Chaos Undivided [Flavor] [Closed Group Story][18+]

[Rhymor]

Prologue:
Bloody footfalls in the crunching snow, the hides and shielding clothing from the terrifying tundra all but ripped away by the gusting gales of wintery scythes cutting through the air. Vuldyrr, the Undaunted stood painted in the frozen blood of his tribesmen - those who would have had him turn away from the wheel of the Chaos Gods to eke out a furtive existence in the forgotten snows. Gaunt cheeks, stomach bloated in starvation, and muscle having deteriorated away into skeletal shrouding that struggled to hold up his form with each passing movement.

Before the cumbersome maw of some flayed glacier, Vuldyrr could pass as some overlooked stain of frozen gore on the horizon, taking with him the lives and justice he meted out against his brothers and sisters for their transgressions. Falling forward into the snow, corpse-deep, Vuldyrr had not the strength nor the ability to make a sound. Yet as his body began to feel the gripping tide of permafrost burning at his appendages, there was a single voice to be heard in the far-flung vestiges of his mind saying, "Survive." Twitching beneath the snowfall that nearly blanketed his body, Vuldyrr heard not the voice of a man but the voice of something incorporeal. In his desperation, Vuldyrr forced himself to his feet with the cracking and groaning of bones taut and refusing to listen from the chilling embrace that was meant to be their grave. As he rose from the icy slush, he came face-to-face with a man of foreign skin tone and appearance whose figure was all but mystified in the pelt of some dubious, unearthly creature. All that was for certain was the grotesque, perverted smile breaking upon his alien features as Vuldyrr collapsed forward against the man's hunched body.

When next he awoke, Vuldyrr was in a place much unlike that which he thought his tomb: the sun burning its warmth across the uncovered camp he laid with a single solitary figure standing at the edge. The figure resembled the man that he had seen but no longer carried with him that touch of insanity at his edges, more easily seeming that of a normal man with tattoos of Tzeentch criss-crossing his arms and culminating together over his heart. Beside his still-freezing body rested two women on either side of him: a dark elf and a human. Confused, the hulking behemoth of a man shoved both warm bodies away from him and stood upright, looking around in confusion as the much shorter man hobbled near.

"Do not be afraid," he spoke, his voice giving him every indication that he should have been afraid. "You did not like your bedwarmers? I'm to believe they are two of the finest women in the world." This brought Vuldyrr to stare back at the disturbed dark elf, bearing the symbol of Slaanesh upon her stomach and the human with a similar, less artistic symbol upon her sternum. The barbarian remained silent, not arguing with the man that forced every instinct within his body to call out in regard of defense.

"You've confused him," the dark elf finally spoke. "You assured me that this one was unlike the ones before. This one would be the final choice. Someone worthy of Their love. Perhaps I was wrong to trust in your judgment, your lies. This one is more stupid than the others, Hazm. The others still had the means to perform the dance and make me believe, if only for a moment." The dark elf's tone spoke with fury unabashed as she stood without shame, a hand on her hip.

"The elf is right," the human woman finally added. "You've brought me this far to the north, wasted my time, and convinced me to abandon my luxury. Before you stained my eyes, I had nearly stood in the court of Artois as the subject of their affection. You've left me without entertainment for too long, Hazm. This brute is not a suitable replacement to the last." Perhaps more vocally frustrated than the elf, the human nearly whined her words as she stared at the hunched figure.

"Then you both see with ignorant eyes. This is the one," Hazm responded with little detail to be added. "Give it time."

As they spoke about him as if he were not even present, his mind still reeling to make sense of what surrounded him, Vuldyrr remained silent.

-
Thank you for taking the time to read this. This forum thread will follow the growth of Vuldyrr into what Hazm, an instigator of change, has planned for the northman. Beside Hazm are the two beautiful, aggressive, sadistic Slaaneshian worshipers that spell the primary problems for the Raven God's apostle. Soon to join their merry band is the titanic mutant, flayed of all humanity, with the simple charge to protect his "angelic" creator. I hope you enjoy what you've read thus far.

