"Mortals and daemons alike dangle along strings of sinew in ethereal winds, their limbs dancing to tugs of leering aetheric giants. All live and die to the whims of the divine, for they are the controllers of destiny. A few seek to twist threads in desires contrary to those of the gods. Pity them, for they almost invariably achieve naught but their own demise, strangled in threads beyond their control as the Great Puppeteers mock and scorn. Save your ire, your fear, your hate and your contempt for those rare few who succeed, who subvert the designs of the Lords of All, for in doing so they bring greater despair to the world than even divine minds can conceive. " Tzarbeck the Forlorn, Scholar of Fate Year Unknown

When a mortal dreams, he enters our home. What they call the Realm of Souls. The Aethyr. The Warp. Hell. Graceless and unstable they mold tiny corners of this realm into their own reality of fevered visions and dark desires hidden from other mortals. Hallucinations of desperate and perverted fantasies, ambitious dreams of triumph, aspirations of grandeur and more. These dreams serve as windows for my kind to peer into the depths of their putrid souls. With knowledge comes power and with desire comes opportunity. We are the wolf that salivates at an open door; the murderer equipped with a stolen key. We break apart the cesspit of unconscious desires and mold souls like clay on a potter's wheel. Often the act is done unseen. Limited by definition and design.

I see them even now. Their dreams, their desires. I always have been able to see them, even before my ascension. That set me apart from the tribe of mud-dwellers that I once called my own. I could see through the strutting of chieftains and the boasts of hunters. Weak, they were, their insecurity hidden beneath animal rags of subpar skill and lamentable cleverness. I could see the insincerity behind their every deed as these so-called 'warriors' strutted for favor to procure advancement of power or else gifts of food or flesh. Even my own forebears, who scraped together my fleshy form after a night of unthinking passion, saw me and the flesh they hoped I would spawn as a means for their own comfortable future.

I despised them, hated them, scorned them and, when the mood arose, manipulated them to my own amusement. Brother was set against brother over the most trivial of matters. Lovers who thought themselves star-destined driven asunder by desires kept hidden from one another.

The loathing was mutual. I remember their response. The Shunning. Ostracism. Insults and Fights. I won every petty conflict, for my skill at arms already exceeded mortal men and I would find ways to reveal the darkest desires in a man's heart in front of his cohorts. However while I was satisfied taking joy in such minor mischief I was naive, at that time, to the true depths of hate in a mortal heart.

I still remember it. The ambush. The beating-without-end. The torture and disfigurement. The cage of wicker and dung, sticks of filth impaled into my side. Sacrificed before a crude effigy of stone The vision of my whole tribe spitefully spitting and cursing me, even my progenerators . Satisfied with my fate, they left me to the elements of the long, dry summer.

Oh how I raged to the heavens! Cried out threats of retribution and despair. I needn't have bothered. This was not the conclusion of my tale, merely the first paragraph of the prologue. That night, as spiteful youth came to add to my torment, I discovered I was not the manipulator of hidden desires that I had so envisioned myself to be. I was the lord of them, the master of the dark in the mortal heart and, later, the physical darkness that manifested all around. The youth were the first to discover such abilities but they would not be the last that night.

In the morning it rained, drenching untended fires and dampening the putrid smell of freshly rotting corpses. To this day I wonder- did the sky weep for the events that transpired the night prior or those which were to come?

As I allow a fragment of my mind to peer into the Aethyr I see them still, these hidden soul-selves, their dreams gestating like many maggots on a fetid corpse-world. Sometimes I snatch them up and manipulate these dreams for my own amusement. Sometimes I snuff them out. Such is my purview, my right as the mightiest of my kind. For now, I am content to observe as a new rot takes hold. The odor tells all.

Fear, universal and delicious. Apprehension. Dread. Despair. Excitement, ambition and frothing madness. Mortal dreams are fragments of wiser sub-consciousness, acknowledging what the so-called rational mind willfully ignores.

The End Times have come.

I know well the truth of this claim for I am its author and the realization of its ultimate destiny. Already, the conclusion has been written in blood. Even now my son-in-shadow- moves to claim the final instrument of his destiny. His ascension will herald my return.

And Yet. And yet. And yet.

There have always been those that would deny my majesty, my right to rule. Brother daemons, resentful of ancient slights. Mortal usurpers- traitors and cowards who have always lusted after my majesty. My own son amongst them, a reluctant tool who schemes to turn against his maker and claim a destiny independent of I. He will fail, for I have already written it. No, there are only four foes whose enmity matters.

