Stormsheppard.(A Dragonstorm Short Fic)

[SirNitram]

"Wake up! You must wake up! A Dragonstorm comes!" "He's not moving!" "Grab his ears! I'll get his legs!"

And so began another joyful and rewarding day as this podunk village's shaman. The apprenticeship the old lady gave me on how to talk to the dead really didn't turn out to be worth the price, I suspect; now, whenever I'm not busy, I have to come back here and babysit the farmers and miners and their extended, dead, families. "What time is it..."

"An hour to dawn! We let you sleep as long as we could! The storm is coming! IT'LL EAT US ALL!" The horde of ghosts clamoured at once. A momentary spell to shift the rest of my senses into the spirit realm confirmed it; in the far distance, through the hazy, indistinct form of the house I was in, there was the unmistakable pull and tear of a Warp Storm ripping through the ream of the dead. It would be there in the living realm, and by my guess, a few hours away. Perhaps hitting around noon.

Which, sadly, meant the ghosts were right. I couldn't sleep any longer. There was too much work to be done. I threw on the least-obnoxious ceremonial robes I had(Long story. Shamans, as a rule, have no 'uniform', but wizards do. My cover story the past few years has been that I'm a wizard, so my 'uniform' for being the official shaman is wizard robes. At least they haven't tried to knit me another set...), and stalked out to try and find what passed for the brains of the local outfit, banging on doors and yelling at half-asleep people to start battening down the hatches and getting livestock in.

I suppose being a Shaman has a few perks. People listen when you scream incoherently at five AM. What passed for the town guard was assembled and clad in their beaten-metal armour and fine array of blunt objects and farm utensils. It was nearing noon, but the light wasn't any brighter as the farm animals were forced into buildings made for these things. The sky was a tainted, sickly shade of purple, and the storm itself could be seen careening down from the northern valley, to where it opened into plains. Right where this village was.

"Alright, everyone, listen to me. We've done this before, but we'll do it again. You seen any strangers loitering near the storm, you grab 'em, you knock 'em out real gentle, you drag them here. You see any kind of monsters, critters, whatever, you run and get me. No heros. Heros get killed. Guardsmen go home to their families. Go, let's get the job done." The ragged salute was enough; these were conscripted farmers who had once or twice beaten off a giant squirrel, or fought enough in barfights to prove their worth. They were shitty fighters and worse guards, but they were what I had.

Ask any peasant or farmer the worst part of a Dragonstorm and he'll tell you the terrible monsters it spits out: Madspawn from people it grabs, tainted beasts from livestock, and of course, the hellish Shapeshifters, awakened by the foul dragon-magic in the heart of these things. I knew what I feared worst about these storms: The Necromancer apprentices who follow'd them, snatched up the shapechangers for the diluted dragon's blood that ran in their veins. Why?

I'm a shapeshifter, of course. Pretty close to pure lineage, too; I transform into a dragon, not a pegasus or gargoyle. What's that? The Necro in your village told you dragons make the Storms, and send them to kill everyone else for some ancient insult? The Necro told you that we're evil, scheming monsters? Well, okay, the 'scheming' bit is probably true. But the rest? Eh, when has a Necromancer ever told the truth? You'll learn, kid, you'll learn.

As the storm bore down, all seemed to be going right for once. No monsters driven ahead of the storm, nor idiots in hooded robes thinking it'll be the best disguise ever! skulking around my town. The guard met up as trained with only one reported missing due to cider(Which are least confirmed he was indoors), and were sent to their families. To me fell the unhappy task of weathering the storm while holding watch. It fell to me, for I was the only person able to shield myself from it's body-and-soul twisting effects. Even the ghosts and apparitions had gone inside; a desperate attempt to avoid the storm's sucking hole in the Other Realm.

With the last window bolted, I knew what had to happen. Unlike the three 'conventional' paths of magic.. Power from the Earth Mother, Elethay, in the form of witchcraft, power from the realm of the dead, in the form of shamanism, and power from the elements themselves, in the form of wizardy, something darker was needed to affect such a huge, unnatural rent in the natural order. It required, in fact, the power of the lying bastards themselves.

