Chapter 2 - To Make a Choice [Story]

Morathi’s eyes took her gaze towards the bloodied streets; those that were yet carpeted with bodies and those that were relatively clean from the great slaughter that took place mere hours ago. First of the Hag Queens threw but a few curious looks upon the flowing scarlet below, so deep and seemingly unquenched, spread from wounds deep and from elves, likewise, quenchless.  

So it was that the dark elves of Har Ganeth were but loyal followers of Khaine and his violent ways. Each and every day they strictly followed the law, no blood could be spilled without a right reason and no death was to be given, thievery was minimal and lesser misdeeds were not carried out either. It reeked of nothing else but irony that the most law-abiding and peaceful settlement in all of Dark Elf kingdom was this belonging to the God of Murder, Khaine. 

For there was no other punishment than death, there was no other sentence than death and whatever you have done and been caught with, you would have nothing but death; your head cut off atop the tallest pyramid. You had to outsmart or outfool everyone and rarely did anyone know which it was until it was too late. Such were the rules of the city and by all means were they abided by.

But on the Death Night there was no law in Har Ganeth and the bloodthirsty ones were to roam freely and praise their god in any way they have sought. Which usually just meant one kind of murder or another - priest, soldier, merchant, citizen, man or woman, it made no difference to those whose greatest joy was murder for murder and violence for violence. 

And there was one who ultimately reaped the harvest of it all, the Crone that has been the second to Morathi only when it came to Khaine’s bloodied eyes. She sat atop the tallest towers and she led the great executioners, it was she that rested inside her court at every of such nights and only once they were done did she step out. Only then did Hellebron gather those yet unsated, unquenched and mad elves that yet sought for slaughter and slaughtered them accordingly.

It was their blood that she bathed in to preserve her beauty, her youth and her powers. 

All things the crones were addicted to and things that brought a smile upon Morathi’s face. It was by her hand that they were shown the ways of the Blood Cauldrons, it was by her will that they were shown how to preserve their raw, carnal glamour and unaging charm. One of the oldest of her schemes it was, for only she knew how to truly bring these enchantments  to work. 

But what she granted was momentary, temporary and with each time it was granted, the effects were shortened. Eventually it soothed one’s hunger for just a day or two and the truth of eternal beauty was something reserved for just her. Of course it was something her pets learnt all too late but yet was enough to bind them to her will for about as long as they wished to be youthful and appetizing. 

And it was no different for the Crone Hellebron, The Blood Queen. She too tread through addiction that was implanted in her and would carpet the whole world with bodies to learn how to stay flawlessly beautiful forever. 

Dark sorceress soon felt the approaching presence and turned around from the balcony. Her palm soon gently stroked Suleth’s cheek and the ever-writhing thousands of spells fed the dark pegasus; she saw the eyes burning with feral passion, wicked love and a much different kind of craving. Her little mount always was ready to play for just a few treats and the Hag Queen hoped Hellebron would be no different. 

So she stepped into the chambers of her would-be-underling, even though their relationship was a little more complicated; Morathi made no appointments nor sent heralds nor gave a notice, it wasn’t all that necessary and she preferred to be swift about it. A messenger could be turned back and an offer declined, someone freely roaming your personal spaces was a little harder to ignore. 

The mother of Malekith himself spread herself across the great seat of stolen and blackened velvet, her buttocks filled the chair all so well if almost perfectly; her flesh bent the fluffy seat down gently and trapped the loincloth beneath itself. Only the light from proudly sprouting darkvines illuminated the room with sickly amethyst glow, a shine that lovingly reflected off her bare thighs and nearly got lost in her cleavage. 

Between the blade-adorned walls of dark stone and under dimmed light, next to a bedstead so wide it could fit a dozen women and on top of the silken carpet, now so shamelessly crushed beneath her steel-covered feet did Morathi wait. Her eyes gave off a glimmer of their own alluring energy in the lack of true light; between shadows she waited as her little crone approached. 

Truly wasn’t long before the heavy song of dark, blood-forged metal was to be heard outside. The air was granted a delicious chill to itself and the very vines above reacted to the coldness that approached, twisted and shone ever so brighter, bathing the black lips of the sorceress in their glow. 

And so the door spread, pushed forth by an open palm and hand gauntletless, by the nails painted so flawlessly in the colour of fresh, sun-bathed lavender. Heavy boots of steel were to be soon seen, ornate in gold and black in natural shade, with every sticking out adornment being either so royally graceful or outright meaning and sharp. And her loincloth flowed down so gently, covering what truly hid beneath her loins. 