[Rhymor]

Chapter 1: Abasement of Pride, Submission to Rage Incarnate
Just as quickly as he had awoken in the small encampment with no tents, Vuldyrr found himself awash in the sea of dreams, where the veil between worlds was thinnest. Never one for dreaming and the vivid imaginations that took root behind closed eyes, his mind ran rampant with the information bequeathed to him by Hazm, the man whom turned out to be a faithful of Tzeentch. For a handful of years, the hobbled man and the harlots beside him wandered the countryside near and far following some legend, more like a children’s fantasy. Countless warriors, countless magicians, and countless laymen had been interrogated and offered the ability to rise above the average man: all ended in failure.

As he would come to understand it, the Raven Host - while glorious and powerful within its ability - already suffered from the rot of stagnation. The forces of Order held a steadfast bastion against the swath of evil unleashed upon the world. The harlots beside the Tzeentch faithful chastised and quipped in response to this truth, blaming the Great Conspirator for his folly in absconding with mortals rather than serving a unified banner for unquestionable glory. This all bore the question, to the barbarian, where he fit within this scheme of theirs. According to their belief and the scrying of their combined magic, Vuldyrr was unique. Such a uniqueness - while not once in a generation - attributed to their interest, his very existence a mockery against the hands of fate. Unlike his brothers and sisters, Vuldyrr existed outside inevitability making his soul far more delectable and promising than any simpleton screaming Their graces.

Floating through the ocean of reverie, he soon became cognizant of a single lit pillar in the distance: painted in skulls, soaked in blood, bearing the flames of war, and sporting the honor of heroes upon its crest. He fell to his knees, instantly recognizing the manifestation of the Blood God’s presence with revery. Bowing his head, Vuldyrr murmured a quiet prayer to that of Khorne, stating that he had done what needed to be done to those of his brothers and sisters in honor of warfare. His voice was broken, hollow, and lacked the same tones it previously held - perhaps damage sustained from the unquestionable cold of the north that nearly claimed his life. This did not prevent him from continuing the words. One by one, the skulls that lined the sanguine edifice burned with life, their eyes mystifying the man with their heinous intensity. Sound fell within the sightless expanse, not even the kindling fires crackling and burning as Vuldyrr fell under observation.

What was truly only moments carried on into eternity, as if testing the resolve of the man before the idol. His sanity leaked through his ears as he heard the never-ending thump of his heartbeat. While all instinct screamed for the hardened warrior to flee, he dared not move and dared not blink. Awash with the uncanny insight that moving would be death, against the screaming of his instincts, Vuldyrr finally bowed his head and submitted to the Bloody Wolf. As he surrendered completely, he bore sight to the undying flames of the Brass Throne where He sat, the sliver of his attention wasted upon the northman. He could not make out any movement in the god, prostrating himself before the mighty inferno. A single note, like the start of a laugh, rang through his ears until his eardrums bled, forcing the warrior from his sleep in agony.

Shooting up from the ground, shoving the beautiful women from atop his person and startling them from their slumber, Vuldyrr dove forward seeking shelter in the chilling embrace of the water beside their camp. His rugged and scarred appearance burned with hellfire as he felt a knife-like touch etching symbols along his arms. Beneath the water, he squirmed like a drowning man screaming bubbles into the water that flooded his throat. Tears of blood broke through his eye sockets as his body swelled and ached, growing exponentially in size. The six foot tall barbarian nearly doubled in height beneath the blessing bequeathed to him. His muscles screamed in terror as they ripped again and again, the sensation of a thousand gruesome flayings in a matter of seconds. Convulsing and seizing beneath the water, his bloody eyes spied only the figure of Hazm through the water. Once again his eyes caught sight of that pleasured, perverted grin as he beheld the salvation he sought.

The pain was too much, unconsciousness claiming him as his body buoyed to the surface. Pulled from the water by Rhimza, the human worshipper of Slaanesh, she looked upon his form with bliss upon her features. None of the others they had claimed survived the first night under Hazm’s guidance and forced dreams. She kicked at his face several times, breaking his nose, causing his cheek to swell, and bruising his eye in an attempt to wake him. Instinctively, Vuldyrr rose with a powerful bound and shoved his fist into the woman’s stomach. Even without truly knowing the power now at his fingertips, he shot the woman through the encampment and into the boulder on its outskirts, putting her back to sleep. Crumbling to his knees, the barbarian looked at his hands in confusion, almost flinching as he felt a cold, gruesome hand upon his shoulder. The same instincts that rang out in his dream screamed again for him to run, but he had learned better: that sensation was the attempt of his humanity to save itself. Looking up, his bruised and swollen features looked to Hazm akin to a newborn seeing the gaze of its parent.

