed the messenger from the room. Satisfied he was again alone, the chaos magister uncorked the casing and slipped out the parchment stored within. It's message was clear. All had gone according to plan at Fort Traultz. Kroesus and his branch of the church had opened the gates and allowed the Master to swarm in. The devastation was total. Already the favoured minions of his Master, had begu nrebuilding Fort Traultz, crafting it in the image of Lord Tzeentch. Already a city of the Empire had fallen befor the great changer.

Grigori spoke a sentence in a language long forgotten by the civilized men of the empire and the words o nthe parchment changed, the ink pooling and flowing unitl it read as somthing completely differant. The Magister touched a finger to the broken sowrd pendant which hung from his hip and it began to glow dully. He had summoned his most trusted messenger. Johann was pure of purpose and was to be trusted as far as any true servant of the Great schemer, but he had been inducted into the inner circel just this last season. The reply to the message was of such monumental importance to the great plan, that Grigori could not risk it's delivery.

He returned to the altar and placed his sundered blade on it's display hooks, hanging from the former brothel's high ceilings. Within moment was again disturbed. This time now vocalisation was required. He merely sensed his messenger had arrived, the mutifaceted azure of his magical essence flooding the room was intoxicating to Grigori's mage sight. In the doorway stood the mighty frame of one of his knights. He wore the same unremarkable cream robes as Johann had done, but they were left open, hanging over a suit of full plate armour which had once resmbled that worn by the Emporer's Reiksguard, now a mask of leering faces and sundered weapons, polished to a reflective sheen. Even his helm was little more than a featureless mirror. Grigori handed over the scroll casing.

'This is for Skryonn's touch only'

'By your command Father'

That is some awesome fluff. I thoroughly look forward to more!

I agree, when will you update?

Very nice

WE WANT FLUFF...WE WANT FLUFF...WE WANT FLUFF!!!
sorry, i just want some kind of update

It's a pretty good piece of fluff. The Church of the Broken Sword would make a good Possessed warband.

Thanks guys I've been working on the fluff to be updated with each new unit being completed and painted (so there's a bit of backstory behind each unit) but I may write them a bit in advance allowing me to tailor the models to fit the fluff. If that's the case, expect the story of Johann and his elevation to the inner circle in the next few day

Thanks
Corai

Chapter 2 then, this is focusing on Johann, as one of the marauder horsemen. I've got some more thoughtsabuot Johann and his origins, and I'm going to explore these in another installment giving more details about the unit and his role within it, as well as Grigori's apprasial of the young cultist.



Johann Berstraufrung picked his way across the courtyard, the cobblestones slick beneath his riding boots. The thick wool of his robes was drawing up the rainwater which coated the ground. Already a ring of dark brown had stained the bottom of robes which had once been cream white. It had not rained in the town for more than a week, but the courtyard of his church seemed perpetually dank, rainwater never seeming to dry. Had this been the strangest thing the youth had seen since bing inducted into the inner echelons of The Church of the Broken Sword, he might have given it a second thought. But this evening hew as intent on the task at hand.

As he reached the cover of the stables which had once housed travellers mounts, he again drew the scroll casing from within his heavy robes. It had not changed since he had been handed it, the black of the marble covering still as deep as the ocean, lit only by the veins of blue which disected it's inky exterior. Johann sighed and replaced it within the hidden pocket of his robe, whispering the dread words of a minor incantation. The pocket sewed itself up, sealing the communicae away from prying eyes as the messenger crossed the stables. He mentally an over the path to Altdorf again. He would make for the capital in less than an hour, after the sun had dipped belwo the horizon and Mannslieb and m,orrslieb took to the sky. It still smarted that Johnann had not been asked to make the return journey to Fort Traultz. He doubted he would ever forget the sight of the town, ravaged by the warping powers of his new god. The buildings were all sundered. Those which had not been razed to the grounds, towered high above the clouds, changing and growing like cancerous limbs. All over the ground, the cobblestones were split as sappire crystals, the length of a man's arm had punched through the earth. And at the head of this symphony of chage had been The Master, hooded and robes, standing taller than any man, at least as tall as one of the ogrish beasts that did his bidding. But Father Grigori knew best. Johann resigned himself to the fact that his magister had other plans for Johann, and it was not his place to comprehend his role i nthe grandest of schemes, just to be part of it, so that the chance may come to plan his own schemes.

