The Corridors were bathed in an eerie green light cast by a sliver of an ominous moon. The moon itself was a stranger to the skies of Hirestel, and in truth it wasn’t really even there. It was the hallmark sign of the Gorgers, a gift of Grandfather Nurgle himself to the Great Unclean One, Father Kuro’Gall. It was said that through this moon, Nurgle could see into whatever realm Father Kuro inhabited and would gaze lovingly upon each Festerfeast held in his name. As the tides of Gorgers grew, so too did the moon wax until, when at last full, the Grand Festerfeast would be held. This strange foreign moon distorted the sky around itself as tendrils of sickly yellow light began to spread, forming a translucent aurora above the Corridors. Far down below amidst the twisting passages of the great maze a thicket of forest had begun to grow. Vile twisted Gnarlmaws had snaked their way up the walls like ivy, and beneath their foul canopy, the Master of Ceremonies of the Grand Festerfeast was livid.
Skuz’nik elbowed his way through the droning masses of Plaguebearers that were herding moaning diseased Free People into ramshackle wooden pens. Many Plagueridden were making their way deeper into the thicket, laden with filth encrusted trays filled with all manner of pots, pans, and rusty cutlery. Nurglings were cackling madly swinging from sinew ropes in the trees high above that hung heavy with bioluminescent lantern like orbs. The general effect was that of a loud busy kitchen in the midst of a nightmarish garden party, with demons bustling about hither and thither as Heralds barked out orders and called for various tasks to be completed.
“Unacceptable!” Skuznik screeched to nobody in particular, fuming as the crowds slowly parted way for him. Several Plagueridden trotted in his wake, frantically scribbling notes and adjusting scrolls of parchment under their arms as he criticized everything around them.
“We’ve been in this Realm for nearly a fortnight and we have nothing to show for it! Orcs, nothing but these cursed Orcs! Ever persistent Pinegore Fisters or whatever the savages have named themselves. Find out how they followed us here!” Skuz’nik snapped, stopping abruptly to turn and jab a finger into the chest of the nearest Plagueridden scribe causing him to fumble and drop all his scrolls. He sneered down in disgust at the scribe as he scrambled to recover his scrolls from the muck and grime that had accrued on the mazes floor.
“Worthless slime, if only I had a proper Scrivner”, he groused, begrudgingly reminding himself his next stop had to be to the High Quartermaster, Scrivner Zera’bas. As he continued through the Corridors to the High Quartermaster’s grove he mulled over how best to spin his most recent raid into the Eternal Battlegrounds to maximize his tallies. While he had not yet failed, the majority of his conquests had been putting down pockets of resistance of the Ironjawz Warband known as the Fist of the Gorepine. He had devastated the greenskins on many occasions now, but this issue still stood, they had fought these orks before during the corruption of the Witchwood. The orks had defended the heart of the forest with extreme zeal but it had not been enough to stop Father Kuro from personally corrupting the soul seed of the Great Gorepine. Needless to say, more ork flesh would be an overwhelming disappointment as a dish at the Festerfeast. His tallyband had put down some Tzeentch warbands, perhaps this would be worthy of a few tallies. It was a shame that the engagement was not large enough to draw the attention of Grandfather Nurgle himself as a blow against the Raven God in the Great Game played by the three Chaos Gods. He ceased his musings as he rounded the last bend in the forested hallway to the Tally Grove.
The High Quartermaster sat hunched at a great blotchy stained mahogany desk, not unlike one a judge might sit at. Zera’bas was a pallid lanky herald with the familiar “toad back” weathered green on his back and shoulders fading to a pale white chest and underbelly. In addition to his two bespectacled jaundiced eyes that were busy following his quill rapidly back and forth across a massive fleshbound leather ledger, he had a large third eye embedded in his forehead. The eye followed the other two across the page but would occasionally drift to the inkwell beside him when he went for ink, or to the abacus on the table as he ran numbers and confirmed tallies.
He had several Plagueridden attendants who handed him scrolls or tomes from the tall stacks surrounding the desk whenever he reached out a hand expectantly, not breaking concentration on his work for a second. Skuz’nik ground his teeth jealously as he observed the machine like efficiency with which the Scrivner went about his work. Skuz’nik’s own Plaguebearers were resolute and effective in their duty, and he drilled them constantly so their melee prowess was unmatched by their peers, but his Tallyband looked like bumbling children compared to this.
