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The Scrolls of Malochai

Malochai

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#1
Malochai is a Name; a Name of Power spoken throughout the Known Worlde. None of the younger races know who Malochai is, and few of the Elder Races deign to care, but the Men of the Empire and Bretonnia drunkenly boast of meeting him - some say an elf whose true name Maelakai from Ulthuan scarred from the earliest fights against Daemons in this world; some claim him to be a daemon himself. Others say a dwarf by the name of Malachai, venerable and with a beard long enough to wrap himself in a cocoon of his own hair, whilst still more claim him to be a vampire dating back to the fall of Lahmia.

The truth, however, is none only to him. He was Here long Before the first Great War of the elves, and it is possible he was a servant of the Old Ones whilst they were still on this world. He's an observer; ever has he been an observer, of events which shaped the future of the world to the most mundane of things, like a peasant family in their hovel. He has a profound interest in the Elder Races, or so it would seem, but his gaze has been drawn everywhere during his long tenure as this worlds Remembrancer.

Regardless, throughout History, Scrolls bearing his Name have been found scattered. From the city of Weijin in Cathay, the seat of the Dragon Throne, to the ancient, crumbling temples of the Slaan in Lustria and the desolate, sand-strewn pyramids in ancient Nehekhara, his works can be found. They are treasured by collectors and are said to be valuable beyond belief - worth more than an Emperor's ransom to the right collector.


I thought it was about time I had a place to store the semi-completed stories and the short vignette-like scenes I come up with, a repository for my writings. I shall post here whenever I feel it is appropriate, and promise no regular updates! Anything could be found here - from the holds of the Karaz Ankor to the tribes of the Mountains of Mourn, the Plain of Zharr and the dread city of Zharr-Naggrund to the isle of Ulthuan and beyond!

So, come, and see if anything contained within the Scrolls of Malochai interest you!​
 

Count Vashra

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#2
Excellent idea, Malochai :thumbsup:. I like this mysterious scrolls theme. I'll keep an eye on it.
 

Malochai

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#3
Cheers Vash! I'm almost tempted to do more fluff on Malochai now! -_-
 

Malochai

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#4
The Awakening​

Deep in the heart of Caledor’s Dragon Spine Mountains, in a cavern lit only by single thin shaft of light, a creatue asleep for three centuries stirred - a long, shuddering breath ran along it’s sinuous, scaly body, before deepening into steady breaths again, long and slow. Each outwards breath started to produce a deep hrrrrrrming sound as the air was expelled from bellow-like lungs. The plumes of crystallised water sent into the frigid air slowly became a stream of thin black smoke which thickened and hung in the air like a dark storm. Membranous wings, aching with the tension of being curled tight to the scaled trunk of its body, extended slowly, the brony pinions scraping gently along the ground, each of the sharp enough to pierce armour, and then were ruffled gently. Jaws lined with sword-like teeth opened wide in a bizarre parody of a elven yawn, and the fangs glinted in the weak light. A dark pink-purple tongue, forked like a serpents, flickered out and tasted the smoky air. There was a strange taste lingering, like the memory of a memory, and it was growing stronger, as if were approaching. Even in the coma-like state of the creature, the long, scaled body - curled about in a lazy semi-circle - was wracked by another shiver passing up it, accompanied by the lengthy tail sweeping almost agitatedly across the dust-coated floor.

‘You know my voice.’ The lyrical voice broke into the dream-slumber and a growl forced its way up the drake’s throat and through its mouth. The sound resounded around the large cavern, echoing loudly. The voice was familiar and yet strange, something ancient and yet new. A spark of interest was lit, but the preternatural sleep nearly extinguished it. ‘Come now. Answer the call.’ Another growl, and this time an eye half-opened, the scaly lid slowly pulling back and a leathery inner lid slid horizontally. The orb, almost glowing with an inner, fiery light, had an iris of red and orange, a slit pupil of jet black. The faint glow of volcanic fire lingered around her fangs and set shadows flickering across the walls.In the distance, another flame drew nearer, surrounded with an aura of the aethyr. Once more she growled, and her eyes snapped open fully. The scaled lips drew back in a snarl.

‘My will is before you. Bind your will to mine. Our minds shall be joined, our powers merged. We shall become one mind, one power.’ A burst of anger snapped across the encroaching mental link, and for a second the singing stopped.

‘You are bold, to come into my lair. What gives you the right?’ she barked, drawing to her feet and spreading her wings. It was an impressive display; her wings spanned eighty feet and when she reared on her back legs, she measured fifty high, although she was still small in comparison to the cavern. Her scales glimmered in the light, the colour of wine held before a bright lantern. The pressure of the wings caused the magical flame to flicker and sputter, and when no answer was forthcoming the she-drake roared, a monstrous bellow which resounded around the cave for nearly five answer, and simultaneously demanded - ‘Answer me, elfling!’

