Nevergreen: The Coven

Anvilgard, Aqshy

Three aelves and a human sat around a large table of red-veined marble.

“It's in Ghyran,” said Crisselda, an elderly crone with bone-white hair who exuded an aura of dark, oppressive menace, “A place called Nevergreen. Ever heard of it, Lorren?”

“Mountain range, west of Hammerhal,” grunted the human, a grizzled grey-stubbled man who was clad in black sigmarite plate edged with gold. A charcoal-feathered gryph-hound lay on the floor next to his seat, and a lantern-staff rested against the wall, signifying his position as a Lord-Veritant, one of the few amongst the Stormcast Eternals who were trained to fight sorcery.

“Could we could use their Realmgate?” asked Averlaine, a striking red-headed aelf sorceress. She was the youngest in the room, but seemed to be the most powerful, the air around her literally crackling with sorcerous energy. An ornate sigmarite chalice sat on the table in front of her, the liquid within shedding a pale blue-green light. Faint susserations emanated from it, whispers of the aelven spirits captured within, sequestered safely from the dark god Slaanesh.

Lorren snorted at Averlaine's words. “After what you did the last time they let us into Hammerhal? Not bloody likely.”

“But couldn't you...”

“Not even my reach extends that far, my dear. For future reference, remember that actions have consequences.” Averlaine frowned, the air around her sparking. She hated being criticised. Most would have been painfully reminded of this, but she knew better than to mess with the Lord-Veritant. Lorren scratched his balding head. “I can take you through one of the other Realmgates,” he suggested “The Seventh Shard gate is closest.”

“Festermere,” said Narcissa Silvermoon. It was the first time the coven mistress had spoken in the meeting. Though entrancingly beautiful, she lacked the menacing presence of Crisselda and the obvious power of Averlaine, but both aelves treated her with a deference that indicated she was far more dangerous and powerful than she appeared to be. Her green hair shifted as she leaned forwards, resting her chin on clasped hands, elbows on the marble table. Her hair wasn't hair at all, but a nest of serpents that shifted and curled constantly. It was rumoured that she had been cursed long ago by a servant of Slaanesh, but no one knew for sure, and she never spoke of it. “Averlaine, Crisselda, take the Festermere Realmgate. Then cross Greywater Reach, and find a pass into the mountains. I will join you later, when I can.”

Lorren stood up, and placed both his hands on the table. "I feel I should point out that this entire ill-advised venture is based on the testimony of a Tzeentchian sorcerer. Perhaps you should leave well enough alone.”

"What are you saying?" snapped Averlaine, her eyes flashing dangerously. Criticising her was one thing, but questioning the mistress...

"Calm down, love,” said Narcissa, waving a hand languidly at Averlaine, “He thinks we are walking into a trap. And he's probably right. The Changer of Ways has wheels within wheels. But we can't let the fortress fall into the hands of anyone else. We have to try and get there first.”

Lorren sighed. “If you're going to do this, at least take some of my Chamber with you.”

Narcissa grinned. “Oh, Lorren, you do care about us! How sweet.”

“It's my job to protect you,” muttered the stormcast irritably.

“I will gladly accept any forces you can spare to aid us, Lorren. I shall also see what support I can draw from the Blood Coven of Stheno. They still owe us. Coven dismissed.”

Lorren stood up and retirved his lantern-staff. “Hup, Shadow,” he called, and the gryph-hound jumped up and followed him obediently. He ruffled her feathered head as they left the council room, thinking. Despite his earlier words, the Lord-Veritant's actual job was to keep an eye on Narcissa's coven, and to protect Anvilgard from them, if necessary. While the Scourge Privateers and Order Serpentis had proven their loyalty to the city, the Darkling Covens were mercurial at best. They were basically personality cults, blindly loyal to their coven mistress above all else – and the mistresses seemed to cared for little save themselves. But damnit, if he hadn't become fond of the prissy aelf with snakes for hair. Maybe her enchantments did work on him after all, despite his training. Narcissa was, Lorren suspected, a kindred spirit to his own Stormhost, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, doing her best to follow the orders of God-King Sigmar, whilst struggling with her own personal darkness. Lorren looked up at the light blazing from the top of his lantern-staff. An idea occurred to him. Perhaps what the Darklings needed was more light. He turned and headed towards the docks.