Even now, as I listen to my servant's prattling, I seethe. A contemptuous figure, this servant is. A daemon of miniscule power, an insignificant fly who reports to the spider. A creature so weak that only its bandages- like that of a Nekeharan corpse- hold its form together. I could destroy it by unwinding a single thread.

And yet, I cannot deny its usefulness for it- and its sibling- have a mastery of the shadow exceeded only by myself. No man nor demon can hide from the darkness that accompanies their every movement. With a voice akin to a maddening whisper it speaks, telling of the contradictory plots and mad visions of Tzeentch. From the inanities a singular plot emerged, a thread to a story that makes every fiber of my being quake with rage! The gods are no longer content to simply conquer the planet- they want to destroy it entirely!

Betrayal! These impudent gods had forgotten their ancient bargain! This world is mine to conquer, mine to rule and mine to destroy, if such is my desire.

For them, I was the chink is this world's armor; the festering cancer behind the warrior's martial mastery. I broke this world's great last hope across my malevolent will and, in return, they made a pact that has echoed across time. They must honor- they WILL honor- it.

I know of this gate, for in ages past I warred to claim it. I commanded untold legions into hundreds of battles fought over vast plains of ice against creatures that belonged to neither the Aether nor the physical world but somewhere in between. Millions died at my command and were it not for divine treachery the device would have been claimed.

And yet, the artifact's defender, Ulric, had lost much of the vast power he once commanded. Only shards remain. The portal will be mine and along with it the fate of the world.

I dismiss the servant with a wave of my hand. Here he will remain until I have further need of him. I will claim the artifact myself….with the help of some pawns.

With a bloodied snout and paws of gore,

He stood above all as the strongest gor.

Then the Beastlord gave a vicious roar,

Declared himself lord forevermore .

As his gaze upon the heavens did fall,

Confidence shattered and he felt small,

While In the eyes of beasts he stood tall,

To the four he was a king of thralls.

From dawn since no Beast hath been made Prince.

Verses of the Damned, Scorethus , Poet of Tzeentch

The sky was dark, devoid of stars, as if the heavens themselves were afraid to gaze upon the depths of Drakwald Forest. For in those darkest reaches the barbarous brayed, cavorted and engaged in the most depraved actions their bestial minds could imagine. Hundreds of thousands of them gathered across crude stomping grounds riddled with out of control campfires and rickety structures of bone and human hide. An ignorant observer might call it a beastkin city of sorts however such a statement could not be farther from the truth. There was no permanence here, no civil society or cultural aspirations besides rutting and war and, most of all, no laws save one: Obey the Braylord.

Khazrak permitted the gathering. Though such base displays of debasement, undertaken on human captives, had lost its taste with the Beastlord, he knew that the herd needed to satiate their bloodlust on another, for if they did not they would turn on each other. The Beastlord leaned forward, his muscular form shifting the seat underneath him while his weighted chainmail hung loosely of his body.

Sitting on a wicker throne adorned with skulls and human hide he watched as a man was sheered of the feeble sheets of metal that he wore like a sheep's extra skin. He was then beaten, tossed and forced to walk bare over a carpet of burning wooden shards, each step driving hot splinters through his feet. The man yelped and attempted to jump out, only to be hurled bodily back in by a mocking gor. The man landed on his rear and the screams reached a new crescendo.

Khazrak gave a braying snort of laughter; okay, this sort of debasement hadn't completely lost its taste. They had reason to celebrate too. Another army of man had been ambushed, surrounded and gutted. Like wolves to the moose Khazrak's herds had brought the metal clad army down utterly, with only a few humans allowed to flee to bring word to their fellows.

Khazrak had learned early on that fear and rage were as valuable weapons as axe and spear. Most humans were prey-animals and would act like frightened sheep . The fear would spread and the sheep would bleat and flee to their shepherds like the One Eye. Meanwhile, those shepherds would react in wrath and become more desperate to achieve their victory. That desperation would lead to mistakes which, when against Khazrak, quickly proved fatal.

Were it not for one factor, Khazrak and his hordes would already have achieved victory over this province. Audibly, almost without control, Khazrak began to growl, causing gors near him to back away, though they made a show of doing so naturally, so as to not draw Khazrak's wrath at such displays of weakness. However, the Beastlord paid them no mind, driven already to fury by the hateful subject on his mind.