See, here's something the Necromancers don't tell anyone. Their power, rather ironically, comes from those shapeshifters they've been telling you are so bad. S'why anyone who manages to bag one lives like a prince the rest of his life off the spoils; they'll pay through the nose.. Well, if they can't get away with just taking it. Lovely little circle of fucked-upness: Storm awakens shapeshifter, necros bag shifter, drain shifter of soul for necromancy.. and then use variations of the trick I'm about to use.

What's that? Did I drain a shifter? Fuck no! I'm no shiny good guy, but I'm not that fucked up. I just use my own blood. It feels kind of like bits of me are on fire(Technically, they are), but vaporizing some of my own energies from my bastard-ancestor empowers the necromancy. But the effect is well worth it; by tainting parts of my own energies temporarily, I can seize the storm and.. Yes.. Shove it aside.

And that, my lad, is how it always goes. Except this time.

Don't look so surprised. The universe hates me. I once ran into a Madspawn whose cock had been mutated into a thing that fired spikes and corrosive goo. It bukkake'd death, lad. Compared to that, this was merely going to be life-threatening, not disgusting.

A familiar woman, Warp-Elf by species, walked through the deserted village. She carried what a more stupid individual would think was a walking stick. Even at a distance, even with the Dragonstorm threatening to overwhelm my sense of it, she stank of Warp energies. Her very body exuded them; she, like all of her breed of elf, had been tainted by the Storms and the Tox. Batwings, worn like a cloak, wrapped around her body. But worse, she was chanting words similar to mine, holding a crystal. It was glowing, but dimmed somewhat as she did so.

"Why... Hello, little one. It's been so long since I've seen you, but I've heard so much about you. But I'm afraid, even after disposing of my little sister and my old teacher, you're... Out of usefulness."

The storm was reversing direction, bearing down on the village. And the Necro-Bitch lunged at me, spells at her fingertips.

I told you, the universe hates me.

(More will follow if folks liked it.)

[consequences]

Hmm, are you going for a Sir Apropos of Nothing feel, or is that just your natural writing inclination?

[SirNitram]

Hmm, are you going for a Sir Apropos of Nothing feel, or is that just your natural writing inclination?

Never read Sir Apropos Of Nothing. This was just writing as the character feels; Mordant is a smart-assed bastard.

[Ford Prefect]

I like it. It's good. Enjoyable even.

[consequences]

Hmm, are you going for a Sir Apropos of Nothing feel, or is that just your natural writing inclination?

Never read Sir Apropos Of Nothing. This was just writing as the character feels; Mordant is a smart-assed bastard.

Just checking. By all means, please continue.

[LadyTevar]

Don't look so surprised. The universe hates me. I once ran into a Madspawn whose cock had been mutated into a thing that fired spikes and corrosive goo. It bukkake'd death, lad. Compared to that, this was merely going to be life-threatening, not disgusting.

(More will follow if folks liked it.)

MWHAHAHAHAHAHAH! I so love it when I've created such memorable monsters. Maybe I should channel Alexi Highflower just so your little battle with her will be that much more ... exciting.

My my... what a battle that will be.

[SirNitram]

Her name's Alexi Highflower. She's a Necromancer, but you probably guessed that. No, not an apprentice out to bag some lost 'Shifter. The real-deal, Deadhead with power to back it up. She's also my old mentor, from back when I was an apprentice, eager to grab a 'shifter of my very own.

Stop looking so fucking shocked. You've lived in these villages. The Necros are the only ones not cleaning shit off themselves on a daily basis. It is the only way out. So I took it. Anyway. She's a psychopathic bitch with a sadistic streak the size of the valley. When I was her apprentice she was still working on her unicorn collection; it's a phallic thing, I guess. She was also a two-bit, going-nowhere Deathmage with no aspirations beyond her shithole village.