But what truly captivated one’s gaze was the great host of braided strands; a mane of beautiful and broad hair that stood so beautifully pink, where different braids turned from rose to bright cerise. Golden rings and amethyst strings tied the radiant tresses, all they went further down the crone’s black and turned into a darkened shade of fuschia. So there were flowers of similar colours woven into that great wonder of a witchdoom, perhaps they were adult nerines, perhaps mature dicentras. 

Little reason there was to ponder over the precise taxonomy, so in the end all that mattered was the beauty, the size, the monument of a witch’s power that this hair was. How it flew down her shoulders and below the fine bottom, how you lose half of your arm in its volume and sheer size - most of all, how unspeakably delicate that would feel. For it was the amount of braids that declared of a witch’s power in the society of Dark Elves and the Blood Queen was of great power; of that there was no doubt.

But there was beauty to it, not this delicate, nearly otherworldly one of Morathi but this refined, brutal of one of Hellebron. Soft skin was replaced by a proper set of muscles, one that told you of the Hag Queen’s affinity to dance across the battlefields and ability to move as if one with the flow of battle, yet one that well preserved the natural feminine beauty. 

Luck has had that it was just this night that Hellebron used the dark magics to bring back her glamour and by the gods, was it brought in fine glory. A fine bust lied trapped in steel armour that truly stood as more of a glorified corset; alluring, plump flesh of hers was sticking out of the cold metal and for the eyes stood most warm, not as massive or sizeable as this of the Dark Sorceress but doubtlessly of its own glory. 

“Morathi.”

And the chilly voice was to be heard, much like the piercing gaze was bestowed upon the uninvited, unwelcome guest. Vivid, pink eyes stared and it was just the sophistication of both ladies that yet kept Hellebron’s blades by her waist. 

“Sweet Crone Hellebron.” The sorceress answered, her puffiest of lips bending into a keen smile and reflecting the glow of ceiling-creeping vines. “So glad you decided to join me inside your quarters. I presume the harvest has gone well?” She asked with skillfully faked curiosity, with the insultingly obvious and pointless question to which answer she didn’t care about. “Such a mighty sight you are.”

And so did the mother of all executioners step forth again, her greaves singing against the cold stone once more and the door behind her closing alike a trained pup, all on its own. “What is it, Morathi? Have you come to bluster and gloat over something or is there a better reason why you decide to intrude into my chambers in my city.” She glared down at the mother of Witch King, in truth secondary to her but more willing to die a thousand times rather than openly show it.

“I sometimes visit my subjects to see whether they are not failing at whatever they may be failing.” Morathi declared carelessly, keeping her gentle smile and using it to unsettle the crone who was less than keen on the situation. “But so be it, I have not come to see whether you’ve made another braid or not.”

“We both know that you’ve been idle as of late. Har Ganeth has been.” Sorceress continued, leaning more onto the back support and putting one leg on another, allowing the juicy thighs to bend to this new position. "Irony has had that blood turned scarce. The fleets do not leave and our enemies do not budge; we both also know that it is not our blood that turned scarce.”

"Even slaves have been given better treatment and I know well that even yours enjoy longer lives." It was not a lie, even though it applied only to working individuals. Ore and food had to flow. "It is our weak ones that end on the altars more than not. Your weak too, Hellebron."

"What's next? More soldiers? Fellow executioners? Perhaps the witches under your palm? How long till there will be not enough of good blood for you? We both know the cauldrons do not tolerate beggarly sanguine." Morathi asked with a theatrically worried voice; perhaps just lined with slight pondering. "There's peril all around you and you know as well as I that it will flow into Har Ganeth no less." 

Hellebron squinted her eyes gently, staring at the Dark Sorceress; her beloved, addicting beauty was dependent on the blood and the shortage of slaves was not a myth. "So this is it, Morathi? You came up with some little blackmail strategy and arrived to spit into my face?" It was a dry voice, an unfriendly statement but yet careful one. You didn't live long if you underestimated the wrong person and Morathi, in the simplest way to put it, was a very bad person to underestimate. 

"Consider it an offer." Morathi's black, lovely lips bent into a fine smile. "Har Ganeth is holding strong but how long will it if the rest is dragged down? Your lovely sister-neighbour Calladriel is already falling herself; so I ask again, how long till you are the source of slaves?“

"You know it, so do others. How long till someone else - someone without your particular need for slaves comes up?" The sorceress stood up, stepped forth and then neared Hellebron so closely that their lips almost met - their puffy kissers almost bent against each other alike feathery pillows. "Morgwaeth? Faonora? Whoever came after Belleth?" 