The elf bowed magnaminously, and the flame - held atop the staff she held - and then sang out with her mind, like silver bells. ‘I am Chloë Helyanwë, descendant of Imrik, your companion, and further, Caelon Helyanwë, companion to your sire. By right of my blood I call to you, by my will I would bond with you. By my heart I would be your companion, your friend.’

She snarled again, showing her teeth, but she allowed the she-elf, this Chloë, to reach for her mind again, trying to bond with her. The layers of their minds met, and instantly the dragon was seeing images; a handsome male elf, so alike to this one, a trio of ships sailing from a harbour, to join a larger fleet just off the coast. A city, a mountain, black smoke rising from it. A hard climb, dreams of fire and volcanic heat, revelling in it. Then the emotions hit; exhiliration, excitement, disappointment, hope - fear. The last was the most pronounced, an overriding sense of it. Even the dragon, as unused to these sensations as were most dragons, felt something stir within her. ‘What is this fear? Who is the he-elf?’ she sent, along with her interpretation of the emotions.

The elf was shocked, and it took her a moment to organise her thoughts. ‘He is my brother; he sails the sea to fight. We hope he will avenge the sister taken a century ago … By the druchii!’ The last word was sent with such anger that the dragoness roared again, and added her own fury.

‘The Kin-Slayers, the Egg-Cursers!’ she howled, before lowering her head to look at Chloë, almost appraising her. ‘They killed my nest-mates and dam, they maimed my sire. I will aid you in this, Chloë descendant of Imrik, if you can but name me.’

A look of excitement, as if she had almost been to afraif to hope for this, flashed across her face, and she took a deep breath to centre and calm herself. ‘You are Kyalsie, whose sire was Draukhash and whose dam was Ingeria. You are she who is named the Forge-Fire, Scourger of Dwarves.’

Kyalsie, Moon Dragon of Caledor, roared in approval as her titles were listed, and when the sounds faded she lowered her head once more.

‘So, Chloë Imrik-kin, it seems we are bound; me to you and you to me!’
 

Malochai

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#6
Thank you, Get :D I've wanted to do that one for a while and finally decided 'sod it' last night and went for it!
 

Get of W'soran

CN's Lord of Masks
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#7
Glad you did! The elf-dragon interaction was quite "believable" (as far as such things go in warhammer!) and enjoyable to read :)
 

Malochai

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#8
So, whilst maybe not a Scroll, I would like some opinions on these, the Banner of my new High Elf Settlement. It is an island (whose location I haven't yet decided on) somewhere on the Great Ocean to get around the fact I couldn't decide where I want my HElfs to be from, as I can have them from everyone populating a colony!





The first one has the name of the city (Tor Caedron) along with those of the ruling families (Malothir and Helyanwe), whilst the other just has no text. What do you think? I'm not sure on the text!
 

Get of W'soran

CN's Lord of Masks
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#9
Very cool banners!

I actually like the text!

Perhaps one could be used by the common Soldiery and the other by the Nobles and the City itself?
 

Malochai

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#10
Sorry, no more stories this time, but I have updated my banner - no longer is the city Tor Caedron, but Tor Loremar! With Tor Caedroc, Caelon as a character, I felt it was too close to a theme I had been running with. So, here are the banners:-




And here is a map of the Elidh Archipelago, where the city is located:-

 

Malochai

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#11
Prison

Before Khais the mighty maw of a vast cave yawned wide and forbidding, natural and yet a heavy lintel of black marble had been placed above it. The Druchii steeled his heart and read the warning precisely carved onto the perfectly carved marble and shuddered; Here lies the entrance to the Prison of the Tainted. Within lies the Bloodscale. Once more he shuddered, and he felt the magic which lingered in this places strongly, a tingle across his skin, an acidic stench in the air.

"This is a place of power," breathed a voice behind him, silken and terrifying. The assassin-cum-scout spun on his heel and glared at her, his face so alike to Ralnor's. "This is a place of death, witch. We shouldn't have returned here!" His voice was cold and merciless, but his eyes betrayed a speck of fear, and she knew it. Morgaine scowled, her beauty unaffected by it, and glided forwards with utmost grace.

"No, Khais. The Signs were irrefutable - the Caledorians come and with them one of their drakes. Without this, Hael Kar will be as defenceless as a slave in a Naggarond whorehouse!" The male's face clouded with anger, but he dared not raise a hand against her and, cursing foully, stepped aside. Sickly-sweet smile on her face, the sorceress strode forwards, and suddenly a stiff wind, chill and biting, whipped up, wildly blowing about her diaphanous black dress around her legs. This high in the Titan Peaks, it was a minor breeze. Ignoring it, the woman passed beneath the lintel, slowing as she did so, as if the air became treacle, and then Khais followed, his misgivings clear in his fluid stride. Sounds from behind him were suddenly muffled, as if heard from beneath water, and the air was still and warm, unnatural so. Before them, the cave reached back twenty paces into the side of the mountain, before sloping down steeply and tuning back upon itself in a series of switchbacks. The only light was that which Morgaine deigned to create, a pale flickering ball which hovered above her head and followed her as if on a leash.

