Byron's Totally not Cringey Dark Elf Fan Fiction (306 pts)

 Wild Card Month

For this month I decided to write up some super awesome, totally not lame, fan fiction for my Dark Elf Army. We can do whatever we want, so this is what I chose to do. This is the first lengthy fan-fiction I've ever written for an army so feel free to leave constructive editorial feedback below. Happy to learn. 

In recent weeks Faedra had taken to walking the moors near the garrison. She told the others that she was foraging herbs and lichens that grew among the copses and rocks. But Helkate distrusted her and would look out over the battlements as her red form would disappear between the far rocks. Where did she go?

And, each evening, just before sundown, Faedra would return with wild garlic, graveroot, and oxleaf. Just as she said. Helkate observed, as if bragging to herself, that she could have foraged those amounts in only a few minutes – at least the wild garlic and oxleaf. Those were common enough in these parts.

Then one day, Helkate decided, as if on a whim, to finish her studying early and meditate on the battlements. As she walked by her potions store she saw Faedra rummaging deep in a cabinet. Helkate did not pause, but instead wrote it in her memory and kept walking so as not to announce her knowledge to Faedra. When Faedra went on her usual walk, Helkate flew to her potion store to find out what Faedra took.

She went through her common ingredients:

Animal bladder: check

Giant Spider Blood: Check

Demi-human blood: check

Pickled brain of a lunatic: check

Jar of Gossamer: check

None of her usual things were missing. She dug up an old tattered manifest. Compared it to all the dusty small old boxes, phials, and discarded arcane accoutrements. Two items were missing: Philter of Earthen Humours x2 and an “Iron Amulet.”

What could it mean? She couldn’t recall either of these ingredients from the spell section of her copy of Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay. She ran to her study and tossed tomes on her desk: Warhammer Armies: Dark Elves 4th edition, Warhammer Arcane and Battle Magics 4th edition, Warhammer Dark Elves 6th edition, Warhammer Fantasy Battle 3rd ed. She scanned through them. Nothing. By the time she had finished the sun had begun to set.

 “What could Faedra be up to??” She puzzled to herself. “No. Surely not. No one uses that old lore anymore.” She pulled her copy of Forces of Fantasy: Arcane Magicks off the shelf and blew off the cover. She went first to page 22 to look up philters:

“ Philtres have a limited shelf life - usually 3 days. … Generate the remaining shelf life of any philtre you find as D6-1 days, philtres with no remaining power are useless, and emit no magical power as may be detected by a Wizard's magical sense.”

Helkate bemused herself “ Those philtres are long expired. I always knew Faedra didn’t have any sense!” When she was done relishing her older sister’s oversight she read on. Suddenly, on page 19, Helkate’s eyes widened with horror. She dashed for the door after Faedra.

______________________________________

It was mid-afternoon when Faedra told the sentry she was going for her usual walk as she left the blockhouse. She knew Helkate was watching her, as she always did, so she walked toward the rocky outcroppings on the hill nearby as she usually did. And, just like every time, as soon as she was out of sight, she made straight for her dark purpose.

She came to the scorched passage tomb. In legend, it was said that centuries ago a warden of the pass took refuge deep in the tomb to avoid a terrible dragon that scorched the entire pass with fire and thereby forsook his duty when he should have died fighting the dragon. Therefore, it was said that the governor, after coming out of his own safe dungeon and ordering other brave warriors to check the marauding dragon back to the far mountains, then came upon the warden of the pass and cursed him to lie in eternal restlessness in the same passage tomb that he has sought refuge from the dragon. According to the myth, the governor then had the warden sealed in by stonework and sorcery.

She stopped at the threshold. She laid her hand on the runes carved deep into the rock. This was the work of sorceresses that came before her. She could feel their energy in the rock. She reflected on that craft heritage and removed some of the moss from the rocks.

She had been to the passage tomb before; many times before. She had been trying to discover its secrets. She had been able to enter past the threshold previously. As if by habit she coated her fingers in sulphur powder from a pouch and snapped her fighters to cast Magic Light. The antechamber was dank and filled with a chilled draft that eddied dust illuminated by her spell against the rear of the room. The eddies raised the hair on her arms. Each time she came to the tomb she came to the wall at the back. It appeared as if it were a door hewn into the stone but it did not give as if it might swing or allow itself to be pushed aside.