“There is still much to do,” the gaunt figure spoke through crooked grin. One thing was for certain, Hazm was not yet disappointed.

[Rhymor]

Chapter 2: Convergence: The Fulfillment of Weaving Fates and the Birth of a Slave
There, on the edges of the wastes, Vuldyrr seemed adrift in his restless recuperation, floating through a sea of dreams for what felt like an eternity. Hazm weaved spellcraft around the man as his body changed with mutations: flesh becoming hardened like a carapace, muscle becoming tough like steel, and soon he exemplified the height of hubris. In the furthest reaches of his mind, he could tell there were others around him, no doubt the two Slaaneshi harlots that accompanied the servant of the God of Change. He felt warm, fulfilled, and comfortable beneath their embrace as they dutifully laid beside him while occasionally dragging their talon-like fingers across his skin, carving into the flesh to simply watch it mend itself. The scent of the air around him smelled of sea water and the blissful smell of nature, untainted by the metallic aroma of blood. As if by some sixth sense, however, he felt the presence of something looming just over the ridge of their camp, a hunter awaiting the perfect opportunity to seek its prey.

Krazol, a famed and undefeated barbarian of the wastes, looked upon the small encampment beneath him. He looked upon the twitching hulk that laid expressionless, drenched in sweat, and wearing the two women like blankets. At the far end of the camp, he spied the frail figure of Hazm, but his instincts cried out in terror upon laying his gaze thereupon his countenance. The hairs on the back of his bulky neck stood on end as he readied his axes. Their edges were stained with the brownish color of blood long-since dried. Without a war cry bleeding from his lips, Krazol lept from the ridge, bringing both of his axes biting down into Vuldyrr’s chest, collapsing many of his ribs in that single moment. Without hesitation, he left the weapons embedded in the barbarous display of brutality, grabbing for his knife and slamming it through the Druchii woman’s throat, leaving her to twitch and writhe on the ground as blood pooled from her choking esophagus. The other woman, Rhimza, found herself stunned by the sudden display of horror and with hesitation she felt the bite of a shortblade piercing into her stomach, jamming the weapon straight through her. Against his instincts, Krazol had treated Hazm as if he were the least threatening of the small group.

Clapping his hands, the Arabian man looked upon the hunter with glee in his features, making no secret of his impressed opinion. “You’ve taught them a valuable lesson, but you’ve not finished the job, good hunter.” Distracted by the words of the Mad Arab, Vuldyrr loomed behind the marauding hunter - now weaponless. Yanking the axes from his bulging chest, Vuldyrr brought them down with a terrible vengeance, pulping the man beneath their vicious fangs. The sheer sensation of the weapons finding their mark caved in the man’s chest with the second one breaking through the thick bones of his forehead, tenderizing his brain enough to see viscous liquid leaking through his nostrils while his eyes remained wide and his body twitched in shock and confusion. Vomit and blood coated the hunter as Vuldyrr brutalized the man until Hazm forced the Khorn-mutated behemoth to cease his assault.

“He is useful. Go, pull the blades from the two trulls and let them recover. Watching his instinct, his raw talent has given me an idea, apostle.” Turning away from Vuldyrr, Hazm looked upon the perforated body of Krazol in a thoughtful trance as magic began to seep into his fingertips. The magic swelled within his grip, like an ichorous miasma. Resembling the threads of creation within his gnarled hands, Hazm bathed the body of the hunter within his magic, soon watching the wounds and leaking liquids returning to their rightful places. Piercing the sky with a grisly scream, Krazol sprung back to consciousness with his hands shooting to hold his head as he writhed and moaned in terrifying agony. The magic did not undo the pain that the hunter felt, forcing him to feel the sting within his brain as he changed the vandal into something more worthwhile, helping him realize his true destiny in service to the Raven God. Sprawling along his chest and back were the symbols of Tzeentch etching themselves within his skin, his hide losing its rosy color of life in lieu of a ghostly pallor that reflected his service: a phantom of the man he was, transcending into the guardian of the cultist. Looking upon the axe he had once held as a weapon, he continued to weave magic as the man’s eyes bulged and turned scarlet with popped blood vessels; the man appeared to be strong, stronger than most as he withstood the unparalleled might of his changing magic. At the apex of his spellweaving, Hazm altered the shape of Krazol’s arm, turning it into an axe of its own with eyes and a fleshy outer shell capable of withstanding the attack of most weaponry and the capability to morph into other disturbing tools such as a stalwart shield able to withstand cannon fire.