Buildings, towers and walls. Artifices of Stone and Wood, carved out unnaturally so as to allow lambs to survive the predations of hungry wolves. Those 'Structures' were abominations to the natural order, affronts and insults directed to the gods who had, since the dawn of time, ordained man as prey and beast as predator. Without those god-cursed walls Khazrak would have overthrown Todbringer long ago, for even taking the smallest of those structure groupings-what man called 'forts' – invariably cost the Beastlord more beasts than their were men in the fort.

Worse, taking the mountain-fort, called in their foul tongue 'Middenheim', had long proven an impossible task to any scion of beastkind. Khazrak had long vowed to be the first to succeed however even he, despite what he said in speeches of bravado, privately acknowledged the extreme difficulty of the task and knew that nothing less than every Beast in the forest all marching under his God-given command would be required to bring the mountain-fort down.

As Khazrak leaned back on his throne of bones another Beastman leaned forward on his own throne of skulls and defied symbols of the weak gods of man. Khazrak grated his teeth and tightened his fists- an instinctive reaction in a culture where every gesture could be considered a challenge- before forcibly relaxing. It would do no good to challenge this Beastman, for the other was his shaman, Malagor. Gifted with the Breath of the Gods, the shaman was typically the only figure who the Beastlord was forced to respect for in addition to magical ability, the shaman could magically commune with daemons and, rumor had it, the gods themselves. Still, Khazrak had the shaman before Malagor bent around the horns and claimed more or less full control of the brayherd. The arrival of the 'Dark Omen" had coincided with the vicious executions of the previous shamen by the newcomer.

Beastmen weren't built to share power, not truly, and the lord of the Drakwald was one of the most prideful of his kind. Meanwhile Malagor, Khazrak was forced to admit, was far more willful and domineering than any shaman he met previously. Worse, was the favor of the gods was clearly visible for all to see, for unfurling from his back were a pair of wings as long as a minotaur was tall. Khazrak hated the shaman with a passion and thoroughly suspected such sentiment was mutual.

Malagor turned towards his lord and acknowledged him with a sardonic nod of the head, his face twisted into something half a smile, half a sneer. Khazrak once again suppressed his anger, as Malagor raised up a skull-cup filled to the brim with blood and wine looted from the fallen army's supply wagon. The braying man-god then proposed a toast in a manner that mocked, crudely, the way human nobles proposed toasts to their lords. Khazrak suspected humanity wasn't the only thing being mocked with this gesture.

The shaman spoke in a form that was a mixture of grunts, snorts, and the subtly daemonic tones of the Dark Tongue. 'Khazrak won mighty victory for Dark Masters! Man-filth weaker now! Trap them inside their forts Beastlord! Burn and topple them to the ground!"

Malagor practically bellowed these words. Beastmen dozens of feet away paused in their celebrations to bray in approval. The lesser shamen- those who Malagor had allowed to live- roared with more enthusiasm than they ever had for Khazrak, with a wary eye on the Winged Shamans staff. Khazrak suppressed a snort. Cowards. Lickspittles. Unworthy sheep.

Around them the shadows in the camp grew larger, as if the physical corruption that lay within every Beast's heart was pouring out into the shades and engulfing what light the fires brought. Khazrak felt it in the air, his pulse quickening and his breathe growing heavier. He wanted to fight, to tear and rend! Nevertheless, with a discipline that surprised even him, Be'lakor stilled these emotions to respond

"Soon shaman! Fort ruins good but not enough. One eyed man the target! Break and slaughter one eye! Man armies flee like sheep before wolves after One Eye's death. This Khazrak declares!"

Next to him his Bestigors, eager to demonstrate their loyalty, brayed loudly in agreement as Khazrak pumped his chest with self-pride. That some of their eyes fell on his Scourge made Khazrak feel all the more proud, for it was well that his servants respected his power. Then Khazrak was torn from his thoughts as Malagor struck his own staff loudly against the ground, sending out sparks and a low moan like a dying Tuskagor.

"One eyed man good, but he is just a manlord! Death will cause man to waver, not break! Burn forts, burn homes, smash temples! Show man his gods are nothing! This say Malagor, this say Dark Masters! "

The bestigor bray dulled down, none willing to gainsay the Dark Gods. Normally Khazrak too would grumble but grow quiet, for short was the reign of the Beastlord who lost the respect of his shaman. Not this time though. The air was electrified, as Khazrak could feel the long simmering rage in his heart uncoil itself like a serpent poised to strike.

"Malagor speak for Malagor! Khazrak Beastlord here! Dark Masters gave Khazrak power, Dark Masters make Khazrak leader here, not tiny winged shaman!"

