This story was written as a request by one of my supporters and is my first foray into the world of Warhammer Fantasy. While I did try to remain as faithful to the franchise's deep lore, mistakes may have slipped in, as I am still getting acquainted with this setting.
Thank you for your understanding.
Chased into the fabled Athel Loren, a young spearman of the Empire is taken into the care of the legendary Sisters of Twilight. The medicine they give him has an odd effect, however, allowing him to turn the tables on his saviors and captors.
Contains: M/F, Human/Wood Elf, Cum bloating, Large Tits, Huge Cock, Breeding, Cock Growth, Role reversal, Vaginal sex, Mating Press, Excessive semen, Limitless Stamina, Semi-Realistic Proportions, Some Voyeurism
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"I don't think we should be 'ere," Blareth whispered, fear gnawing at the stableboy, his big blue eyes searching the shadows of the Everwood for signs of the enemy. Even the gentle birdsong and the flowing water of a stream provided them little in the way of comfort. "The trees 'ave eyes, they do."
"If ye wanna turn back, now's the time. Doubt that pitchfork o' yers is going to be much good against the vermin horde, though," the great knight Von Gloragam grunted as he climbed over the gigantic root of a tree, the thing quite nearly as tall as he. "Village is already burned, no good turnin' back. Are you unmanned by a handful of trees, boy?"
Behind them, Eadric listened. While he feared that the Skaven had followed them into the Everwood, he would have almost preferred them to Blareth's incessant whining and Von Gloragam's misplaced bravado. At least death would offer his ears some semblance of peace.
His spear was stained still with the blood of the three ratmen he'd slain. A handsome youth of twenty-three summers, Eadric spoke little. The spearman knew when to shut up and when to follow orders. He did not, however, believe they were headed in the right direction.
Those who ventured into the Everwood never returned. Such was fact. The common folk who lived in the towns bordering the ancient elven forests knew never to wander into that woodland realm. No one truly knew what happened to those unfortunate souls who met the defenders of Athel Loren, and few cared to find out for themselves.
The spearman looked up at Von Gloragam. The man, while not as clever as other commanders he'd seen, remained a shining example of the Empire's glory. He stood in his golden armour and pristine white cloak, scanning his surroundings. His greying hair and scars reminded Eadric that he had most likely seen and lived through worse.
Still, he would follow his orders. It was what good soldiers did, after all.
"I saw others heading into these woods," Eadric finally said, eyeing his surroundings warily. "We would stand a better chance of surviving if we joined up with other survivors. Blareth has a point, I think. We're walking blindly through a forest we know little about."
Von Gloragam considered his words briefly, still standing atop a rock. "You make a fair point, soldier. Though there is always the chance that moving along the perimeter of these woods would make it likelier that we get assailed by Skaven. I would much prefer we take our chances with the elves than with the ratmen. And, as you two are under my command, it is my responsibility to -"
His words were cut short as both Blareth and Eadric's eyes went to the massive spear now protruding from his chestplate. They watched on with horror as the man in the golden armor was lifted from his feet by a hulking beast of a Skaven, a monstrosity of flesh and metal, its beady red eyes shimmering with malice.
"Yes-yes! Slay-kill the man-things! Doom and curses!" came a cry from the trees as two dozen of the rodent-like humanoids descended upon them, howling. While most of the creatures were smaller than full-grown men, they remained formidable foes, their wicked blades coming down upon the three humans.
With his back to the rat ogre, Von Gloragam grabbed the sword at his hip, the blade gleaming in the dim light of the forest. No light could pierce the canopy of the Everwood, it seemed, save for that of the Emperor.
"Emperor protect us! Fight on, soldiers! Fight on!" shouted the knight as his blade cut down two of the rat-men with a single swing. The rat ogre, still shaken by the display, regained its wits. Its huge paw came down at Von Gloragam, attempting to catch the warrior off-guard. With speed that belied his stature, he tackled the giant creature, knocking the wind from its lungs.
Blareth and Eadric, meanwhile, had their hands full with only a handful of the Skaven band, their weapons barely enough to keep the vermin at bay while they were slowly pushed against the rock upon which Von Gloragam still stood, battling the gigantic, brown-furred beast.
With no hint of hesitation, he thrust his great blade into the Skaven's stomach, piercing upwards into the creature's heart. The monster fell backward, barreling through a handful of Skaven who were climbing up the rock.
Still, more of them came, an endless tide of the abominable rat-warriors and the priests commanding them. Their numbers were too great. Both fighter and farmhand, armed with spear and pitchfork, fended off the creatures, but could not find room enough to slay any of them.
Eadric tried to find an opening, a way to escape, to save himself. He found himself out of breath and out of hope. Blood from a dozen of the Skaven slain by Von Gloragam trickled down towards Blareth and Eadric, running down the rock and down their back.
Von Gloragam, exhausted from his battle against the rat ogre and losing vast quantities of blood, found himself falling to his knees. He struggled to raise his blade to deflect an oncoming strike.
"It was an honor fighting alongside you," Eadric said, turning his head to Blareth. What he saw there, instead of the simple farmer's boy, was a deformed creature, covered in pustules and warts that seemed ready to burst.
Blareth looked to Eadric, gasping for breath. "K-kill me..." he begged, his muscles contracting from the horrible disease that had overcome him. Nearby cackling, from one of the plague priests no doubt, confirmed the source of that disease.
"Cry-cry to your Emperor! Man things! All-all belong to us!" screamed one of the ratmen from atop a small hillock, his staff pointed at Eadric.
A thump next to Eadric confirmed that Blareth had died, his disease-riddled corpse lifeless on the ground.
The spearman closed his eyes, bracing for the worst. He offered a prayer to the Emperor but felt only the plague-coated blade of an enemy slide into his ribs. The taste of blood soon coated his tongue, and he felt himself grow weak.
The whistling of projectiles.
Shouting. A mighty roar.
Darkness.