The stable door made an audible protest as Johann eased it open, the horse within backing away, it's head darting from side to side at the sight, and scent of the messenger. The horse was wholly unremarkable, a sway backed piebold with no place in military service. Johann didn't even know it's name, nor did he need to. He moved to the horses side, and as he had been shown by father Grigori, whispered wordfs of power into the horses ear. It calmed down and stopped whinnying, He reached into the pouch, belted at his waste and withdrew a long length of white hessian. With the horse in it's calmed state, Johann wrapped the blind fold around its head, securing it to the large brass ring which was pierced through the beasts neck, hidden beneath it's lank main. With practiced ease he saddled the blinded horse and mounted it, easing it out of the stables. As the messenger crossed the threshold of the inn-come-church and left the confines of it's magical aura, his own power wained accordingly. The beast snapped back to full conscioussness, and if it was skittish before, now, blinded and unsure of its surroundings it was on the verge of bolting. Johan pulled hard on the reins, keeping it in check. He only had to maintain the veneer of control until he leftthe boundaires of the township and was out on the open countryside. In the distance the sun fell below the horizon and the piebold and it's robed rider were cast into stark, ruddy relief.

Within the hour, Johann had slipped loose the watchful gaze of the township and was out on the road, moving West into the Empire proper. Ever since joining the church, since eschewing the teachings of Sigmar and beginning a life of secrecy, he had been unable to shake of the feeling that he was being watched. Even when alone in the confines of his billet, or out here in the presence of no-one but the bale-light of Morrslieb's rising, he felt always as though someone were looking over his shoulder. In his darker moments, Johann had fancied this was his new lord, keeping a watchful gaze on one he'd already marked for greatness. He dearly hoped so. the young cultist yearned for a time when he could exist out i nthe open again, afriad of no-ones judgement, when it was his empire which warped and shifted beneath his boot. The moons had now fully cleared the horizon, their dim light serving to just light the way for him. He had made slow going o nthe skittish sway back, but his time riding that animal had come to an end. He ran his ungloved hand along the flanks of the animal, tracing out the sigils and wards he knew had been tatooed their, insicribed in matching pigment to the beast's hide and invisible to the prying eye. Concentrating hard on these, tracing their shape with this fingers and mind in perfect harmony he began to utter the words of the ritual. These were words never meant for the human tongue to utter. Vowel sounds which casued spasms of pain in his tongue and throat as he tried to enunciate them. It had taken months of pain just to be able to understand the concept of the dark tongue but now he could call uponcertain sentence structures more easily. the words flowed from him like aural poison, followed by a thick spurt of blood from his nose, but the job was done, the spell cast. The Runes and sigils stained into the piebolds skin lit up with sapphire fury. The countryside was alight with the azure glow as the horse let out one final whinny before falling silent. within seconds all traces of the meek, swaybacked beast of burden had vanished and Johann was sat atop a wide shouldered warhorse. It's skin was the azure blue of his Master's dameon servants, with a mane of flowing albino locks. It is often said that a rider and his mount develop a special relationsip, and this was no truer than with Johann and his steed Plyton. He had no empathy for the piebold, but then, that had not been his horse. Plyton was his steed, no matter which horse he began and ended his journey on, it was the ether beast which would carry him most of the way.

Satisfied that his riding companion had been fully summoned into this world, Johann let go of the reins and sat back in the saddle allowing Plyton to set off at a gallop. The speed of the beast was phenomenal. The journey to Altdorf would cross the breadth of Karl Franz's empire, a journey of hundreds of leagues and weeks of Travel. Plyton would have Johann in the Capital before daybreak. He relaxed, his human reactions insufficient to cope with the speed they now travelled at. He trusted to his companion to carry him and his message safely to it's destination, leaving no trace but the scorched crescent moon of horse shoes in the grass.

Amazing!

Vincenti

Great read.
The bit about Plyton the ether horse is just magic.

Brilliant Corai. Ur fluff just keeps on getting better and better.

I wanted to write something fancy, but ill just say...

GO FLUFF! GO FLUFF! GO FLUFF!!!

Very well written stuff Corai, this fluff is great.  I agree with Blu, the horse's transformation was put together very well.  Good stuff!