The only way Khazrak could have uttered a more heretical statement is he declared the Wolf God was his lord. Shamen have long been regarded as the voice of the gods. Such had always been the Beastman way and shamen grew furious at the slightest perceived notion of a challenge.

Malagor did so now. He slammed his staff to the ground with such force that the nearest two base shamen – who had been growling with unfeigned outrage- were blasted off their feet, their bodies colliding with trees with incredible force. Sensing, now, a change in the air roars and braying cries brought many of the drunken revelers from their debauchery. Believing that through acts of cannibalism they would inherit the strength of the fallen, those gors whose wits remained above the influence of liquor salivated- visibly- as they realized that one of their leaders could be killed, with all the power contained within ripe for devouring.

Behind them, unseen by all, shadows slithered out from past the treeline to consume yet more of the campground halting, only just, by the multitude of camp fires.

"You dare, welp! Malagor ageless! Malagor seen the rise and fall of Gorthor. You nothing to Gorthor! You nothing to Malagor! "

Malagor looked around for support and found it, for the position of shaman was well respected and Malagor was undoubtedly a powerful shaman. A few of the Bestigors stood among the shaman's supporters, a sight that filled Khazrak with no little fury. And yet….

He was not personally popular, not in the way Khazrak was. The Dark Omen was as single-minded as a minotaur and his blood greed when it came to the destruction of man's temples and more than once he had forced the brayherd to march without rest or celebration as if they were they were the soul-stripped metal clad cattle of man, forbidden from expressing the truths of their nature. A few whispered- when the shaman was out of easrshot- that Malagor had inflicted unholy atrocities upon the brayherd in the form of these 'forced marches' and his loud insistence that refugee convoys be ignored to pursue those structures of mannish faith.

True, Khazrak himself had sometimes urged long marches through the night to ambush an imperial army thought safe dozens of miles away and, true, the Beastlord had allowed refugee convoys to escape so that he could follow their trail to their new sanctuary. However, the Beastlord had always tried to delicately balance such occasions with grandiose celebration and debauchery afterwards. Khazrak recognized what the bray-shaman could not, deluded as he was by centuries of boundless arrogance. The fighting prowess of the Braylord- or even the magicks of a shaman- counted for little when measured against the primordial fury of the Cloven Ones. To keep their fickle loyalty, Khazrak offered both the steak and the whip when needed, while Malagor disdainfully relied on a mixture of his staff and false promises whose impact was gradually diluted over time.

The effects of this showed. Echoes of what might have been the faintest glimmers of personal loyalty warred with fear of the unnatural and the divine. Khazrak's Bestigors made the first move, taking great pains to move in front of their lord to growl, snap and threaten with mighty polearms longer than a man. Meanwhile, Malagor's sycophantic shamen stomped and cursed in the threatening tongue of daemons as many opportunistic gors lined up behind.

The shadows were all around them now. Even though they touched nothing, Khazrak could feel a suffocating presence envelop him, like a physical weight on his chest pressing him down underneath the waters of the Delb River. Khazrak shook his head violently, like a great minotaur trying to cast off annoying fleshflies. That part of his mind capable of rational thought roared desperate warnings and whimpered piteously. Khazrak felt his own mouth move in a fearful moan, though he knew not why. The taste of weakness only heightened his rage further.

It seems he was not the only one. Several of Khazrak's bestigors, already riled up, threw back their heads and roared to the heavens before charging towards the shamen whose curse words turned into incarnations of power. Many of those Bestigors fell to their knees, growling howling and gibbering, their devolution complete. The distance however was too short and in another flash the Bestigors had reached the melee. Like proverbial fire the fighting spread as gors and ungors of all sorts took advantage of the opportunity to kill their rivals, ascend their primitive hierarchies or just to sate the eternal bloodlust that lay within the heart of every beastkin.

Khazrak shook his head once more- this wasn't right. Normally, a Bestigor wouldn't dare look a shaman in the eye, much less attack. This brawl would not help the Braylord achieve his long desired victory over the count nor his more ambitious, personal goal. Meanwhile Malagor glowered with eldritch power, his staff shining a pale green light that pierced the shadows, revealing a hint of what was hidden.

"Khazrak lost his mind along with his eye. Now Khazrak One-Eye will be Khazrak No-Eyes! "

The Bray-shaman muttered the beginnings of a terrible curse as Khazrak, heart pounding in his chest, at last realized, exactly, the cause of this madness.

"Wait. Not Khazrak who speaks! Not Malagor, either!" The Shaman's face contorted into pure confusion as Khazrak's eyes widened in epiphany. He pointed at the shadows

"Daemon!"

