Orario, the city of adventurers. Its towering walls and bustling streets stretched high into the horizon, a symbol of both hope and despair. It was a city where countless familias vied for control, where mighty adventurers sought to conquer the dungeon's depths, and where the gods themselves played games of power, influence, and intrigue.
And today, like many days before it, the Khorne Familia was on the move.
The march began at dawn. The air was crisp, and the sounds of nature seemed muted in the presence of the Khorne Familia's warriors. Their heavy footsteps drummed against the earth in perfect unison, the rhythmic sound of death marching forward.
At the forefront, a figure clad in pitch-black armor stood tall, his presence casting a shadow over all who followed. His face was a mask of cold determination, eyes gleaming with the unyielding fire of a conqueror. He was Archaon, the Everchosen, Supreme Lord of the Khorne Familia, and the Harbinger of Death. His black sword, the Slayer of Kings, rested easily at his side, the blood of his enemies still clinging to its edge. His was a name whispered in fear by those who had ever dared to challenge him, a name that signified bloodshed and glory.
Behind him, marching with unwavering precision, were his warriors—each one a living embodiment of violence, driven by the lust for battle. They were the elite, the chosen few who had proven themselves time and time again. Among them, Arbaal the Undefeated walked with his massive battleaxe, his face marked with the scars of countless battles. Valkia the Bloody, the Warrior Queen, followed closely behind, her spear gleaming in the morning light, her eyes alight with the promise of more blood to spill.
The Khorne Familia had no need for grand speeches or calls to arms. The sight of their march alone was enough to stir the blood of even the most stalwart adventurer. Their purpose was clear: they would raid Ares' Kingdom today. They would bring war to his lands, and they would claim skulls for Khorne's throne.
But not all were content with their battle-hardened nature. Among the marchers was a young elven warrior, Araveena Hellebrone, who had earned her place among the Familia for reasons beyond her strength in combat. She was new, not yet fully shaped by the fires of war, but her potential was undeniable. Her level 3 status didn't hold her back—she was eager to prove herself. In fact, she found herself growing restless, her hands tightening around the elven blade at her waist.
"Focus, Araveena," a deep voice broke her thoughts. It was Be'lakor, the Dark Master of the Familia, a figure of dark power who towered over the younger elf. His wings, ragged and black as night, flickered behind him, a reminder of his demon heritage.
"I'm ready," Araveena replied, her voice steady but tinged with excitement. "I won't falter."
"Good," Be'lakor muttered, the corners of his lips curling into what could only be described as a smile. It was a smile that promised blood and glory—and perhaps something else.
The marching column of warriors stretched for miles, cutting a path across the land like a living, breathing weapon. Along the way, their beasts accompanied them—Flesh Hounds of Khorne, their monstrous forms bounding alongside their masters, driven by the promise of flesh and violence. The terrifying Minotaurs of Khorne lumbered behind, their eyes burning with the same unrelenting rage that consumed the warriors. There was also the dreaded Khornegore, an even more horrifying creature—its body grotesque, its hunger for battle insatiable.
The warriors of Khorne didn't need much in terms of strategy. Their strategy was simple: destroy, conquer, and spill blood. The warband had raided Ares' kingdom before, but today, it would be different. They would claim more than just territory—they would demand tribute in the form of skulls. And Ares, the god of war himself, would be forced to recognize the might of Khorne's chosen.
As the march neared the borders of Ares' domain, the air seemed to thicken. The land shifted from lush, verdant plains to a more barren, desolate landscape. The crimson sky above darkened, and distant sounds of battle could be heard. The Khorne Familia was close now, and their presence was felt even by those who tried to hide.
But it was at that moment, as the fortress of Ares came into view in the distance, that a sudden disruption was felt in the ranks. A shout from the rear of the column echoed out, causing several warriors to turn their heads in unison.
From the far distance, a band of Freya's kidnappers—mercenaries hired by the goddess Freya—had been lying in wait. They had attempted to ambush the Khorne Familia before they could fully enter Ares' kingdom. But they hadn't anticipated the ferocity of the warriors they were trying to rob.
Out of the corner of his eye, Archaon saw the disturbance and turned his gaze toward it. He was a master of battlefield tactics, and he had no time for distractions. However, it was in that very instant that he noticed Araveena, her movements quick and graceful, already charging towards the group of would-be ambushers.
"Move with me," she muttered under her breath, her sword raised high.
Araveena wasn't just a mere fighter—she was a prodigy in the making, and her sudden show of power caught the attention of Archaon and the others. The young elf weaved through the group of attackers, her blade flashing like a streak of lightning. One after another, the kidnappers fell before her. It was a spectacle—almost beautiful in its violence.
Within moments, the ambush was over, and the Freya's followers were scattered, defeated. Araveena stood victorious, breathing heavily but with a determined look on her face. The Khorne Familia's warriors watched her, impressed by her ferocity and precision. She had proved herself in an instant, earning respect among her peers.
But it was Archaon who stepped forward first. He looked at the young warrior with something like approval in his eyes.
"You've done well," he said, his voice carrying the weight of countless battles. "Perhaps there is more to you than I first imagined, Araveena."
The young elf smiled, but it was more out of sheer exhilaration than anything else. "Thank you, Lord Archaon," she said, wiping the blood from her blade. "I live for battle."