Vuldyrr, for his part, did as he was bade in the same silence he commanded. Yanking the knife from Liren, the Dark Elf, he watched with relative surprise as the woman began to writhe, once again able to breathe. The movements she made were not of pain but of penultimate pleasure, startling the hulking leviathan. As he looked over his shoulder, Rhimza was already working the blade from her stomach, whining in euphoria as the sensations ran through her body like lightning. Once free of the weapons that once impaled them, the women laid on the ground, coated in a healthy layer of sweat and afterglow as the excitement died within them.

“Do not look so surprised, darling. Such things are trivial to His servants. The Perfect Prince makes sure his wenches are not so easily broken. Pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin. If you can’t enjoy both, then you’re living in the shadow of ecstasy,” spoke Liren, the Druchii woman. Her eyes were awash with elation, nearly crazed in their state as they observed the tantalizing figure of Vuldyrr before her but she fell into the same silence that he presided. Much more a slave to her wanton exhilaration than her dark elf companion, Rhimza remained completely silent on the ground as her eyes fluttered and her hands roamed through her hair as the world around her seemed to cease in existence while she communed with the Lord of Excess through her satisfaction.

Hazm stood, turning away from his creation that seemed to drink in everything that had happened so quickly but otherwise stood guard, akin to a mighty dullahan. His greyish skin appeared dichotomous before the charming pallor of the snow at his feet. “It seems you’ve not lost yourself to His gift,” Hazm spoke to Vuldyrr, admiring the changes that surged through his body. “It looks like we’re ready to go south, to Norsca. The Raven Host flounders upon the lands under the direction of your enemy - Tchar’zanek. You need to learn the extent of your body before we can continue. Do not disappoint me, Vuldyrr. You are everything I have spent decades in search for. You will not fail me.”

In that moment, Vuldyrr understood one thing: Hazm did not speak out of hopeful belief. He spoke out of an absolute fact that caused the mighty barbarian’s blood to run cold and icy with the quietest caress of fear.

[Elftwin95]

Wonderfully writen, it has a very professonal air about it.

[Rhymor]

Chapter 4: The Curtain Draws Back, Chaos Spreads within the Hearts of Chaos

Overwhelmed with ruinous power flowing through his veins, Vuldyrr stood on the outskirts of Ravenraid seemingly unmoving in his stature. Beside him, impaled in the ground was the banner of Chaos Undivided, their symbol painted in blood and held within the body of a Raven War Breaker that had stood guard. Vuldyrr issued his challenge hours ago in a deep, rumbling yell that caused his voice to bleed from the strain. He issued a changed to a champion of Tchar’zanek, one that had made Ravenraid his primary haunt.

In the distance, Vuldyrr spied Liren, her gaze remaining upon him while she lounged upon pillows and the carcasses of flayed magi. Her lips moved, mouthing words that fell upon deaf ears as he couldn’t quite make them out. She continued to repeat herself until he understood, the obscenities that she longed for him to hear nearly caused color to bleed into his cheeks. Beside Hazm in a tent made of hide was Rhimza, weaving her spellcraft with care as she created a defensive arena around the Raven God’s apostle. Colorless and statuesque, Krazol kept his gaze trained forward as to spy anything that might come his way. He had taken to the role of protector with ease, not that the man of Araby had given him any choice. With the sun rising over the horizon, spilling its light upon the unholy ground of the Raven Host, Vuldyrr spied the approaching monolith.