Deeper they delved into the mountain, the blackness somehow becoming even deeper and closer, the light seemed to reach further despite glaring more intensely. Every now and then, messages were scrawled upon the black walls, chiselled or even scratched, as if in great fear, and this was confirmed in the wards which guarded the innermost sanctum - for every mile they walked, there was a ward which would prevent passage - one who dared to try would die in great pain, said the sorceress. Khais, despite the temptation to deny everything she said, couldn't help but believe her. As they drew closer to the innermost wards, great waves of nausea swept over him, cramps in his gut set in and his head throbbed with immense pain. She seemed unaffected, and her lips moved incessantly as she stripped the wards of their power.

"This is it." Morgaine's hissed voice worked its way into his mind, triumph in it. "This is the last ward!" Khais thanked the stars; convulsions had begun to set in on his leg, sending it jerking uncontrollably every few seconds, and a steady stream of black blood trickled from his nose, the acidic stench thicker than before. He felt the air crackle with tension, and a pressure set down on him, which increased and increased, as if bands of iron were being tightened around his stomach, chest and head. Tighter and tighter they drew, and he tried to scream with pain, but it came out as little more than a gurgled moan as the air was forced from his lungs and admitted no more. Tighter and tighter, the constricting force grew, and he fell to the ground, tears flowing from his eyes, which had already grown bleary; spots danced before him and a low buzzing attacked his ears. Tighter and tighter ...

... And the pressure and pain disappeared. With a struggling gasp, Khais devoured the air as if it were the freshest the world had to offer, and minutes passed before he could raise from his hands and legs. When he did so, his legs shook, as did his hands. He went to wipe his face and the hand came away bloody; his pale face was streamed with blood running from his tear ducts. He looked to Morgaine, and found her face to be the same, streaked with blood like the warpaint of savages. Somehow, it made her seem even more powerful and ... Even more alluring. He dashed the thought when she looked harshly at him with disgust.

"Why were you writhing in the floor like a human?" Her voice was cruel and barbed, and he dashed any thoughts of her looks, sneering back. Shaking her head, Morgaine turned back to the end of the tunnel, which opened onto a space so large the walls opposite and to both sides couldn't be seen. Channelling more power into the globe above her head, she sent it into the centre. It shone more intently, and the walls, coal black, became visible. It was a vast square, a hundred paces across, and a flight of stairs clung to the wall and wound its way down like some immense snake. Exerting her will, the sorceress split the light into two and one sank like a stone, travelling down at tremendous speed. It could be seen faintly a hundred feet below, hovering over the ground.

"From here I go alone," she said, and without another word she began to descend, taking the second globe with her - leaving her companion where he stood in near complete darkness. As she started to go down, the air grew frigid and even colder than it had been atop the mountain, and then without warning became hot and humid, a sulphurous stench infusing the air almost overwhelmingly, mixed with the smell of offal and viscera. She gagged as she rounded the last corner, spitting out the small amount of vomit. She scrunched her face at the caustic taste before continuing on, looking about as she finally reached the ground - it was rough and uneven, as if gouged with immense claws as hard as gromril. One of the wall faces, one hundred feet below Khais, had he known it, was barred with an immense gate of some black metal, gouged with runes. Behind it lay the curled form of some immense creature, with scales the colour of dried blood glistening in the light from Morgaine's witch-light, glared back with milky eyes and bared teeth. A deep, vibrating growl emanated from its jaws and it crouched lower, almost protectively. Figuring the magical key to the gate took her half an hour, and in that time the dragon blinked but once, the eyes unnerving even her.

Finally, a click resounded through the space, and each spear-like pole of the gate retracted silently into holes in the ground. The sorceress stepped forward, and the dragon shrank away, still growling and staring. Opening her mind, she was instantly assaulted - not with words, but with deeply held emotions. Rage, hate, disgust - fear. Hurriedly closing her mimd again, fortifying it against the attack, and then spoke. "You are bound, Bloodscale. The magics used to break you still linger; your mind is still broken! You are broken!" She howled the last words, and Bloodscale roared back, launching forwards. Tongues of flame licked at her teeth, and Morgaine stepped back, stumbled and fell, horrified. 'I failed,' she thought, preparing herself for death - and then felt the feel of scales ruffling her hair and the feel of the air being displaced. The dragon had spring over her, launching into the vast stairwell and was currently trying to escape - part jumping, part climbing, it pulled vast swathes of the stairway down, and sent with them down-droughts which smelt, if possible, worse than ever. Smiling horrifically, despite her tenuous situation, she cast one last glance around the prison, only to freeze. There, in the corner, lay an egg of deepest black and shot through with veins of navy blue and blood red. Her smile widened into a grin, and she stepped towards it slowly.
 