"You can maybe deal with one… two if they come separately but - we both know they won't. They served me, they are too smart for that." She declared almost lovingly, warmly and her net seemed to tighten. Hellebron's attention definitely was her to command. Truth was that whoever would unite to undo the Blood Queen would likely kill each other later but alas, it was of little difference to the head of Har Ganeth. 

"But it doesn't have to be that way." 

Morathi extended her hand, running it alongside her fellow cultists' hair and then stepping back and falling down onto the puffy chair; falling with the delicious sound of a shapely body meeting something equally soft. "Just so happens the norscan Mung are sitting right outside our borders. Of course should you ever march through the land of Naggaroth, you would only meet Malekith's personal army but I may just put a word or two for you." 

"Take your men, take the prize of Mung brutes standing right outside your borders and return with carts of endless slaves; show that you may yet supply the city and do so right before Calladriel realizes she has to fight you." The sorceress declared, her voice more commanding than offering now. "Show others your position is strong." 

"And what do you gain from this?" Hellebron's voice have not turned any friendlier but admittedly, Morathi would be shocked if it did. 

"Portion of the slaves will be sent to Naggaroth, naturally. Your people will know you acted under my command and more so, you'll take care of Calladriel afterwards - I do not have time for such minor issues." Morathi declared and leaned back in her seat; the fabric beneath her buttocks groaning ever so beautifully. 

Hellebron stared at her superior for a longer time, her vivid, cerise gaze strong enough to put a halt a minotaur's charge. It was as if she pondered, wondered, as if sorceressly trap tightened even more; after all, it made sense. Yet, Hellebron eventually bent her lips into a wide smirk. 

"You grow ridiculous , Morathi." Her voice was poisonous, finely poisonous; dripping with venom of contentedness. "To think you would show up with such a generous offer." Blood Queen continued as Morathi's smile grew a little dimmer. "Here I thought you yet had something up your sleeve but your carefulness exposed you."

"Watch your tongue, Hellebron. You'll lose it with ease." Sorceressly tone remained playful, it was not as if things weren't going her way. "I'll not offer this again and you still have your oath to uphold." 

"My oath?" The ruler of Har Ganeth scoffed melodiously. "You expect me to take my soldiers, clean up your borders and bleed out my numbers, then you'll have me wipe Calladriel out and all of it for some-hundred, thousand slaves?" 

"What is my prize, Morathi? You came here for a reason - you need my numbers and my potency on the battlefield. You know it's not going to be this simple." 

"So be it." Morathi declared with some kind of exhaustion, setting the image as if she hoped for Hellebron to be a fool. All it took was a simple move of her hand for the pouch in Suleth's saddle to open and for three scrolls to fly out and present themselves in front of Hellebron. "This will change your mind I presume." 

And it definitely did. The Blood Queen's expression turned sharper and she eyed the ancient parchments. In truth, it would be of surprise to no one that she reacted in such a manner; for the Cauldrons of Blood and their gift of endless beauty and youth were the only thing keeping Hellebron in check. In the end it was the only thing she truly desired. So it was that the knowledge within these scrolls was enough to begin her addiction and would be enough to end it. 

So she again stared and wondered, calculated and understood - Morathi was correct in one thing, it definitely would change her mind. Just not in the way the sorceress expected it to be. "You grow desperate, Morathi. To think you would bargain the only thing that keeps me and our sisters in servitude." Her smile returned, much to the opposite of her guest. "Here I thought you're ridiculous Morathi but in truth, you were just desperate." 

"Stay your tongue, Hellebron." The Dark Sorceress declared, this time her tone much colder. "We both know you'll not decline the scrolls." Her expression turned grim, the mother was here to ensure her son's safety and to clean the house, she was not in the mood to play with other children right now. "Your alternative is making a foolish stand here in hopes you'll survive the implosion of our kind."

"Ulthuan and our cousins will come for you even if you survive everyone turning on you." It was a fact - even if any of the Dark Elf enclaves would emerge triumphant after the approaching civil war, the Asur would still come and wipe out what's left. "So stop barking and have your troops move by the dawn."

"But my troops are moving, Morathi." Hellebron purred out ever so contently - so mockingly and with such satisfaction. "They have been moving for the past month. Not that you would know of it since we've ensured the tunnels to Naggaroth would be collapsed. You see, Skaven are so easy to bribe." 