Malagor turned in the direction of Khazrak's outstretched finger, though careful to do so in a manner which kept the braylord in partial view. Caution ceded to incredulity ceded to rage, as the shaman's magical witchsight caught view of what mortal eyes saw as barely obscured. With a rough incantation light blossomed from his staff, shifting the shadows away from the interloper.

Revealed now to the world, the daemon grinned, its blackened teeth reflecting an unquestionably dark soul and darker portents for those who viewed it. Its face was sharpened, chiseled, almost emaciated, akin to the features of the ghouls of the south. Jutting out and backwards from its forehead were a pair of horns the envy of any gor and adjourned with metallic rings and unrecognizable bones. The jewels of the crown were, of course, the eyes which glowed sanguine with hateful intelligence and stood as a window to the unquestionably dark soul underneath.

Like the braylord, the daemon shared aspects of man's accursed form, though he was far more muscular than any mortal human could ever achieve. However, while Khazrak's form was covered in flea infested fur, the daemons' was dry and flaky like the scales of a snake. His feet were cloven and the creature was adjourned with many skulls, scrap metal and other, unidentifiable relics. Arching his back, the daemon stood as tall as an armored Minotaur and many times more frightening, with a set of dark wings akin to a bat's that made Malagor's seem comparatively pitiful.

Around them, the others gors, brays and ungors ceased their conflict, awed by the appearance of a denizen of the Beyond. Some of the weaker ones fell to their knees in reverence. However, the affect only went so far and, in the distance, Khazrak could hear continual fighting as blood-addled and drunk gors failed to notice the supernatural phenomena near their Beastlord.

It spoke in discordant tones that packed the slightest trace of an echo. "Oh your more intelligent than most of your breed, aren't you beast? You're the bull who knows the herd is tumbling towards the cliff, the cow who sees the farmer's cleaver and recognizes its intent. "

The daemon exuded an aura of such primeval malevolence that Khazrak felt his bowels involuntarily clench. He was one of the stronger ones. Some could not hold themselves from the fear and voided themselves loudly. The reak of secretion filtered in the air, mixing with that of blood and sulfur and tangible hatred and contempt.

As Khazrak mustered his fear to respond, Malagor moved first, his words magically altered to portray the confidence that his slightly shaking form could not fully show.

"Daemon why are you here? Do you bring message from the Dark Ones? Dark Ones speak to Malagor through dreams, you are not needed! "

The Daemon's rich laughter erupted like maggots from a nurgle-bloated corpse, the force of it striking the herd like a wizard-wrought wind. The emotions were palatable, sentiments able to be not only heard but felt and even tasted. It was like poison on the tongue, the raw flavor of scorn, contempt and mockery threatening to overwhelm his gag reflex. Many beasts around him were not so lucky, falling to the floor to vomit forth their meals, blood and an unmistakably dark substance.

"Do not lie to me, you gibbering goat! The Lords of All do not bother themselves with furred insects. Instead, they send their servants who had fallen out of favor to do their entreaties. "

The Shaman responded with anger, rage suppressing his instinctive fear. His staff was slammed against the ground and shot fist sized balls of fire in all directions. Two hit nearby Beastmen, who screamed horribly as the warpfire burned through fur, skin and flesh with frightening ease. The other nearby Beastmen, who had cautiously armed themselves and now had the daemon surrounded, took extra steps back from mage and daemon both.

" I Malagor am not to be mocked! I shattered man fortifications and despoiled their godly men in great multitudes! You are weak daemon-thing. Your shadow cannot hide before me!"

A boast and a lie. One that Khazrak saw through instantly for obvious reasons . The daemon could too; once again Khazrak felt the odd sensation of tasting contempt.

"All I hear is pitiful bleating, little lamb. You saw me only because I willed it! Had it been my desire, I could quench your fetid heart in my hands before your body even recognized it was missing. And then, when your soul is sent howling to the void, we would see how much the gods value their crowfather."

Khazrak, still struggling to temper his instinctive fear, stepped forward. Though a tiny portion of his spiteful soul was pleased with the public humiliation of his hated rival, it was drowned out by those primal emotions of fear, distrust, and the poised apprehension.

"What do you want? Daemons only come to us to seek ruin on man, so who do you want dead and why should my herd help?" Khazrak put an emphasis on his ownership of the brayherd, an act which elicited a low growl from his would-be usurper rival. Though secretly satisfied, Khazrak cast aside the opportunity to leer, for it was the daemon that held his attention.

