Act 3: Meat
When
Poppy went hunting, she often thought of her grandfather. She’d think of the warmth
of his embrace. She’d think of his gentle whistles in the rain. She’d think of
the cold, bloody meat she’d wolf down, weeping, for it was all he had to offer
her.
That last
one, she didn’t miss. Ever since the angel had come, no longer had the
livestock only been available to high lords, but also the common people of
Vasaria. Sigmar’s child had struck a deal with the queen so that he might bless
their ailing crops with the will of their God. In turn, snowstorms had abated,
the crops had grown again, and the livestock began reproducing at an
exponential rate. Meat wasn’t an everyday meal, still; it came at a premium,
but Poppy supposed it was better than smuggling it from a witch.
She thought
of meat as her arrow pierced the hide of an elk; she watched that meat buckle
and collapse, watched the blood trickle from between the slabs of muscle. She could’ve
eaten it. She might’ve. But she didn’t need to anymore. With enough coin, she
could have all the meat she wanted, freshly prepared for her. Besides, the
Grave Woodland wasn’t for making dinner. It was to kill only, to practice, to
refine, to be the best there was. And Poppy sure as hell wanted that. She dreamed
of the ivory towers, not crumbling in her dreams, but atop them, in Queensguard
armour. Everyone agreed she wouldn’t have trouble getting in. it was said that
the Queen preferred having women protect her, after all. While the bulk of the
city’s lords and fighters were men or other, there was a special spot in the
towers just for her. There had to be, anyway. It wasn’t like she’d had a home
since Renn had died.
She carried
on through the dark of the forest; here, the spires and tower-tops didn’t crowd
the entire sky, so she could follow the scowling moon’s light up above and trace
it down to her victims in the forest down below.
But then,
before she could begin the hunt anew, there was a snapping of twigs—no, not
twigs—whole tree branches.
They met
the ground behind her, and she instinctively looked up, finding something
hunched in the dead treetops. It was too large to be an owl or crow; besides,
it had few feathers, its limbs were long and spindly and ended in spines. It
had torn, leathery wings, and its face was like that of a sleeping babe’s.
The thing
shrieked, flapping its wings and clawing itself into the dark air. Closer and
closer it drew itself to her, claws towards her throat. Until Poppy’s arrow
lanced through its neck.
She lowered
her bow and advanced to its remains, watching inquisitively as it twitched in
increasingly small fountains of blood.
‘Poppy
Nivierna,’ a voice like silk and sandpaper struck through the forest, and
she turned to face the angel, falling to her knees in rapture. ‘Get up,’
it hummed, beckoning her to her feet. It looked around, eyeing the dead thing. ‘A
fury,’ it spat. ‘A despicable, misshapen chaos abomination, I say.
Impressive of you to have put it down so fervently. I was right in coming here
for you.’
‘You
came for me?’ Poppy asked, afraid all of a sudden.
‘You’re
Renn’s granddaughter. You might have some… information for someone deeply
important. Follow me, please.’
She did
without question. No one questioned the angel and lived.
They stumbled
through the forest, across broken bridges and sunken churches. It wasn’t until
they reached the city that the angel reached for its blade.
Standing
around the ruin of a shrine, there was a group of men; Poppy noticed that their
skin was ailing, withered like ash—likely from where they were bound to their
own personal stone statues which they hauled about the square. In between their
rotting fingers, they held whips and amulets and trinkets, all while they
clawed at the air.
‘Penitents,
step aside,’ the angel commanded. ‘Your flagellation is not to loiter in
these streets. Spread the word of Sigmar elsewhere.’
In
response, there was a hiss. ‘False prophet!’ one barked. ‘Before you came, we
were noblemen! We worshipped in peace. Look at what you turned us into!’
‘You
spread false art of Sigmar,’ the angel thundered. ‘Likened him to a man.
Him and his children are not men. I’ll ask you again: step aside.’
‘We’re
chained to those false idols now!’ one of them cried. ‘You should’ve burned us
like the witches of the Hallowed Mother—would’ve been a blessing!’
‘That
can be arranged.’
One of
the flagellants roared at that, hauling itself forward towards the angel. In a
feat of inhuman strength, it raised its bound statue over its head to strike.
Poppy screamed, closing her eyes and expecting the worst.
When it
didn’t come, she opened them again to find to flagellant standing still, frozen
in place, beginning to scream. She looked then to the angel and its outstretched
fingers, clearly concentrated on keeping the brute at bay. The flagellant stumbled
back in surprise, but the angel leaned in with confidence, drawing its magic
blade and hammering it through the man’s flesh. His knees buckled and he
collapsed to the ground before he was swiftly crushed by the weight of its
penitent statue.
A
number of the others fled, but a couple remained, charging forwards. Before they
reached them, the angel opened its armoured palm before closing it decisively
into a fist, and Poppy watched on as the pair of penitents collapsed into a
spluttering from afar as if they’d been taken by a sickness. The angel advanced
on them, parried their whips and holy blades before cleaving its sword through
their screaming skulls.
She held
herself, standing alone as the pair watched over a plaza of gore and statuettes.
It was like something from a religious tome Poppy might’ve been read by a
street preacher as child—some warning of hubris or false gods—but she was living
it, watching their broken bodies twitch.
Meat.
The
angel turned back to her, cutting through her thoughts and wiping its blade
clean against its cloak. ‘Follow on,’ it commanded, and so she did.
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