"You've dug your grave Hellebron." Sorceress declared chillfully but yet with upheld calmness, her eyes piercing, facing off with those of Hellebron. "You were not ordered to move your forces and to think you would do anything with Skaven, against us." 

"Stop believing you're in charge, Morathi." Hellebron declared radiantly - it felt almost wrong for a sadistic witch to smile as such and yet, here it was. "If I was you I would rather ask myself where my troops may be going if it's not Naggarond."

Sorceress frowned; there weren't many places that would make sense. Calladriel wouldn't be hit yet, she would know it the forces marched above the ground and the only place the tunnels connected to otherwise was south. Morathi's eyes widened just a little bit more. 

"That's right, Morathi. Your little Witch Boy has left to take care of the rebellion, thinking it's all in the south." Hellebron declared, extending her hand and softly rubbing its palm against one of the pale horns of Dark Sorceress' helmet. "But Clar Karond long ago decided that you've fell weak and so did your son. So did Calladriel and so did I."

"So soon your son will clash with the southern armies and oh… Such a shame that my personal forces will be on his back." Hellebron scoffed, pressing her thumb against the tip of a single horn, breaking it with ease. "I don't particularly think his little strained force can hold against that." 

Morathi's fingernails ran across the armrest of the seat, scarring it mercilessly; this world's only hope, her son Malekith was in danger just because she assumed their kind would never have this much cohesion. "All this scheming so I can turn you into a soup of bone marrow and sinew, Hellebron." Words of the Dark Sorceress were given and as it was in Druchii culture, they were to be taken literally. "Do you think you’ll live long enough to see it carried out?”

"Kill me here and your Witch boy still dies." The Blood Queen declared, still heavenly content with herself, looking down upon the sorceress who sat in her seat. "You are not attuned to my lieutenants, Morathi. Your messages will never make it in time nor will you."

"But you're right about one thing. I can't decline the scrolls." Blood Queen declared. "So I'll give you an offer as well, Morathi.” She knelt softly, right before the Dark Sorceress; lowering herself to match her sitting height and to stare directly into these vivid, poisonous eyes. “You’ll submit to me. You’ll not make a single move against me and above all, you’ll answer and listen to me alone, in flesh and in spirit.” Hellebron’s words were ever so calm but ever so patronizing; as if it was but an adult explaining something to but a child. “More so, I'll take the scrolls, all of them and all of their knowledge - without any tricks from your side.” 

“In return I'll turn on the South and my troops will aid your son." Cerise eyes squinted. “Har Ganeth will officially pledge itself once more to Naggarond and Malekith will be free to direct my troops - as long as you obey.”

“You grew mad with blood, Hellebron.” Morathi spat out, with faint calmness and a growl within. “I’ll not publicly submit to someone weaker than me. We do not have the same place."

“Oh but I never said publicly, Morathi.” Hellebron declared ever so keenly. “You’ll be mine when we’re alone and my hand will guide your decisions; we both know they will have more power that way." The Blood Queen's hand fell onto the delicate, soft chin of the sorceress, just to then grab it firmly. "There really isn't anyone to contest your rule, so I'll be fine with taking it for myself." 

"If you really think…" Hellebron didn't truly listen to what her former superior had to say - Morathi's obsession over protecting her son wasn't exactly a secret. The only fool oblivious it was the son himself of course and the only reason why nobody ever dared to point it out was the apparent power of both idiots that shared that blood. 

But the Lady of Har Ganeth knew that the sorceress would so about anything to protect her son; the Blood Queen didn’t exactly know of the many apocalyptic visions the other elf had nor understood how cataclysmic it would be for the Witch King to die. Not that she bothered.

"... there isn't a path in which…" As Morathi produced word after word, her blackmailer merely looker down upon the great bust of the Dark Sorceresses; it was fine, it was plump and likely would bounce with every thrust of a proper, fat cock. "... you don't even know… " 

There would be a lot to savour from this body she now looked upon but it wasn't just about the body. Hellebron centuries ago was denied service to this witch, then she was betrayed and addicted to the gift that only the owner of the scrolls could give and which was not given to her. Now she had an occasion to give so much back and it really was making her own loincloth grow disturbed. 

So she eventually thrusted her thumb into Morathi's pretty, little, warm mouth. She forced that salivated tongue to stop and then gave a most careless, excited smile to the mother of the Witch King. "You will be mine as long as it will take to put Naggarond back on its feet and after that, I'll still not be beneath you."

"Now make your choice before my men slaughter your son."


This is a commissioned piece. 



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