The Daemon smiled; a deeply terrifying sight that reminded Khazrak of the maddening view of the Jabberslythe. However, it was what the daemon said that sent instinctive chills of fear down his spine.

"So asks Khazrak the Cunning, the sharpest tool among an arsenal of blunted clubs. You wish to know my motives, Braylord? Bask in your self-importance, your soulful conceit, for I am here for you. "

Reflexively, the Beastlord felt himself reaching for his Scourge and sword. Though beasts, daemons and men all worshipped the same gods, among the wise of both mortal races there was an acknowledgement that carrying daemonic interest invariably resulted in a bleak fate. Khazrak had dealt with scheming daemons before; petty things who gibbered and drooled, or else made salacious promises while moving with murderous intent. These creatures- those who tried to manipulate the braylord, anyway- had been invariably broken and bound by Khazrak's shaman, and then forced to serve the beastherd, for a time. Such was not an option here, given the power of the daemon present.

It continued, glancing around malevolently at the gathered crowd, some still kneeling in worship, others apprehensively grasping their weapons.

"I see souls that gleam as bright as soot, depthless things fit only for minnows and tadpoles. One-dimensional. Bland morsels with blander destinies. I see pawns of pawns , vast faceless armies whose sole purpose is to move the lowliest of cat's paws a single space. In the sight of Dark Gods and the Prince of Ruins you all are corporeal yawns, a herd of living afterthoughts. " The herd struggled to digest the daemon's words, but its contempt was still palpable. A few began to growl and then bray angrily, their fear falling to rage, as the daemon finished his musing with a horrible smile. "Perhaps your hatred of man is motivated not by contempt or abhorrence of their 'civilization' but envy, for the eyes of the gods are ever fixated on man. You are the neglectful child that seethes from afar at his brother's favor. "

The Beasts were roaring now and three were unable to control their rage. Bellowing hatred and hefting giant cleavers aloft, they charged only to bisected in half by a sword, obscured in shadows, that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Throughout the movement Be'lakor's eyes never left Khazrak's own even as his sword hand weaved with incomparable skill.

"But you are different, braylord. Your inner ambition shines like a beacon on a stormy sea. I see your desires as clear as the simmering rage that coils around your heart, hissing and poised to strike. Do so if you must, though the act would only serve to give this goatherd a new braylord. You would fail to achieve your greatest, innermost desire. "

Despite his rage, Khazrak heard himself asking through gritted teeth "Which is? "

The daemon spread his arms wide and unfurled his wings

"To be me, of course. "

Despite their fixated anger, Khazrak heard an audible gasp among the crowd as they perceived the scale of their master's ambition. His innermost ambition revealed, Khazrak cursed and drew his weapons, though he was still reluctant to attack the daemon, having seen its power firsthand. Perhaps he would have his gors engage it first….

To the side, Malagor snorted and brayed softly. "If true, Khazrak fool then! Gods may bless but no mortal can ascend to the divine. "The shaman pointed himself "Immortality is possible like Crowfather! We are the children of the gods, not man-filth, and the gods reward us well! Look around, see how many carry divine blessings!"

Khazrak did not need to look around, for he knew by heart that many of his brood carried the mutations of the Dark Gods. Tentacle arms, scaly skin, multiple eyes even multiple sets of horns, though those so blessed rarely managed to live for long, as beastkind was notoriously touchy regarding horn size. Rarer still gifts existed, like the ability to breathe fire, bleed blood that burned or even tusks in the manner of boars. And then there were those that received multiple mutations at once however, as a rule, the herd preferred not to talk about them and their ghoulish fate….

Rather than be impressed the daemon laughed, its mockery and scorn once again palpable.

"So lies the blind to the sighted. Mortal fool! The gifts you receive are but pittance compared to those of your man-kin! For every tentacle of the deep the Dark Prince sees fit to bless upon you, man received an arm forged in the fashion of the Seekers of Decadence. For every skin of scales, the Changer of Ways gifts a hide of diamonds to man. Agelessness? Every human warrior of ruin, regardless of allegiance, receives that blessing- and more besides. Look at your own form, witch doctor. It's a parody of my own, nothing more, a winged hand-me-down from uncaring parents. Your fate has long been written – you will die to a sorcerer of greater skill than your own. A thousand times a prince of ruin may die and always we will return. Never has any beast attained my form, nor that of my brothers! -"