Skuz’nik threw a resentful glare back at his own scribes who were too slow to hide their looks of admiration for Zera’bas’ retinue. He approached the Quartermaster with mounting trepidation, straightening his back and puffing out his chest in a way that he hoped would exude confidence until he stopped at last in front of the massive rotten desk. He stood for several heartbeats, waiting for the Quartermaster to acknowledge his presence. Each second seemed to stretch on for hours as rage and indignity swelled in him at the Scrivner’s lack of response. Skuz’nik cleared his troat loudly and spoke before the silence could throw him into a bad light. He was after all, Master of Ceremonies and therefore outranked the Quartermaster, though for some infuriating reason Zera’bas seemed to care little for the fact.
“Master of Ceremonies, Skuz’nik here to report and deposit tallies from the Rotmaw Tallybands.” he said in a dignified tone, emphasizing his title. The Quartermaster made no visible sign that he had even heard Skuz’nik, instead handing off a scroll he had been writing on to one of his attendants with a dismissive wave and returning to the ledger. Determined not to let Zera’bas ignore him into submission, Skuz’nik raised his voice and continued,
“Ork warbands defeated five, Tzeentch warbands two, Seraphon, Stormcast, engaged with casualties inflicted across all counts. Total tallies of poxes are recorded and documented.” he gestured with a finger over his shoulder and one of his scribes hurried forward and handed off several scrolls to one of the Quartermaster's attendants. Skuz’nik bit his tongue, choking back an outburst as the attendant tossed the scrolls unceremoniously into a bin of scrolls behind the desk. He continued, determined to get a response of some kind from Zera’bas,
“We have also disrupted a vital ritual for the greenskins, and, I believe have dealt a serious blow to the savages leadership. I believe it is only a matter of time until the remainder of their forces at last succumb to our glorious afflictions. Nearly all their forces are already living Bloodspore Hive hosts, and we have documented several new strains of Blackrot amongst their number.”
Skuz’niks fists quivered with suppressed rage as Zera’bas still showed no sign of acknowledging his words let alone his presence. But no matter, he had one last avenue of attack, one that struck straight at the heart of every Herald; their efficiency.
“Be sure to log these as soon as you are able, I can’t have you falling behind on tallies here in this new realm.”
Sure enough, the High Quartermaster’s quill slowed for a fraction of a second and his third eye rose slowly to rest on Skuz’nik’s face with a bored slightly irritated expression. Skuz’nik held its gaze determined not to blink as Zera’bas straightened his filth encrusted spectacles and thumbed back several dozen pages. His first set of eyes slid down the page all the way to the bottom where he scrawled a single short line. Skuz’nik’s blood boiled, and in his head he silently screamed visceral streams of obscenities at the Herald before him. The Quartermaster flipped back to his original page and began writing again as the third eye rolled back down to join the other two.
Breathing heavily Skuz’nik looked down at his inner arm. He needed new enemies. Exotic enemies. But to defeat such enemies he would need more troops. Tally marks began to form on his inner arm as if being freshly carved by some invisible blade. His tally balance. He had already spent a fortune on attaining his position as Master of Ceremonies, not to mention establishing a foothold and base of operations here in Hirestel. His funds were nearly depleted. With a blur, almost as if the Quartermaster had read his mind Zera’bas had spun the ledger around to face Skuz’nik, ink still drying on a fresh new page already signed, dated and stamped with the maw of the Gorgers. It was a contract;
“Promissory Note; Intent to Spread”
A blank check for one of Zera’bas’ infamous loans. Skuz’nik looked up to see the High Quartermaster leering greedily at him with all three eyes. An impossibly wide and wicked grin of yellow misshapen, mismatched teeth spread nearly from ear to ear as he silently offered Skuz’nik his quill.
Skuz’niks ire was already icing over into dread at the prospect of needing to promise plagues to the High Quartermaster, plagues he was unsure if he could effectively spread in this strange new realm, when a long blast from the Horn of Nurgle’s Rot reverberated through the twisting passages of the Corridors. In the distance he could hear the cacophonous drone of the Bilepipers beginning to play the iconic fanfare of Father Kuro’Gall himself. He barely had time to register the look of overwhelming disappointment on the Quartermasters face as he wheeled about on the spot or ordered his retinue back to the heart of the forest.