Across the rear wall there were old dark runes. They were written in an older vernacular – the kind found in her old magic tomes. It said “The way is shut. We call upon those for whom it was made to hold it. The dead hold it, until they are called again in the Ides of Kurnous and Isha. The way is shut.” This riddle had puzzled her. What did it mean?

She had shouted words of command and challenge at the door. She had used rueful curses daring the dead to come out again. Silence; except the bobbing eddies of dust. She thought that today was the day. She thought she had figured out at least that part of the riddle. Before the sundering, before the Worship of Khaine seized her kindred as an obsession, there were the other – older - gods. In the eldar days her kin used to worship Kurnous and Isha. Each year her forgotten ancestors would rejoice the union of the Earth Goddess and her wild consort. Belthaine, as her aged books called the anniversary, happened halfway between the spring equinox and summer solstice.

She was consternated. “The Ides were today. Something was supposed to happen today! Why wasn’t anything happening?” She swore at the dead and clapped her hand against the door. The iron Amulet-bracelet on her wrist rapped the back of her hand and clanged oddly on the door like cold iron upon hardwood.

The back of her hand smarted and broke her concentration so that her magic light flickered out. She held her hand as she slumped down, accepting that the Ides were going to pass without letting her inside. She toyed at the amulet pensively. She had brought it because the old tomes said that it was needed to Banish the Undead and she might have to do that in a pinch. The words of the riddle began repeating in her head as she mindlessly felt the iron circlet with her fingers.

“the way is shut….” “the dead hold it….” “the way is shut” “… we call upon… those for whom it was made… to hold it…” “ those for whom it was made” “ the dead… hold it” “… it is… held?… by the dead?” “… the dead are holding the door!”

She got to her feet with the epiphany lighting her eyes. She removed the Iron amulet and held it aloft. She performed the Banish Undead ritual from the old tome. The antechamber, that was now lit from the setting sun, clashed with the black sparking light of the spell.

Then silence and just the dusklight lit the chamber. She paused, expecting something… anything. Nothing. “uggh” she sighed and leaned against the door again. The stone door swung open under her weight. Faedra was blasted with stale air. She shuddered and dusted herself off. With renewed enthusiasm she snapped her fingers for another Magic Light and went deeper into the barrow.

The passage was longer than she anticipated. Deep in the earth it was deathly silent, so quiet her mind started imagining whispers and the footsteps of others. She came to the final burial chamber. The room was formed by large stones circled and reaching up to a ceiling beyond her dim magic light. Cut into these great vertical stones were alcoves where dusty elfin skeletons lay as if sleeping after a battle, still clad in their armor.

She assumed to herself “these must be those damned oathbreakers. Cowards all!” She screamed powerful and biting curses at the bodies around her; Words that would stab at the honor of any living man – even cowards and duplicitous dark elves. She hoped that such words in themselves might wake the dead. Nothing.

She decided to take a moment to reassess. She examined the warriors more closely. Their armor was tattered from ages underground. The metal was heavily pitted and rusted. Their silken cloaks lay beneath them untouched by time. Then she started to notice dents and evidence of battle damage on their gear. They had fought.

In the center of the room there was a great earthenware urn. Upon it was written “Herein lies the ashes of Tarath, son of Viparion’s house, goblin slayer, skaven smighter, dragon foe, Warden of Spite Pass.”

“Dragon foe” She repeated to herself aloud. “They lied.”

She stood up considering the Urn. If the old books were correct this was an Urn-guardian. The urn had to be broken and spilled. She grabbed a mace from a catacomb nearby and smashed the urn open and heaved it over. It spilled out onto the ground with a small cloud.

The cloud began to rise until it was just above her head in height, and the ashes seemed to rise in the air as if the initial cloud were drawing them up. From the cloud came an ethereal form clad in the trappings of an ancient dark elf warrior. The form continued to congeal and a skull materialized where the face should have been. Two red points of light emanated from the dark sockets. 

The wight turned on Faedra to consider her. She was steely and determined. Tarath then looked around the chamber. He saw his men sleeping around him and raised his hand calling them to awake. Faedra heard Tarath speak in an ancient dialect of elvish with a voice that was hollow and brought a chill to her soul. At the edge of her magic light Faedra saw the bodies stir.

Soon there was a near circle of skeletal warriors lit by her magic and standing at attention. Tarath stood inspecting his men. Then his attention turned back to Faedra. “Who are you who breaks our fast and slumber?”

