My name was once Roderick. I was born in a small village called Utenburg in the forests of Ostermark. From there I was taken by my Lord Gildeon the Lion, who was a champion of the Lord Strykker during the Great War. My village fell to their great army, and I was swept away with several of my peers when the adults were killed, for the slave trains that the mighty chaos armies require is extensive, and I am proud to say that I served my time in it well.
I say that I was once Roderick, for now I am affectionately known as the Golden Kreecher, which was a name that my Lord gave unto me, for I am the Lion’s favorite plaything. The fact that I know how to read and to write makes me even more valuable, and I swiftly moved through the ranks of The Lion’s Golden Harem, and now it is my personal joy to record the personal conquests of my lord during our glorious war against the weaker men to the south; men I once called my family and people.
Who I am is ultimately unimportant, so I will now write about the things that matter. As spring broke that year, I was asked by The Lion to accompany him to the mustering hall one night after a meal. I had only been to the mustering hall twice in all of my service to Him, and so I knew that this was a queer request.
The muster was lit by bright torches and the firelight danced proudly off of gleaming war armor worn by dozens of warriors, many of whom I had never seen before that night. My lord was dressed in his regal golden armor and he drank fine wine from a crystal chalice and sat upon his throne overlooking the men while I stood at his side. He bade me to record everything that happened that night and so I did.
I found that many of the warriors present that night were from other lands who had been called by The Lion weeks before. There was the warrior-slave Herxes, shaved at the head and pierced many times with silver and iron rings and covered in tattoos. He bore the Lion’s Banner and wore the chains of his slavery, having fought under a different warlord in years past before being defeated by my lord and offering service to Him.
He stood at the forefront of all of the other warriors, and the white and gold banner of the Lion fluttered for all to see, his armor polished black and gold in stark contrast.
Beside him, seated at one of the great tables, was the mutated warrior Huron. Six arms sprouted from her armored torso and where legs had once been was now a serpentine body. It was said that she was favored of the gods, and it was her whom my Lord often counsels with, and with whom he often takes into his bedchambers (I confess some jealousy at this).
The twin sisters Eeza and Viol were also nearby, practitioners of the arcane arts and forefront at our god Slaanesh’s temples within the city. They were, as always, dressed in a manner that made them more akin to harlots that serviced my Lord’s harem, but as He tells me often, that is another part of their purpose.
Other armored men that I recognized drank ale and mead and toasted each others’ many fine victories. I noted Hezzapet, the captain of my Lord’s chosen bodyguards known as the Silk Swords. His armor was mirror-like as his Lord’s and he wore much paint on his face to appear almost feminine.
Other Norse in the room I did not recognize. My Lord pointed some of them out to me and bade me record their names in the book that I kept. There was Afa, chieftain of the Black Tears Tribe whose homes were near the Southern lands. There was Luta, another norse chieftain of a tribe of zealot warriors called the Given who wandered the icy plains of the Wastes and wore the skins of the creatures that they happened across and killed.
A dozen chieftains’ names were entered into the book before the strangers were logged. A delegation of a rival warband who worshipped the trickster god Tzeentch was present. In the shadows were rat-creatures I had never before encountered, though my lord told me that they were known as Skaven and were instrumental to our campaign. I could only nod and offer my thanks at his words and the time he had taken to instruct someone as insignificant as myself.
My Lord offered his goblet to me, and I took it. He smiled at me and stood up, spreading his arms out as he did in a way that commanded the attention of the room. Slowly the din of voices quieted as he looked out at his warriors and those that had come from outside of his borders. He looked magnificent, as he always does. His golden hair was penned up by winter thrush and matched his golden armor. It makes my stomach flutter at such beauty.
“My friends, I thank you for heeding my summons.” His voice, always as sweet as honey, poured richly over the warriors at his feet (for his throne was set high up on a dais so that he could overlook everyone, as was his place and as was commanded by Slaanesh Himself (so may it be written)).
“As you know, it has been some time since our armies last marched. The gods themselves grow bored with this lull and have communicated to me through my acolytes that now is the time to march south and stretch our homelands!” At this, the chosen raised their goblets of ale drunkenly up and gave a loud and hearty hail. My Lord smiled, for surely he was pleased.
Gold and gratitude has been dispatched to your chieftains and to your warlords and tonight we celebrate with the best ale and mead in my stores and with marching orders! The time to don steel is upon us. The time to march south and butcher the weaklings that live there is upon us. The time to bathe in their blood and eat their bodies is upon us!”
Oh my reader, if I could only capture the spirit of that room at that moment. It was electrifying. The fire of the braziers. The musk in the air. The drink. It was all magnificent, such that even the Tzeentch warriors seemed impressed.
As the raucousness echoed through the room, one of the Tzeentch warriors stepped forward. He was adorned head-to-foot with flaming runes and tattoos that seemed to writhe on his flesh, and had not a single hair on his head. His eyes were dark pools of miasmic bliss and his gauntleted hands ended in hooked talons, much like a bird of prey.
“Lord Gildeon, my masters wish to know what the plan is. We have mustered at the Broken Rock, and will march beside your men to the south.” The Tzeentch knight said. His voice was shrill and broken. I noted another creature emerging from the gloom and saw it to be one of the skaven creatures.
It wore a mottled blue leather cloak about its body and moved about with the aid of a grey staff that was etched with sigils and tipped with a human skull whose eyes had been stuffed with two large pieces of green warpstone, which sizzled and produced a foul smelling odor.
“Yes-yes. Man-things to die. We to take take from below. Flesh-lord to abide by his promises to give to us the underground. We have destroyed the bridges at the man-things river near the ford crossing to prevent metal things from clanning together. Our slaves have begun poisoning their wells. They weak weak. You give us the underground.” The creature stated boldly. I looked to my lord, who only smiled and nodded.
“Of course. The underground tunnels are yours. It has been gladly given, as well as your payment of slaves, which my warriors have provided already.” The skaven seemed satisfied with this answer and backed back into the shadows.
“The march begins upon the next conjoining of the two moons in one month. Like a column of death we will bring the end times to the weaklings and we shall claim their lands for our people. So it shall be written. So it shall be done!”
The mood for the rest of that night was one of celebration. As the night ended, my lord took me to the side and presented me with a golden dagger.
“Kreecher, you will be with me to the end. You will march in battle next to me and record our triumphs. This year, my ascension is all but assured.”