Skuz’nik tore off back out of the Tally Grove toward the Grand Dining Garden that had been cleared deep in the Gnarlmaw Wood. The Gorgers had been carefully tending and spreading the thicket throughout the Corridors since the Rotmaws arrived. It was too soon! Skuz’nik was panicking, Father Kuro couldn’t be here already, there was still so much to do! He hadn’t even had time to secure a single exotic entre to whet the Great Unclean Ones pallet. The crowds of demons and mortals grew ever more dense as Skuznik made his way towards the Dining Garden. Everyone, he knew, wanted a chance to see Father Kuro, to bask in his wondrous munificence, and perhaps even gain an audience with the greater demon. Skuz’niks Scribes were clearing the way before him ensuring that he had a free path, and at last he emerged into the great cavernous clearing in the Gnarlmaw roots.
Reality was heavily warped here at the heart of the Gorgers stronghold. The Skaven Gnawholes Skuz’nik had commissioned had allowed much of the Gorgers own realm of Chaos to spill into this one. That, combined with the Garden of Nurgles own terraforming foliage had rendered this once small crossroads within the Corridors to be something much more. Well over two hundred meters in length and at least a hundred meters wide, the feasting hall was already set with long wooden tables stretching the length of the hall. At the head of the hall upon a massive raised dais of flesh, bone, moss and fungus sat Father Kuro’Gall. The Great Unclean Ones booming laughter shook the canopy of yellow leaves far overhead as he reached a hand into a wooden pen beside his dais. The terrified mortals in the pen could do little to resist, but they clambered over each other even in their weakened pox ridden state. They grasped desperately through the wooden bars and choked out frantic prayers to useless gods as Kuros massive fingers wandered aimlessly through their ranks feeling for purchase. At last he scooped up several of them like so many grapes and popped them into his massive distended maw. His eyes were fixed excitedly on the entertainment that his favorite Harbinger, Krull was providing with his Blightkings.
The Blightkings were well into a game of Bilebrew Bierlauf. The current contestant was holding his rusty plated fists aloft, rousing raucous cheers from the crowd as his challenger carefully considered the scrambling nurglings around the base of Father Kuro’s dais. At last he settled on a particularly fat one that he had to drag up with both hands as it bit and clawed playfully at his mailed fingers. The crowd cheered with renewed vigor and Skuz’nik observed Plaguebearers arguing with each other over the weight, size, and constitution of the Nurgling as they raised their inner arms at passing Scrivners placing bets of tallies. The Blightking raised the Nurgling high above his head and bowed low to Father Kuro who smiled and nodded in approval, chewing vigorously, blood spilling over his lips and dribbling down his massive chin.
The challenger returned to the barrel that was set as a table for the current contestant. He held the squirming gibbering Nurgling aloft by one of its horns as a massive stein was placed on the barrel beneath the Nurgling. The contestant Blightking rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck as the buzz of excitement from the crowd continued to mount. The challenger raised a great serrated blade and with a single fell swipe, gutted the nurgling from forehead to pelvis, the vile liquid and slop falling into the stein with a series of sickening splashes. The onlookers laughed and roared their approval as the contestant Blightking raised the stein to Father Kuro in a grim toast before chugging its contents. A hush fell over the crowd and the band of Bilepipers began a steady drumroll as the Blightking shuddered and convulsed, his flesh melting and twisting like animated wax. One of his arms fell away in a heap of rotten flesh as two huge chitinous insectoid appendages burst forth from its place and the crowd screamed and stamped in triumph. The hordes of seated Blightkings thumped their own steins against the long table in a steady beat as the contestant flexed his new appendages before raising them aloft to the crowd victoriously. The masses whooped and hollered and the Blightking made one final bow to Kuro’Gall who chortled happily, spraying the dais with limb fragments and gore from his last mouthful of victims. The contestant returned to his table to much applause and back patting from his peers.
Skuz’nik took this momentary lull in the festivities as an opportunity to make his way across the Grand Dining Garden to the foot of Kuro’Galls dais. The Great Unclean One made a welcoming noise through a mouthful of victims as the Master of Ceremonies approached and he tossed the half eaten remains of his latest handful of Free Peoples back into the pen beside him. The occupants recoiled as the remains splattered amongst them. Father Kuro wiped his hand off on his massive belly and threw his arms wide in greeting as Skuz’nik bowed low.