Feadra rifled through her robe and pulled out a small box. It contained a philter of earthen humours. The wight drew his chill blade from its sheath and began to slowly advance toward her. She spilled the philter in the shape of a symbol of command on the floor and began the ritual to cast Command Undead. Tarath menacingly raised his sword. She spoke back “I am Faedra, the Shadow Weaver, and I comman-“

“Faedra, no!” Helkate screamed as she ran from the lintel to slap Faedra’s ensigilled hand. Helkate pulled Faedra back as Tarath swung at them. The blade barely grazed Faedra, but that was enough for it to work its fell magic. She felt her right shoulder shoot with icy pain. Her magic light was extinguished and the chamber was plunged into near darkness – only the ethereal light of chill from the wight illuminated the chamber. Faedra was furious at Helkate and terrified. Regardless, she heeded the pressing imperative to flee. The two sorceresses scrambled to their feet and fled the chamber. They clambered up the passage way toward the night.

They both fell out of the entrance into the open night sky panting with freight. Faedra’s anger returned sharply to her, made worse by the spreading chill of the wight’s blade.

“May Anchan-Rogar steal your soul!” She screeched at Helkate looming over the younger sorceress with an ire-curled brow.

Helkate, still laying on the ground, held up a hand defensively. “you don’t understand! The philter!”

“I had everything under control! I had power! And you – you undermined me again! Look what you did!” Faedra railed at Helkate gesturing toward her growing wound.

“The philter was expired. It was old. Your spell wouldn’t have worked!”

Faedra threw the small box at Helkate. “They were dried humours! For all your book learning you never read between the lines! This is why you are still in school!” Faedra flared her nostrils and exhaled a chill gust that blew Helkate over.

A look of pure horror came across Helkate’s face and she froze. Faedra’s shoulder smarted sharply and she felt an icy chill across her whole body. Tarath had emerged from the elfin barrow. Again, he wafted toward Faedra with his sword prepared to strike.

Faedra pulled out the second philter of earthen humors and traced a symbol of domination on the ground. She raised her arm and made a rhetorical sigil of authority with her fingers. “I am Faedra, the Shadow Weaver.” She asserted. The night air about Faedra grew even darker; the wight’s ethereal glow almost disappeared. Helkate’s night vision strained to see what was happening. “And, I command you, Tarath.” The ancient warrior and Faedra had a meeting of minds. She saw his acts of battlefield valor and felt his will to command that he had relished in life. She replied with her command over shadow itself and visions of Lamehk the Slavemaster of the third hell. Tarath hesitated at these visions of hell for but a moment and that was all it took for her to claim mastery.

She willed Tarath back into the barrow until she would call him and his warriors to battle. Once his ethereal glow had disappeared, Faedra fainted to the ground shivering from the chill wound that was spreading across her body. Helkate knew that Faedra was prepared for this and searched her body for a potion or balm. She desperately poured the graveroot salve over the wound to ward off the effects of the undead. Then she treated the wound and gave Faedra a potion of strength (potions of healing are for the lesser kindreds of elves) to keep her awake. Helkate stepped away from Faedra and conjurred a steed of shadows. She hoisted Faedra onto the steed and then mounted it herself. Faedra was fading. Helkate said a desperate prayer to Morai-heg, that her sister might be okay, and spurred the shadow-horse into the night sky. 

Oh yeah, I also painted some minis for the month... 

Tarath, Warden of Spite Pass [Wight, 100 Points] - Tarath was a previous warden of what is now know as Scorched Pass. He continues, unceasing, to uphold his oath and protect the pass from marauders. He is based on an old Citadel Night Horrors wight model that has been modestly converted with GS. (I took care to make sure that no change couldn't be undone)

Tarath's Sentries [Skeleton Warriors with shield and light armor x11, 156 points] - These undead elven warriors continue to serve their master. They keep a silent vigil over Scorched Pass. 

Panorama of the skeletons before paint,
for folks interested in the putty work

Some accompanying terrain that I made (50 pts). Everything was made the old-fashioned way with plaster, foam, and rocks. The passage tomb was inspired by old Neolithic passage tombs in Ireland. I added some dark elf runes to give it an elfy look. The crumbled statue was inspired by the Numenorean statues at the battle of Amon Hen at the end of the Fellowship of the Rings movie. Khaine is often portrayed with a claw, so I liked the idea of his statue angrily clawing up at the sky while it slowly sinks into the ground. 

 

Finally some pics of the whole ensemble for the month:

Tarath, aided by Shadow Weaver, arrayed for battle

Shadow Weaver summons the undead to battle.