Maybe I shouldn't have killed ol' hornhead and Highflower Bitch The Second. Never could remember that woman's name. Not that it matters now. Nor do I have concentration to spare for it.

When two practiced, experienced wizard's clash, both'll play like it's chess, see. Trying to wear the other down, force him to overextend so he can't counter all your spells. The mental balancing act is somewhat akin to juggling flaming axes while on a flaming wire while you, yourself, are on fire. One hand wove lightning and fire from thin air, as the other wove dispelling charms and shields, my mouth running a mile a minute to keep up with Bitch's own incantations, the incredible energies racing between us turning the air a kind of ruddy red.

"What's the matter, my student? I'm not still too much for you to handle, am I?" That sneering bitch. Same sneer as when I was an apprentice. Weaving in spells under her nose, I miss the first Necromatic spell coming my way, and the next thing I know, I'm getting stripped of some of my spell energy. Necros can manipulate your lifeforce, stripping you of your energy and vitality, of course.

While she's scrambling to exploit the momentary shift in initiative, I grab ahold of the spirit realm with both hands, channeling the original spell the Necro-Knockoff was derived from. It takes fractionally longer to cast.. Long enough to spell doom if you're not experienced.. But a true master can deal out two in the time of one. Bypassing lifeforce and mystical defenses, my spells rend into her spirit, her very soul. I can do little more, though; this close to the Storm, and touching the Spirit Realm is suicide.

For the briefest fraction of a second, Alexi's face shows she's lost her cool. I must have grabbed something important when I hit her with the draining spells, torn away her precious Necro rituals she had prepared, maybe. Then the ice is back. "Ahhh.. You picked up that primitive art of ancestor worship. I thought so. But this is over.." Through the seemingly unending duel of dispelling and casting, a burst of wizardry roars through, grabbing me. I have just enough time to figure it out: I'm caught in ice, a tower of it forming over me.

Fuck.

"You know how to get out of this. Show me that pretty little face. My sister told me all about it." Bitch. I manage to find enough non-frozen liquid in my mouth to spit. "About as soon as you show me the freakish mare-bitch you are." It's not the wittiest of comebacks, I'll admit. I'm losing toes to hypothermia here.

She's sadly right, though. Draconic form would make mincemeat of this ice-tower. See, though, for those of us not born draconic, it's not quite as simple a you might think. We pick up forms corresponding to various stages in draconic life, ranging from the itty-bitty-cute dragons no longer than a human is tall, to monstrous behemoths who bear the powers of their ancestors bloodline.

I went for the little cutie. Hey! I already told you to stop giving me that fucking look! It broke out of the ice, didn't it? Let me tell the fucking story!

So yea. Suddenly growing a good deal more muscle mass, plus lungs full of fire, tends to help in breaking free of ice. Bitch wasn't done yet, sadly; another Necromancy spell hits while I can't quite dispel, and she's sucking away this form from me, trying to force me into human form.

Remember I mentioned 'monstrous behemoth'? Yea. Man, this trick never gets old! Poor little Necro-Bitch, expecting a human and getting a dragon the size of a house, with the full power of the Skyrider bloodline.

Yes. Skyrider. Look, fucker, I didn't make up the names. Interrupt again, and I'm gonna shove this staff so far up your ass that'll need dwarvish spelunkers to find it.

So anyway. I've already mentioned psychobitch has wings, right? Right, she's got ones like a bat. Warp-taint. Which means mine are better for maneuverability, but because she weighs considerably less than a house, she's a good deal faster. Especially as she.. Augh, that's just nasty.

See, a true Shapeshifter's movement between forms has a sort of grace and nature to it. But like everything else, the Warp energies of the last few centuries has fucked things up. There's the breed of elves.. All kinds, really, of elves.. that turn into unicorns when they've got dragon blood in them. Look, I don't decide these things. But somewhere on the line, the Warp fucked it up. Now there's a cadet branch we call Morovians. They're warp-tainted elves whose alternate forms are, well, fucked up.