"Enough! " This time Khazrak was the one who shouted, fury at last eliminating any remaining traces of fear. This was HIS camp and no interloper was going to mock him in it! Khazrak glanced at Malagor and saw that the powerful shaman was in silent agreement. Good! His magical strength would no doubt be needed. All around him his gors were braying and pawing at the earth, eager to strike! A grunt that would signal the attack command was on his lips, if a bit reluctantly, for he knew that many of his followers would likely have to die-

"Don't be a fool, Braylord. For fates can be changed, new destinies can be written. A path is, at last, open and only I can illuminate the way forward."
Khazrak snorted . The arrogance and conceit of daemons was second only to that of man. How many beastlords had been led to their deaths by the lies of the aetheyric kind? Uncounted, since the days of the First Beast, no doubt.

"You are not the first, you know. The first of your kind to seek the sweetest fruit of the gods. Many have, but only three came close to attaining it. One is known, a legend among your kind. Gorthor the Cruel, greatest Beastlord yet of these lands. A promise was made to the gods, a promise he failed to uphold. The death of the Empire; the destruction of Sigmar's sons. "

Again, Khazrak snorted derisively. "Khazrak will destroy Sigmar's sons- and Ulric's time will come soon! Then Khazrak claim Gorthor's prize. " Khazrak finished with a bit of a roar, as he once again felt the eyes of his kind upon him.

The smile of the daemon expressed tangible doubt. "Your time is running out, mortal. Even now portents align anew. In the north a new Everchosen arises. When he ascends to his position, this warlord will lead the legions of the north to sweep through the Old World like flame to a forest. The Empire will burn before your prize can be claimed. "

The braylord's breath paused audibly at the word Everchosen. That was an old word, a dread word. A name told in hushed voices around quiet campfires, a name to cow ever the most unruly of Beastmen.

"The strands of your fate unwind rapidly like yarn cast down temple steps. Soon, it will be gone completely. The opportunity will be lost, an opportunity that- without my aid- is a fruit beyond your reach. "

"Who are you, intruder? Why do you come to my camp? You speak nothing but mockery and half-truths!"

The intruder stood tall, his demeanor one of extreme pride.

"Who am I? I am Be'lakor, first of the Daemon Princes. The first man to ascend beyond the bounds of mortality! I was there when the First Beast arose from its blasphemous creation in the steamy jungles of the south. I rallied your ancestors, the degenerate tribes of man and my own kind to banners of flayed skin and waged war on the nascent races of the world. From pole to pole my dominion extended, from pole to pole monuments were built to my unequitable majesty. The world itself stood at the cusp of my eternal domination! I am the mightiest monster you will ever meet, mortal."

The daemons' aura exuded majesty, glorious and unholy, the pride of his accomplishments being felt as much as heard. Khazrak once again shrugged off the supernatural aura but this time, many more did not. They fell to their feet, their wide eyes in aweful worship of the creature before him. The same creature that even now held his hand, outstretched, in a dramatic gesture of salvation.

"I set the standard for every dark-seeking man and woman that followed. Only under my tutelage may you do the same for your beastkin. "

For a moment, Be'lakor's aura made it impossible for Khazrak to doubt the sincerity of the daemon. Khazrak snorted, then again, trying to clear the aura but it was for naught. Tentatively, even as the majority of his followers had fallen to their knees, he reached out for the outstretched hand.

Laughter broke the trance. Braying and wheezing loudly, the shaman Malagor raised his staff high in the air. Subtle magic dispelled a subtle spell of compulsion. Then, still laughing, Malagor turned to the daemon, a mocking sneer on his lips.

"I know who you are. You are Be'lakor the fallen. You are weak, a reject! Gods HATE Be'lakor. Be'lakor is friendless!"

Behind Malagor his bestigor followers and shamen erupted in sycophantic laughter, the act of such mockery serving to lessen the daemonic auras that had held their hearts so captive.

Khazrak felt an outpouring of hate again as the intruder made an imperious gesture at the traitorous bestigors. Laughter turned to screams. Nearby ungors and gors, even Malagor's fellow shamen, leapt back in fright as flesh and steel began to run off the afflicted bestigors like melted wax on a candle. For long moments they screamed in terrific agony as some gors mustered their weapons and others cowered in fear. Then, mercifully, it was over as puddles of gore smoldered silently on the forest floor. The Daemon turned to Malagor, his face smug.

