Astragoth's grim expression betrayed no hint of fear as he faced the oncoming horde of undead with steely resolve. Gripping his flaming hammer tightly, he used its searing heat to cauterize the wound on his shoulder, staunching the flow of blood even as he assessed the dire situation.
Counting the remaining Chaos Dwarf troops and then glancing at the advancing undead horde, Astragoth's brow furrowed in consternation. With each passing moment, his estimation of the enemy's strength seemed to grow, fuelled by the relentless tide of undead that surged forth with magical power rivalling his own.
The spells that animated the fallen Greenskins and Dwarfs to assault his troops were unlike anything Astragoth had encountered before. The mage responsible for this dark sorcery was skilled and meticulous, exerting precise control over the Winds of Magic to manipulate the very fabric of reality.
Despite his legendary prowess as a sorcerer-prophet, Astragoth realized with a sinking feeling that this was a battle he could not hope to win. With a heavy heart, he uttered the words that struck a blow greater than any physical injury: "Retreat."
Reluctantly, Astragoth gave the command to fall back, his voice carrying the weight of defeat as his troops began to withdraw from the battlefield. Though his pride stung at the notion of retreat, he knew that survival was paramount and that regrouping and reassessing their strategy would be their only chance to fight another day.
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As Atlas observed the retreating Chaos Dwarfs, a sense of relief washed over him, accompanied by a faint smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. At least for now, Astragoth's ambitions would be curtailed, and the threat of another godly summoning seemed diminished. With a decisive command, he directed his undead legions to pursue the fleeing Dwarfs, their relentless advance aimed at harrowing the enemy's journey and thinning out their numbers.
Utilizing the magical energy harnessed by the Caldron of Blood, Atlas summoned forth a host of powerful fallen warriors, drawn from both Dwarf and Greenskin ranks. Orc Bosses, Giant, and battle-hardened Dwarves heeded his call, ready to wreak havoc upon their former comrades and adversaries alike.
Despite the temptation to join the fray himself, Atlas remained aloof from direct engagement. He understood that while the Chaos Dwarfs appeared weakened, they still possessed a formidable fighting spirit. Engaging them head-on would risk significant losses to his own forces, leaving him vulnerable to the marauding bands of Greenskins that now roamed the Darklands.
Instead, he opted for a strategy of attrition, allowing his undead minions to wear down the Dwarfs through relentless pursuit and relentless attacks on their weak points. By gradually whittling away at their numbers, Atlas aimed to weaken the Chaos Dwarf forces further, ensuring a more favourable outcome in future confrontations.
While the Dwarfs may have won a famous victory against the Greenskins, it was Atlas who would reap the benefits. Their time was over.
The time of blood was now.
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Several weeks had passed since the decisive battle that had reshaped the landscape of the Darklands. From the heights of what was once the imposing Black Fortress, now christened as the Blood Throne in honour of Atlas's victory, the vampire lord surveyed the burgeoning city below. The formidable walls of the High Fortress now served as the inner bastions of the grand settlement, a testament to the ingenuity and resilience of those who now called it home.
Within the city's confines, a hive of activity unfolded. The undead Dwarfs, now in service of Atlas, had turned their formidable craftsmanship towards the task of creation. With unmatched skill and precision, they laboured tirelessly, designing and constructing structures worthy of their ancient heritage. Under their expert hands, the foundations of a thriving metropolis began to take shape, each stone laid with care and reverence.
Amidst the ceaseless bustle of construction, a harmonious unity prevailed. Humans, their freedom restored by Atlas's intervention, worked side by side with their undead brethren, offering their assistance wherever it was needed. Together, they laboured as one, their shared purpose transcending the boundaries of life and death.
Beyond the confines of the burgeoning city, vast swathes of land lay ripe for transformation. Fields once ravaged by conflict were now being tilled and cultivated, their fertile soil a promise of future abundance. Orchards and vineyards sprouted amidst the landscape, their verdant growth heralding the dawn of a new era.
As Atlas surveyed the scene before him, a sense of clarity washed over him. For the first time in centuries, he felt a profound sense of purpose stirring within his undead heart. Here, amidst the ruins of a once-bleak fortress, he was building more than just a kingdom—he was forging a legacy that would endure the test of time.