You know what a Centaur is? Reverse it. Yea, the torso gains a unicorn head, the legs turn into horse ones, and it comes at you with this fucked up black, twisty horn. It's sort of like the things you dream up after eating Xocolat at 3AM while testing to see if the Orc spirit-weed actually lets you see dead people. Oh, hint: It doesn't. But it does make you feel like you were flying and vomitting. At once.

With this freakish thing taking flight behind me, I pushed myself to gain some air, knowing that I had fractions of a second before.. Yep.. The horn of death fired. See, those horns aren't all purity and niceness. Even with a true Unicorn, they're meant for battle; they smash through armour and magical defenses both, and smart ones can channel mystic energies through them as pinpoint rays. In the air, I had a chance to avoid them; if I was on the ground, that would have fried through my brain and it'd be over.

From a chess match of spells and counterspells, to one of aerial maneuvers and firebreath and death rays. And sadly, elves have the experience in these matters, but I knew that going into this fight. She's a better spellcaster than me, and came stocked for battle. She's a Necro and a warped-shifter, so even if my draconic power is technically greater, she can counter it. I can't win this as a dragon or a wizard. And I sure as fuck can't as a Necro. So, I'll have to win as a bastard.

As this cheery and uplifting thought is going through my head, my concentration has broken enough to allow my opponent to use one of her nastier tricks, a combat-teleport. Basically, they flicker a few feet to avoid an attack or, this time... Oh, this glorious time where all the rules break.. Get in close. I could feel that horn piercing scale and skin right where my wing joins my shoulder. You ever been stabbed there? It's kinda like that. Gravity remembered me about then too. But I had done what I wanted to.

As I crashed to the ground in the clearing well to the west of town, the storm was raging full force. As both I and Alexi resumed our humanoid forms out of sheer exhaustion, I took stock of myself. Well. I had a pulse. That was about it, apart from just enough energy for a teleport of two people. I didn't even have the juice for a single lightning bolt, and I couldn't get up to slash; my arm was kind of useless right now.

Highflower? She wasn't doing much better. Some of her wounds had closed(Bitch seemed to pick up all the good taints from the storms, unlike the time I found myself shedding roses for a week.), and she was walking, slowly, carefully, but walking up to me with a soul gem out. Ah. Not even the quick death. This is what my best friend had suffered, so long ago, when I was an apprentice. He'd been lucky. I was there, to scuff the circles and slit his throat, freeing him from the month-long hell on Earth ending with oblivion as his soul is destroyed. No one was gonna save me.

That's okay. Sometimes, you don't need saving. As per normal for these spells, the bitch grabbed me to teleport us home. Ah, I love it when a plan comes together. Dipping into my last remaining reserves of physical strength, biting back the pain of moving my arm in the complex diagram, I fired the hanging teleport spell, flinging us both into the boiling, roiling heart of the Dragonstorm, pure Warp energy.

After a while, the horrific pain of the tainted magic ripping my form apart faded and there was only black.

It was surprisingly comforting.

[darthdavid]

Shiney...

[Ford Prefect]

Awesome. Rockin' Nitram.

[LadyTevar]

Awesome. Rockin' Nitram.

Hey! Give me some credit, willya! Everything Alexi's doing to him (or about to do to him) has been my idea, since I created this particular version of her when I GMed the game Mordant's from.

Just wait, it's gonna only get better.

[Ford Prefect]

Awesome. Rockin' Tevar.

[Kuja]

What a potty mouth.

It reminds me a bit of 40K. I like it.

[The Duchess of Zeon]

When I first clicked on this thread, I assumed it would involve Shep as a stormtrooper.

[LadyTevar]

When I first clicked on this thread, I assumed it would involve Shep as a stormtrooper.

Hopefully it was more entertaining than that, Duchess

[LadyTevar]

::Smacks Nitram:: UPDATE, or no sex