Great piece of writing..... very, very well written. The use of well developed and extensive vocabulary, creates a very evocative, and remarkable piece !!!!!

Kind regards,
Josh

Then.

The child clutched the bundle to his chest, desperate to keep it out of sight. He scurried through the rain slick streets, his heart pounding in his ears. This was a long time coming. He rounded the corner into the alley and found his quarry. In the shadows of the Spring night, Malcave stood erect, flanked by three of his stooges. The rich boy was dressed, as ever in the finest of foppery. His coloured lace and stained feathers showing every crown of his family's wealth. No handed down tunics,and dirtied troos for the Son of Lord Malcave II.

'I'm surpised you had the courage to show your face, Grigori' He affected an offensive spin on the Kislev accent whenever speaking the immigrant youths name. He knew it drove him crazy.

Almost at once, Grigori had to hold himself back from wrenching his bundle free. It was all he could do to stay his hand. 'This ends now Malcave. You take back what you said about my mother'.

The young aristo grinned and glanced slyly to his cronies. Like a well trained herd of cattle they began to grin with him. Without warning, he split his feral grin and spat on Grigori. This was followed by a savage punch to the face, belaying any trace of the graceful masters who had trained him. Grigori was spun off his feet and landed hard on the cobbles. The crowd was braying now, cheering Malcave's name, just hushed enough so as not to attract the Watch.

The bulley moved in again and drew back his leather booted foot. He would have delivered a punishing kick right to the Kislevite's windpipe, had Grigori not rolled out of the way, matting grime into his hair and clothes. Before Malcave could recover, Grigori pulled himself to his feet and wrenched the bundled wrapping from his chest. The hessian tapers fell heavily to the floor, revealing their precious cargo.

One of Malcave's supporters let out a gasp as the polished steel caught the moonlight. The Kislevite war knife was engraved with ancient northern runes and a long plume of horsehair hung from it's pomell, playing idly in the evening breeze. Grigori's father had bequeathed him the knife on his deathbed, it was the young immigrants most treasured possession, and now he would use it to gut the vile welp before him.

Grigori was panting hard as Malcave backed off, never loosing the poise and calm drilled into him since birth. One of his henchmen reached into his tailored coat, a gift no doubt from his aritocratic idol, and produced a small, wooden box. Malcave opened it grinning once again as he reached inside. The box lid was facing Grigori, he was desperate to move round, to see what it concealed, but dare not take his eyes off his quarry.

'Just like you, peasant. Foreigner. Just like you to bring a knife to a gunfight' With an unexpected speed, Malcave drew his fathers duelling pistol, already primed and loaded. The alley lit up with light as the hammer fell, firing the bullet. Grigori's scream was muffled by the explosive blast, his ears heard only after the missile had ripped a hole in his shoulder, knocking him clear off his feet and across the alley. He fell hard, the knife spinning from his grip.

It would be a lonely convalescence for the youth, spending his summer, bedridden in the whorehouse where his mother worked. It would be even longer before he regained the full use of his arm.

*   *   *   *   *   *

Now.

The scar on his shoulder itched. It always did at this time of year. Poor care as a youth had left him dreading the winter because with it would come numbing pain and the loss of full control of his shoulder. On most nights, Grigori would have cursed aloud at the pain and uttered some forbidden enchantment, magicking the pain away. Not tonight. Tonight it would serve as an important reminder.

He road his steed hard, its daemonic hooves cutting great scars out of the earth. The Dawn was coming and he was determined to reach his destination before then.

It had been a long time since he had left the sanctuary of his home, and yet longer still since he had ventured further abroad than his own town. But this was a rare opportunity. one of his messengers had brought him word that Lord Skryonn had been called away to the East. Grigori had been named as his proxy. This gave him acess to considerably more rescources than his church could usually provide.

Dawn came not long after, the dull glow of the winter sun casting the landscape into stark relief. Grigori took his cue and reversed the enchantment, binding his daemon steed to this dimension. Almost at once his speed bled away as the azure daemon he had been mounted atop returned to the sway backed mare he had selected from his stables. Not the hardiest of mounts. Certainly not the most prestigous. Grigori would have dearly wished to keep Tzarroth, his daemon steed bound to this realm, it's very prescence would affect the coming trial. But he put those thoughts from his mind. Such a foolish show of strength ill beffitted a devotee of Tzeentch. Subtley was his way.

