Raavana II

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Raavana lost count of the Empire humans she slew. They came in swarms like angry bees, each as inexperienced as the last. She made red work of them all, bodies easily piling up knee-high.

Today she favored sword and tower shield. Each attack was met with the shield’s wall, a head rattling crash. Next, the shield slid aside to emit the serpent’s tongue of her dark elf long sword, and then came the wrenching twist: Her point turning in the pit of her foe’s innards.

Each fell at her feet, agony and death taking each by hand away from this world.

She was positively alive with hatred, could feel that frozen ecstasy coating her bones with strength beyond mortal ken. This was what it meant to be druchii. To smell the blood in the, to see the carnage working its horrors upon the minds of the enemy. This was druchii spirit defined.

And who do these humans think they are? Did they really believe the Ostland forests would hide their numbers from druchii eyes? Did they really believe mere numbers could hold ground for their flawed government? The Empire. It seemed as though humans were as shortsighted as their short, ugly lives. Tzeentch reveals all! 

If she owned a keep, she knew her rage would find its joy in the curing of the skulls of her enemy. Even as she sliced, even as she diced, such a dream warmed her cold heart. There would be blanched walls of skulls, one atop the other, perpetually staring back at her visitors, narrating tongueless confessions, begging each new set of living eyes for a shred of pity.

But Tzeentch would reward her…eventually. 

All she need do is continue Chaos’ red work.

“Dark elf! Druchii whore!” a human voice called her out.  The owner of the voice, capped in a brimmed hat, ran from the forest, his pistol cocked and primed.

“You want a taste of the medicine too?” she laughed, pulling her sword from the guts of the man’s kindred.

The brazen pistolero leveled his weapon, and with a silent prayer to Sigmar, pulled the trigger on the bitch.

Raavana saw the powder flash, heard the shot, felt the crude ball shot whizz angrily by her left ear. A miss. Tzeentch blesses those who serve!

“Sigmar coward!” she cursed, transforming her rage into a whirl of the body, a drawing of her dagger, and finally, a hate-filled throw of that small, wicked blade.

The pistolero felt the blade coming rather than actually glimpsing it. One did not whirl so precisely unless one was throwing a weapon, yet even as that thought graced his brain pan, the pommel of the druchii dagger fractured his right cheek just shy of his eye.  Mind numbing pain sucked his courage away.

Three swordsmen flanked Raavana in answer to her hostility. Her violence would not go unanswered. Chaos would not be allowed to carry away the banner of the day. But like the first dozen of their kindred, Raavana made short work of them. Each met the same gut twisting fate as their brothers-in-arms.

“It does not end here, druchii!” the pistolero shouted as he mounted his steed. “We have your face memorized. We know where you hunt, and we will not rest until we skin you alive. You will beg for a quick death, but it shall not come.”

“I would be disappointed if such a promise be nothing but stale air,” she laughed, wiping human blood from her blade upon the cape of one of her victims. She let the rage shudder through her, but did not act upon it. The exertion of murder was even now crashing down upon her body as the rage dwindled away. It would be foolish to attach the human while he was mounted. Others of his kind would surely come upon them, and before she knew it, she would be overwhelmed. Tzeentch yet weaves my fate, and in Tzeentch’s plan do I thus believe. 

The pistolero kicked his mount, one hand on his fractured cheek. Raavana knew each clatter of his mount would further the pain mile by bone jarring mile that he galloped. He would remember her for many nights to come, moaning by his campfire, praying to Sigmar to give him the power to heal his cheek bone from druchii treachery.  Such was the whim of Tzeentch, and Raavana would not question it. She had pockets to turn out, and blades to bind up for sale.

And if she made quick work of the dead, she would pitch a cold camp by midnight, and catch a few hours of wary sleep before she rose the next day to carry on her murder spree all over again.

 

 

 

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