Covered from head to toe in profaned armor with a stripped woman chained to his left gauntlet, Strelan the Talon of Tchar’zanek stomped forward. The eye sockets of his helmet were hollow, devoid of the weakness mortal men betrayed in their battles. Even at the considerable height that Vuldyrr had achieved through his blessing from the mighty Khorne, he barely stood taller than the Chosen warrior. All that needed to be said was already said before one another as the distance was closed. Servants and soldiers of the Raven Host looked on, their exhausted features overrun with the glimpse of interest that remained within their souls. For many, this was the only entertaining thing that had happened in the years standing against the forces of Order under the banner of Tchar’zanek. The slog of a war had been slow coming, stagnant under the leadership of the Raven Host and his fruitless search for the treasures of Chaos.

For this fight, Vuldyrr had forsaken much in the way of armor and even abandoned his sword - instead he held Krazol’s dagger in hand. The blade was jagged, chunks of metal having been eaten away by blood’s devouring embrace. Before such a foe, his action was the literal definition of suicide but the so-called bannerman of Chaos remained undaunted. As Strelan circled around Vuldyrr, readying his axe in hand he taunted the figure with a wave of his weapon. Several feints struck out, attempting to test the challenger’s mettle. Then, with a scheming grace that sparked through his soulless eyes he shot forward, arcing his axe toward Vuldyrr’s stomach. The blade found its mark, causing his innards to groan and nearly spill from his flesh in that moment. However, the carapace-like skin offered unto him by the Blood God clung tightly to the metal embedded within him. Taking advantage of the vulnerability of his helmet’s visor, Vuldyrr shoved his dagger through the slit and pierced into his skull: the gambit had paid off. Hazm’s schemes far-outweighed that of a simpleton follower, claiming to walk in the footsteps of a failed Everchosen.

With the knife embedded within the man’s skull, Vuldyrr tore it out and repeated the process again and again as Strelan seized and vomited within his own helmet. The Chaos Warrior’s eye rolled from its socket, half-cut as it squished to the ground, as if an ungodly affront against the earth itself. Ripping the axe from his stomach, Vuldyrr continued to brutalize Strelan in front of the audience while his innards oozed and jostled within the hole left behind. With blood gurgling to his lips, the savage leaned back with a heavy foot upon the fallen warrior’s body and his hand holding to the banner for leverage. Looking down at the pile of gore that was once a proud warrior, he finally spared a glance to the woman the man wore upon his arm like a trophy. Stomping his rough, calloused foot upon the man’s gauntlet caused the disgusting sound of bone snapping to sound, continuing until the chain was free of its shackle and the woman was able to scramble away. As he watched her crawl and flee, he could not help but appreciate the figure, understanding at an animalistic level why the proud fighter kept her on display as he did.

Stealing the spotlight from the warrior, Hazm’s lips twisted into glee as he drank in the horrified expressions of those gathered. If one of Tchar’zanek’s faithful had fallen so easily to such a simple ploy - what did that mean for the Raven Host as a whole? Was this truly the will of Tzeentch? With a voice that fluttered upon the air like the cry of a raven, Hazm’s words assailed the audience, “Do you not see? This is proof of His will. The Lord of Change does not bless these fools, too stupid to see through such simple schemes. Tchar’zanek, the Raven Host - it is all a ruse in attempt to steal power from our lords, our gods. This is why we have been stuck in a ruthless stalemate with our enemies for so long. This is why we cannot deliver this world to our gods in the way they seek. There is no Raven Host. There is only Chaos Undivided. Burn the banners! Burn the effigies and statues of Tchar’zanek and truly feel the will of Tzeentch.” As if to add to his rapport, Hazm unleashed heinous magics from his fingertips and summoned the sigil of his god in the sky above them. The symbol soon shrank and joined the symbols of the other Chaos Gods.

The silence of the audience soon erupted into frothing praise and screams of agreement. These sounds were greeted by the raucous of disagreement that soon lead to bloodshed. Ravenraid turned to a powder keg of horror, with allies turning on one another in a brawl that claimed the life of many. Successful in their scheme, Hazm made his way to Vuldyrr’s motionless figure, guiding him from the battlefield as he attended his charge. “We are not yet done. There is a ritual you must soon undertake, if they are ever to follow you. You must bear Their mark, not just His mark. Prove that you are more.” Unresponsive, Vuldyrr followed weakly after his shepherd, the only reason his life was beginning to amount to anything more than a bloodthirsty savage starving in the chilling wastes of the north.