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Pay is alright. Don't have that cough anymore, thank the Blight, but all of these lesions look as if they'd be pretty painful if I had anything but a vague awareness of my body from the neck-down. So. Ron, Rotblood, doin' alright, most days. Most.
Let me paint you a picture, here.
You're just going about your day, mindin' your business, chewing on the buttock of somebody's aunt and knowing it certainly would go better with a pinch or two of salt, when the bells in the temple of Sigmar start ringing. You look at Destruktikus, he looks at you, and he just shrugs those great big pauldrons of his and turns his helmet up the hill.
Then the horns start to wail, and you're all like, 'By Nurgle's great and foetid pustules, are these southlanders really that eager to die?' You laugh. Destruktikus laughs. The Chaos Spawn chained to the portcullis screams. But you wave away any concerns, because now it's you and a hundred and fifty of your best mates, surging through the tumbledown ruins of the city you've slaughtered.
You fist-bump Destruktikus as the great barded bastard swaggers on to the head of the column. You wish your axe was as cool as his. A few minutes of sprinting, climbing, leaping four meter gaps and jumping twenty feet for handholds later, and you come upon the prey.
They consist of:
A woman who is also fire, or a fire that is also a woman. It is difficult to tell, as everything in this figure's vicinity is either ablaze or exploding.
A blur about the height of your belt that seems to be unerringly flinging throwing axes in every conceivable direction without pause. Some manner of dwarf maybe, given the foreign-sounding vowels and tone of its near-constant bellowing.
A fellow bedecked in all manner of hateful Sigmarite iconography who seems incapable of planting either his rapier or his shot anywhere but the skull of the poor bastard nearest him. You grudgingly admit to yourself that his greatcoat looks cool, and buboes erupt across your lower back because thoughts like that are heretical.
You don't notice the fourth at first, but you do notice how your comrades are being violently flung in every conceivable direction. You hear 'BLOODY BATTERING RAM!' grow from a murmur to a roar as lone knight of the Reikshammer plows through your formation like a ba-...
Like...uh.
Anyway.
You pick yourself up, dust yourself off, except it isn't dust, it's fire. Everything is on fire. You're shoved aside, but you're not mad. Enter Destruktikus.
Broader than you are tall and clad in ensorcelled chaos warplate, you smirk with satisfaction as he wades through your dazed companions. You watch, time seemingly slowed to a crawl, as a barely-clad dwarf comes hurtling through the air. The first stroke plants the smile of an axe in Big D's helmet. He just keeps hammering those axes home, and he keeps screaming the word 'Grimnir'. Big D didn't even get to swing his axe and he's a heap on the ground.
The dwarf continues hitting him.
Barry the Blightstormer gets his skull exploded by a spear made of fire from several hundred meters away.
Rot-Helm Steve at least manages to wing one of them, before the Sigmarite stabs him twelve times in the face in the span of a second.
You'd be sweating if you weren't already covered in sweat (and flies and offal) because you're aware that you're the only one left.
You scream your inarticulate battle cry and charge!
They surround you, and you prepare yourself to die in the Plaguefather's name. One of them shoves you. Another of them shoves you. Now the woman-fire is shoving you, and the rest appear to be rapidly rising in and out of a crouch as she forces you inexorably towards to nearby cliffside.
Before they pass from sight as you plummet down into the burning detritus of Helmgart, you observe bitterly that the quartet are spinning violently in place while nodding at the cliff's edge. A throwing axe knocks your skull clear off your shoulders in mid-air at three hundred paces as you fall.
This saves you the trouble of the anger-aneurysm that had been building.
You wake up sewn to the back of a Stormfiend.
My point is, maybe next time we just raid the Sarls? Pretty please?
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