"And now, so are you. But I have no more time to spare on your insecure prattling. Braylord," The daemon turned once more to Khazrak, the latter still somewhat unfocused. "I have offered salvation. Together, you and I can undermine the great shield of the Empire and leave its soft underbelly vulnerable for the blade to come- your blade, Khazrak. The fate of the Empire is tied to Middenheim and with its fall the rest of the decrepit kingdom will follow. "

Khazrak shook his head, still woozy but fighting the compulsion to agree minute by minute. Malagor, meanwhile, had channeled the winds of magic to himself, poised to attack if necessary but unwilling to make the first move. "No. Man strong-fort still too powerful. Walls too thick, too many cannons. Herd would be slaughtered before the gate is taken. Unless you brought an army, I will not do it!"

The Daemon responded instantly, his tone sounding, to Khazrak's ears, reasonable. A part of the braylord felt an unfamiliar emotion-shame- for even thinking to question the daemon.

"You are correct of course. Which is why your brayherd need not assault the man city, only hold their attention. I - and those that accompany me- shall do the rest. There is an artifact below the city, a relic from before even my time. A relic that could slay a god and snuff out the everburning fire that had kept the city safe for millennia. The fire at the city's heart is tied forever with the city's fate- should one fall the other will soon follow.

I need not your army, only a tiny portion of your most silent beasts, for I know the tunnels below the city well. Once, I lead armies to near victory in that domain, foiled only by treachery from afar. Times have changed. Ulric is a shadow now, his power a fragment of what it once was. However further distraction is needed, to ensure the count of Middenheim does not ruin schemes by chance as man is penchant to do. Occupy the attention of One Eyed Count outside the walls, for his eye is destined to remain fixed upon yours until your destruction. I –and my servants- shall achieve the rest. "

Khazrak considered as best as his hazy mind could. Such a deal would seemingly cost him little, as all that the daemon required was a herd of ungor raiders- near worthless, in the braylords eyes. Moreover, all Khazrak would have to do is harass the count outside his walls. Something which the Beastlord had done to Boris many times before and, just as in the past, if the count sallied forth, the brayherd could simply retreat into the forest. Something which Khazrak had also done before. The count had learned through painful experience not to follow the brayherd into the forest.

The more cunning part of Khazrak noted that the daemon's presence had only, so far, aided him. Malagor had been made into a fool in front of much of the brayherd and many of the traitorous followers that the shaman had won over to his cause were slain. His rival's power was diminished now.

And yet….

Daemons were inherently untrustworthy creatures. Indeed, the 'word of a daemon' had long been used to refer to a treacherous promise. Doubtless, the creature had a hidden scheme to cheat the braylord out of the prize. There would have to be a pact, bound by magic and oaths to the gods.

"Shaman, bind him with oath!" Khazrak commanded. Malagor snarled but, as he glanced around, he could tell that the Beastlord now had the definitive edge in support. Reluctantly, the Crowfather obeyed. Satisfied, Khazrak turned to the daemon. "If you wish to do as you say, you should have no problem with oath! Promise Daemon! Promise to the gods no betrayal! Promise no abandonment of the herd I send before to the tunnels below is quenched! Make an oath!"

Be'lakor stared blankly at the braylord and then shifted his view over the shaman. Slowly, a smile crossed his lips.

"Of course, mortal. Be'lakor shall make the oath…"

Oafs. Ne'er-do-wells . A failed race. Even in the ancient days, the same bygone past they exalt, Beasts had never been anything more than the crudest of tools. Useful bludgeons at best. Not suited for situations where more subtle means are required. They are the axe knocking on the door, where I need a lockpick. They are the roar in the alleyway, the boast of bloody death, where I need a blade of the dark. Fortunately, I have other tools for more silent needs…..

In a manner we are alike, the Beastlord and I. Primitive. Powerful. Pure of dark purpose. Yet in others, we are not. He is crude, one-dimensional, unimaginative. He hones the tired old tactics of his ancestors with new cunning. I learn from my foes and subvert their means of war to my own. His actions have little far-ranging consequences save that a few more insignificant souls are cosigned to darkness. My every action- failure or success, minute or significant- echoes throughout the ages.

Arrogant mortal. The Dark Master will not be corralled by oaths, especially not half-conceived proclamations such as these. A hound of Nurgle could find holes in pathetic promises such as these! Still, I did not lie. I shall not abandon what is sent along. Indeed, I shall need them, before the end.

AN: And that's a wrap for my first short story! The stories contained within this fanfic will be written in the third person limited style and will attempt to fill in more detail for events that occur in Chronicles of Convergence or even edescribe new events entirely.

The first few stories will compose of the prologue- so Warcraft or Warhammer centric, to set up future story will be Warcraft centric.