Varro Frostheart still remembered.
He remembered the rustling of red leaves on trees swaying in the wind that blew down the valley, carrying with it the smell of the crops growing beyond the white walls of his village. He could see the snow peaked mountains in the distance, rising up spectacularly either side of him and trailing away toward the coast as they followed the flow of the river. He remembered thinking that there was something different about that day. There was a strange smell in the air. Smoke and blood he realised. There was fear on the wind. He looked up and saw the skies had turned grey, he heard the distant rumble of thunder and saw bright flashes of forked lightning striking the tallest peaks. An odd thing for this time of year. He remembered the sound of far away screaming, he saw farmers fleeing up the winding road toward the village, shoving aside the guardians at the gates in their blind panic. He remembered the weight of his sword in his hand and the thud of his boots on gravel as he lead a unit of guardians down the winding trail away from the village. Farmers parted to let the warriors through. On either side of him the trees lined the road, he saw shapes among them and heard their animalistic growls. Shuddering impacts rattled his bones as his sword clashed with blood dripping axes. Together he and his fellow guardians drove the horde back as an unseasonal rain began to fall thick and fast. That fight was hard and bloody. Bodies tumbled through the crops, leaving crimson smears in the dirt. As the rain pelted down the ground became slick with water and blood, soon both guardian and raider struggled to stay upright in the slurry. However the guardians resolve began to tell and the raiders faltered in their charge. There was a moment of respite as the guardians watched the enemy flee. There was joy that they had achieved victory. Men cheered but it was not to last. Suddenly elation was replaced with horror when they saw they had been deceived. Smoke rose above the red tiles of the village and the screams of women and children echoed amongst the laughter of madmen. Looking at each other the guardians turned back to the village, they had been drawn away by the raiders only for the bulk of the enemy to get behind them. That realisation was sickening.
He had run, oh how he had run, desperate hope etched on his noble features. As one the guardians had surged into the main courtyard of the village only to find it a ruin. Enemies waited for them, gorging themselves on the fallen they had flown into maniacal rages. Here the fighting was even more brutal than it had been in the fields. Guardians died in droves as the crazed butchers shrugged off even mortal wounds as though they were nothing. He fought on. He fought as hard as he could but his men were falling back or being cut down. Some fled. Limbs aching and sore he turned from the fight. He had to save them if he could. So he ran again. Through narrow streets he had dashed, cutting down any enemy that strayed into his path. He finally came to the house he hunted, a modest home, red tiled and white walled like the rest, with a wooden door and only enough room for a man and his wife and child. There was smoke pouring from the windows, there was blood inside. He did not remember this moment as vividly as the rest. It was almost as if his mind had subconsciously blurred the images, unable to cope with the horror he had certainly felt. He saw only vague shapes now, a small bundle of bloody rags he wept to look upon. A woman, whom he had loved so dearly yet would never speak her name to anyone but himself again. He remembered only anguish from that moment on. Stumbling and vomiting back into the hammering rain, he had remained knelt in the cold, as lightning slashed the skies and thunder boomed in his ears. How could he have let this happen? He wept openly, his sword held loosely in his grasp.
Then he heard them coming back. They laughed, they whooped and bellowed obscenities to their dark gods. He felt his fury rising, he remembered his guts boiling like acid and his blood burned in his veins as the lust of vengeance became an all consuming and living thing in his mind. He had risen to greet his foe and an oath had spilled from his lips.
"SIGMAR!" he had cried, tears of rage and pain falling freely down his cheeks. "If you are there, if you can hear me! Lend me your strength!" They had seen him now, they started to jog toward him with savage smiles and murder lust in their eyes.
"Lend me your might!" Thunder rolled through the valley and above him the storm grew more fierce. He brought down a warrior with a sweep of his sword, opening his neck to the sodden air.
"Lend me your fury!" He bellowed.
Another died by his hand, blood spattering the front of his tunic.
"I would see them all to whatever hell awaits them! I would have vengeance, or I will die trying!"
A third died, run through the gut. He tore the blade free, pulling entrails out with it.
His next words were choked with grief, "Should I fall then at least I will see my beloved again with my honour intact." He heard nothing but the storm reply.
More raiders had come at him with axes slick with gore, two of them he cut down before they had a chance to strike him. He had whirled on the third but the blow never landed. There was an intense flash of light, so bright he screwed his eyes shut to keep from being blinded and a crash of thunder so loud his ears rang. What he felt next he could not describe, it was both terrible and beautiful at the same time. As he was hurtled away by the lightning and the passing of time became incomprehensible, he clung to the only thing that could keep him sane. That was the faces of his wife and son. He took his happiest memories of them and locked them down tight in his mind. Whatever awaited him, he promised himself he would never forget.
That had been another life. Another time, how long ago he could not tell. Back then he had another name, he walked a different path that would have lead only to misery and death. Now he was Varro Frostheart. He was more than mortal, he had been chosen by Sigmar for something far greater than he ever imagined. His destiny had been changed by the will of the God King and although the fate of the mortal realms now rested in his hands, Varro had kept his promise and never forgotten the most important reason he continued to fight. He always remembered their faces most vividly when riding the storm. He closed his eyes and pictured them as if they stood before him, whispered their names. First his wife, then his son.
"Ilithia, Soren." It became a mantra. "Ilithia, Soren."
Sometimes he swore he felt the touch of Ilithia's hand in his own, or heard the laughter of Soren as he played by the fire. He would hold tight to those moments, use them to stir his heart into righteous fury.
Varro Frostheart felt himself crash back to reality. Heard the storm above and opened his eyes, crackling lightning still dancing over his armour.
He saw his enemy, different from those of his other life, yet familiar all the same. He felt his hatred boil. He let it consume him.
Crimson cloak billowing at his back the Lord-Celestant rose fully to his feet and swept his rune blade before him, its keen edge glinting in the sunlight.
"Vengeance! For Sigmar!" he bellowed and a hundred voices echoed his call.
I am, well I'm known here as Lukas the Trickster. I'm pretty much your average idiot with a little too much spare time. I read, I write, I watch movies, play video games and I paint Warhammer. There really isn't a lot I can tell you about myself here to be honest. |
I'm here to admire art in any form, painting, writing, drawing or photography. I'm here to talk to other artists, share ideas and opinions.
I'm here to post my own art, literature and model painting.
I'm not here to argue and insult.
I do not think I'm talented and struggle to see the good in what I do, I'm usually only proud of something for the time it takes to post it online.
Never the less, I will continue to post work as long as I keep churning it out.
Thanks for taking the time to read this, view my page and my work. You're all legends.
I am also part of a youtube series that specialises in reviewing video games old and new. This series is known as Game Couch TV. Every Sunday we strive to bring you fair and entertaining videos, showing plenty of gameplay and more. We are still in our infancy as a series and any support is welcome, the links to our channel and Facebook are below.
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Current Residence: Sunderland, England
Favourite genre of music: Metal/ Punk/ Film Scores.
Favourite cartoon character: Cartman/ Stan and Rodger Smith/ Peter Griffin
Personal Quote: Oh Fuck It!