“Ahhh at last, my Master of Ceremonies!” Kuro boomed, and the noise in the feasting hall subsided significantly as many listened in on this new exchange. “I trust you have been settling in well to this new realm?”
“I have indeed great one!” Skuznik gushed, “I believe you will be most pleased with the tantalizing new flavors this realm has to offer. I have already located many factions with which to fill your bounteous larders Father. It promises to be a mix of fresh exotic spices as well as some familiar classics that I am sure will be a welcome nostalgic experience for your palate.”
Kuro’Gall beamed down at him swelling with pride.
“I’m sure you have! There is no mistaking the traces of Tzeentch on the air in this realm… but wait.” he leaned down slightly on his dais closing his eyes and drew in a great rattling breath through his nostrils. He sat back up wagging a knowing finger at Skuz’nik and winking slyly. “Is that the sent of an Old One I smell on you?”
Skuz’niks heart was pounding but he kept his composure bowing low again “Indeed it is Father, I had hoped to keep the surprise a bit longer but it is so difficult to keep things from you great one”
Skuz’niks mind was racing, technically he had engaged the Seraphon once but it had been a wild frenzied conflict and he had certainly not managed to secure any noteworthy prey from it. To his relief however Kuro’Gall slapped his knee excitedly and boomed again,
“Ha! I knew it! I haven’t tasted Carnosaur meat in what feels like millenia” he scratched his chin his eyes fixed at some far off place and Skuznik imagined the Great Unclean one was recalling his last engagements with the Lizard Men.
Kuro’gall called at someone behind Skuz’nik, “You see Krull, my Master of Ceremonies is already well at work making preparations for my next Festerfeast. You’ll have to be sure to keep your own tallies up if you hope to keep pace with this one!” Father Kuro threw his head back and laughed heartily at his own joke, which was echoed by his hundreds of sycophants, demon and mortal alike around the feasting hall. Skuz’nik however took the brief moment to shoot a livid glare at the Harbinger of Decay seated amongst his Blightkings. Krull’s face was impossible to discern behind the veil of chainmail that hung from his hood, but he was nodding in agreement with their father.
Skuz’nik fumed internally at the audacity of the Harbinger. So Krull had called his competency as Master of Ceremonies into question had he? Rich coming from the commander whos one resounding accomplishment in the realm of Hirestel was getting his precious Blightkings shot to pieces by a band of Wanderers. How Krull had begun the path to demonhood was beyond Skuz’nik. However, while Father Kuro’Gall had an unfathomable soft spot for mortals, from his experience they never lasted long in the grand scheme of things.
As Kuro’Galls laughter subsided Skuznik piped up once more hoping to keep the initiative going in the conversation.
“Great one, I must humbly ask your permission to take my leave. I have much to attend to in order to ensure the best Festerfeast you have yet beheld. I am pleased to inform you that we plan to move on Lestian’s Garden soon. Our Drones have already made several scouting raids there and we believe it to be a prime location for preparing the Foetid Cauldron for the Bloat-Broth this Feast.”
Kuro chuckled once more waving his hand dismissively “Of course my Master of Ceremonies, I would expect nothing less. Besides I have revelries to return to before I seek out these Old Ones for myself” he mused thumbing the hilt of his great Plague Flail. Skuz’nik dared to raise his eyes for a moment and met Kuro’Galls gaze. Though the Great Unclean Ones’ mouth was fixed in a wide fatherly smile, the warp energy glowing in his eyes told a story of pure malice. It was as if Kuro’Gall could see strait into Skuz’niks mind and knew exactly what the state of things were here in Hirestel.
Skuz’nik was paralyzed with fear, strange magics gripped him and for a moment it seemed he was suffocating in Kuro’Gall’s deadly stare. Then suddenly the sensation was gone and Skuz’nik was left very aware of all the noise in the feasting hall and how very foolish he looked still standing in front of the dais. He bowed low before exiting the Grand Dining Garden. His Tallyband emerged from the twisting passages of the Corridors and fell into line behind him as Kuro’Galls stare still burned in his mind. He shook his head furiously and strengthened his resolve. He would conquer this realm and bring its greatest denizens to heel. This Festerfeast would go down in legend. For he knew the alternative was terror, pain and damnation that he quite literally could scarcely comprehend...
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