It is unbelievable what Von Carstein’s think they are capable of. It defies all logic. And now the rest of the world seems like they believe the lunacy as well. I am quite certain that it would take no more than two, three at the very outmost, of our little band of thugs and murders to dispatch the ruling head of the Von Carstein’s and presumably most powerful creature they boast.
And yet with all the world in flames under the daemonic hooves of Chaos it is the Von Carstein’s resurrecting a failed necromancer that has already been exiled, cast down, and destroyed multiple times throughout history by much smaller forces… It is Nagash that most of the Old World’s armies ride to stop.
Meanwhile a sheep herder of less than 20 years as any kind of strategist or commander has devised most of the plans that the entire bloodline is relying on for their continued existence. The 4000-year-old progenitor of the species that somehow knows everything about everything apparently believes in the Von Carstein’s so much that she has elected to trust a mission of guile and subterfuge that her very survival and all her plans hinge on to the very team she apparently knows so much about.
Her spy network revealed every detail of my past and innermost struggles and yet she doesn’t comprehend that Rollo is as subtle as a sledgehammer, Ziegfried as sharp as wet sponge, Oliver as charming as a turd in a Sylvanian bog, and Wealdmaer as elven as a fucking skeletal death knight. Every agent of beauty and wit and charm she has at her beck and call and it is the five of us she wants to accompany her on her masquerade.
The greenskins would have a better chance of not fouling this up.
And now we face a dragon larger than most inns I’ve seen surrounded by the bitterest cold that has ever blown across this world or any other. None of our magical spells or steeds can pierce the blizzard that rages all about the monster and despite having no plan and no experience in such matters, the Von Carstein arrogance simply assumes we are equal to the task.
The monstrous wyrm seems utterly impervious to the Dread Master’s most powerful enchantments and my own feeble attempts fair no better. The Viscount can’t even approach the beast and the Grand Marshal’s winged steed looks like it is about to freeze solid.
But the most absurd thing of it all, is it fucking worked again.
The Dread Master managed to get one spell to take hold by the slightest of margins, and the great dragon plummeted to the ground. The Grand Marshal followed its example and leapt off his steed to crash into the dragon from above. Having the solution to pressing through the blizzard by way of the immutable rule of gravity demonstrated so dramatically for us, the rest of us followed suit. And in seconds this titanic elder wyrm, likely 1000 years old or more, who has survived who knows how many legendary encounters, is ripped into bloody little pieces and fed upon by 3 baby vampires, a dusty old skeleton, and their multiple personality disorder cannibal wizard.
The world is gone mad and I shall be happy to depart it soon by one means or another.