Malochai

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#13
Kotova, Gospodar Stanista

“Boyar Radomir!” cried the pale leader of the riders, her voice as cold and unforgiving as the rasposita, when the snow was as deep as a man was tall and the wind felt sharp enough to shear the flesh from bone. It cut across the battle cries of rotas, the terrified screams of woman and the wails of children at the teat. “Boyar, come defend your people!”

The tang of blood was heavy on the air, a scent which aroused the hunger of the woman as she flared her nostrils, scanning the large central square of the village for the man she sought. Smoke, thick and black, rose into the air as her soldiers set homes afire. “You can stop the slaughter now, Radomir, if you come forth!” Around her, soldiers fought and killed each other, but the battle broke around her like an island in the centre of a raging river. Only a few brazen souls tested her skills, their blades seeming to flow through trickle to her, whilst she contemptuously parried or avoided the blows, her movements as graceful as a cat's and seemingly effortless. The sword she wielded flashed out like a silver viper to pierce eyes, impale hearts or slit throats. She snarled and grabbed a passing kossar with slender, pale fingers digging into his flesh, pulling his throat to her lips. The man squirmed and screamed, his booted feet ineffectually kicking at her. With a bestial growl, the she-vampire tore his throat out, fangs sliding from her gums as she gulped down the fresh blood, spiced by both fear and arousal. "Your people die for your cowardice!"

"They die for your amusement, abomination," replied a female voice from behind her. Trailing the body of the dead soldier in her hand, the vampire spun to see her, the armoured flesh before her the only thing that prevented a hail of icicles, each a foot long, from piercing her body. Thrusting the unfortunate aside, she gathered strands of magic to herself, weaving a cocoon of sorceress power around herself.

"You test yourself against me, witch?" Her bark of laughter was grating and dismissive. More ice formed and flew through the air, only to meet a rearing wall of black flames, searing and sizzling as it loosened and frayed the strands of Kislevite magic. In return, the vampire sent a dozen bolts of purple lightning, bright enough to burn themselves onto the retina, across the distance between them, leaving the stench of ozone behind. A wall of glistening ice reared up to absorb them, only to shatter at the impact. The witch cried out in shock, covering her eyes, and when she looked again rivulets of blood streamed from her hands and arms where slivers of sapphire had embedded themselves in her flesh.

With more power than the immortal had imagined the witch possessed, a winter storm lashed at her, howling gales tearing at her flesh, ice forming across limbs and leaving rimes across her eyelashes before encompassing her entirely. Her mental shriek reverberated in the minds of all nearby, cowing them and sending them scurrying regardless of who they fought for.

"You are a cheap imitation of humanity," the witch spat from across the square, slowly closing the distance between the two of them. Within the ice the vampire raged, straining. Hairline cracks appeared as she applied her unnatural strength. Magic swirled around her, blinding her to the Kislevite's mage-sight, and suddenly the block of ice which surrounded her exploded, the shards tainted by flickers of shadow. A dark storm cloud formed overhead, flickering with intense lightning as the undying creature stepped from the shattered prison.

"How dare you?" she spat, practically hissing with unrestrained rage, "I am Liassia, daughter of Neferata and child of Lahmia! The dead are mine to command! I am the puppeteer of a dozen nations which were civilised before you crawled from the caves you called home!" The recently dead stirred across the battlefield, getting to their feet and shuffling to form a barricade of dead flesh between the two women. The witch backed away in horror, disgust writ large across her face. Stalking after her like one of the panthers of Ind or Araby, Liassia let her bestial side rise to the surface; her features contorting into a crude mix of feline and human, as if a crazed necromancer had stitched together the two creatures into a facsimile of life. The dead parted before her like a wave, and she snarled in pleasure as the witched turned on her heel and ran. She garbled something unintelligible and sank to her knees, tearing the flesh from her body to reveal a lithe, feline body covered in sleek black fur. Sapphire eyes gleamed with hunger and she growled, preparing to launch herself after her chosen prey.
 

Count Vashra

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#18
Always good to have a favourite. Far easier to get in character and write realistically for someone you care about.
 

Malochai

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#25
I will, I will! I've been trying to outline the plot point so I don't get lost and trail off!

In other words, I work, leave me alone :tongue: hopefully tomorrow night will be the next update, in Bretonnia!
 
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