With unwavering resolve, Atlas vowed to safeguard his newfound domain against all who would seek to challenge its sovereignty. From the darkest depths of the Abyss to the highest echelons of power, his kingdom would stand as a beacon of defiance against the forces of chaos and destruction.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its golden light upon the burgeoning city below, Atlas stood tall upon the high walls of Blood Throne, a silent sentinel watching over his realm. With each passing moment, his kingdom grew stronger, its foundations rooted deep within the heart of the Darklands.
And as the night descended upon the land, cloaking it in shadows and mystery, Atlas knew that his journey was far from over. But with courage in his undead heart and the loyalty of his subjects at his side, he embraced the challenges that lay ahead, ready to carve his destiny from the ashes of the past.
As Strickler and Anmar approached, their footsteps echoing softly in the dim corridors of the Blood Throne, Atlas turned to regard them with a steady gaze. The vampire lord listened intently as they relayed their report, the gravity of their words weighing heavily upon the room.
"The Orcs have grown bolder," Strickler began, his voice tinged with a note of concern. "They've been sacking the last few remaining settlements of the Dwarfs, driving them back to their capital."
Anmar nodded in agreement, his expression grim. "They're digging in, fortifying their defences. It won't be easy to root them out."
Atlas listened in silence, his features inscrutable as he processed the information. After a moment of contemplation, he spoke, his voice measured and decisive.
"We cannot allow the Orcs to gain a foothold in our territory," he declared, his tone unwavering. "Prepare our forces. We will send out the undead to reclaim the settlements and remove any Greenskins that stand in our way."
Strickler and Anmar nodded in acknowledgement, their resolve unwavering. With a silent understanding, they turned to carry out their lord's orders, knowing that the fate of their fledgling kingdom hung in the balance.
"Who will have command?" Anmar asked, she had remained in the city to ensure its safety and now looked forward to leading a great host of undead.
Atlas turned and gave her a small smile as if he could read her thoughts on her face. "Neither. We won't be sending an army. Instead, send out smaller parties."
"How small?" Stickler was unsure, the undead needed someone to command them, lesser undead also needed a magic caster to sustain the animation magic otherwise they would revert to corpses.
Turning his back on the pair Atlas looked over his new domain. "Bind lesser undead to a greater undead."
"But…"
Interrupting, Atlas continued. "By my estimates, each greater undead should be able to maintain fifty lesser skeletons." His estimates were not mere guesses, but calculations performed by his trusty AI chip. "When done, send a dozen of them together in packs to scour our land clear of these pests."
"As you command," they intoned together.
"My lord, the threat from the Chaos Dwarfs still remains. They may hold up in their capital for now, but they won't forget this grudge – they will come for us." Stickler informed his master respectfully, still not sure why he didn't press the attack when they had the advantage.
"Dwarfs are a hardy species however they are still mortal." At their blank looks Atlas sighed, securing good help was a challenge whatever world you lived in it seemed. "We have taken their settlements, mines, glass houses. The press of refugees is stretching their resources to the limit. In a few months, their machines will want for fuel, a year and their stomachs protests will be heard all the way in Altdorf!"
"I have concerns…" Anmar, who was Atlas ally, not underlying like Strickler, spoke out. "You broke the Dwarf army however the cost was greater than you led us to believe." Atlas gazed at her beautiful face, seeing her silent fury at his smugness. "Our deal was to secure this land for a home for our kind – where Vampires rule."
"Vampires…" Atlas spoke the word slowly as if unfamiliar with it. "No, you are mistaken. This land is to be ruled by me. I may be a vampire, but don't mistake this as a second Sylvania. I was created in a dying despot of a kingdom that chooses to stagnate rather than grow – their doom is as inevitable as it is deserved."
Shocked into silence, the vampires, who had assumed their position as rulers was guaranteed were shocked. "If not for us, then for who?"
The question lingered in the air, both an accusation and genuine confusion. In reply, Atlas merely swept his hand indicating the bustling city below.