He came upon the high estate walls exactly as planned, and halted abruptly as three arrows scored the earth before him. Warning shots. This was to be expected. The Estate was well protected, a veritble army of guards and watchmen patrolled its battlements and streets. Grigori prepared his voice, channelling just a touch of aethyr through it to amplify his words.

'Bring forth the master of the house. Tell him Grigori is calling'

The guards tried to question the order but found themselves unable to do so. Girgori was already at work within their minds, twisting their thoughts. In truth, with such weak willed fools as these, the words had not even been nescessary.  His mind alone was strong enough. But even after all this time, it pleased him to speak them aloud. He had waited an eternity for this moment, and had rehearsed his speech in his head since childhood. He would not be denied it now simply because it was no longer nescessary.

Nine long minutes passed before the mighty oak gates began to open. It was announced by the protests of ancient hinges. Being drawn open by beasts of burden. The old kislevite was surprised. He had not expected the house master to come before him in person. He had prepared for a protracted conversation between horseback and battlement. This was indeed a treat. An imperial bugle rang out and what seemed to be an entire regiment of the house guard marched out, gaudy standards emblazoned with the family crest catching in the morning breeze. The dawning sun caught on their polished plate mail, worn over elaborate robes of silks and cloth. These men did not project the image of a battle hardened regiment, they were a show piece. Another display of power, just like the enormous walls and studded gate.  In the centre of their front rank stood an astute aristocrat. His clothes were perfectly tailored and he carried no weapon, save a small blade strapped to his belt, a faded horsehair plume drifting from the pommell.

His voice had not changed. After all these years it was still pitched too high and carried an unneeded note of contempt.

'Grigori' The twang was still there. A mockery of his childhood rivals speech. 'When my hearld announced your name, I dare not hope that it was my childhood friend come before me'

'Hello Malcave'

A guardsmen drew his sword and thurst it in Grigori's direction, the ornate basket hilt desribing an arc, sending reflected suns rays dancing in all directions.. 'You will address him as my lord Malcave. Such an omission shall not be permitted twice'

Grigori's heavy eyebrow raised, their greying bulk creasing his forehead. This man was educated. such was evident from his speech patterns. But he posed little threat. Just like the others, his clothes were too clean, his weapons well polished but poorly maintained. Even from this distance Grigori could see the blade was blunt. He doubted it had ever even spileld blod. More likely to be an ornamental spit for the market's choicest apples.

'So, old friend, I assume you have come for this' Malcave produced the kislevite blade, still as sharp as the day it had been stolen. 'Do you remember the day you lost it? What were we even fighting over? Such childish trivialities'

'I have come for much more. I am an old man and have little time for pleasantries. Malcave. Spolit fool. Your lifetime of decadence has finally caught up with you. You were always above the law. There was no responsibility to your actions. That time has ended. In our youth there was no authority figure who dared hold you accountable. I shall fill that role for you now. Know now that I have waited my entire life for this moment, and what I say, I do so in full control of my faculties, and perfect clarity of thought. You shall sign over your lands to me and my church immediatley, or I shall take them from you. They are in my way.'

'what?!' The disgust was evident. Malcave had not been spoken to like this for many years. probably not since he was a child and some upstart foreigner had been hospitalized for challenging him. 'Are you truly mad? Look around you. I have a veritable army at my disposal and you are one man. A lame one at that'

Grigori's hooded head crooked to the left. Malcave had noticed his left arm remained tucked into his robes. Good. He would most likely think it had never recovered from the injuries he'd dealt it. such was not the case. Grigori reached his good arm into his heavy woolen robes and  produced a blue orb. Azure lightning crackled from it, creating miniature nimbuses of energy as veins or sapphire light ran down his gnarled arm.

'In many years Malcave, you have learnt nothing. I have learnt much. Not least amongst which was a lesson you taught me. Do you remember it? I do. Never bring a knife to a gunfight'

He dropped the orb, shattering it by Malcaves feet. Instantly, the glamour behind Girgori dissapeared, and as if from nowhere, the regiment of Malcavian housegaurd were greeted by a legion of blue skinned monsters. The Change Eaters hefted their ogrish weapons over their head and a feral grin creased Grigori's face. Lord Malcave III last memory was of his perfectly tailored troos being stained by his own fluids.



Thanks
Corai