Ba'kar Soulstealer and the Soul Hunters of Gorth

 The Empire men had broken before the sun had reached its zenith. Their dead lay scattered across the churned earth, their banners trampled into the mud, their courage spent beneath the axes and blades of the Dark Gods’ chosen. Yet some had fled, dragging their wounded comrades towards the distant tree line, foolishly believing that the forest might offer them salvation.

I smiled beneath my helm.

Let the warriors on foot claim the glory of the battle. Let the chieftains count their captives and the sorcerers gather their trophies. My brothers and I had been granted a finer privilege. We were the Soul Hunters, the chosen riders of Gorth the Great Obesity, and the souls of the fleeing were ours to harvest.

Once, there had been many of us. Once we had been called Dolgans. We had ridden beneath Thel, our chief, when he led us from the the great grass lands of the east, the land of our birth, into the embrace of our God. We had followed him willingly, believing that strength alone would carry us to glory. We had been naive then, knowing nothing of the true price of power.

Now I looked upon the warriors riding at my side and counted those who had not had the strength to follow our chosen path.

Some had turned away, their minds too weak to endure the truth of our new existence. They had clung to our old gods, their old honour, their old notions of right and wrong. They had mistaken weakness for virtue and paid for it with their lives. Others had sought the blessings of Gorth but lacked the strength to survive his favour. Their bones lay scattered across the many lands, or their bodies had been consumed by the very power they sought to serve.

The weak were food for the strong. The fearful were meat for the brave. And the souls of the fallen were the wine with which our master feasted.

I would not share their fate.

Ahead, one of the Empire soldiers stumbled over a fallen branch. His companion abandoned him without a second glance. I urged my daemon steed forward, feeling its powerful muscles bunch beneath me as we thundered between the trees. The man looked back. I saw the terror in his face, the desperate realisation that no prayer, no oath of loyalty, no last act of courage would save him.

His death scream was drowned out by my triumphant call to Gorth to witness the sacrifice I was sending to his feast hall.

There was a peculiar sweetness in that moment, when a man's hope dies before his body. I felt his fear as though it were my own strength, a dark warmth spreading through my limbs. His soul would soon join the countless others that had gone before him, stolen from the world of mortals and delivered to the insatiable appetite of Gorth.

My sword fell. His screaming ceased.

One more soul for the feast.

I turned towards the remaining fugitives. My brothers were already among them, their black armour glinting beneath the pale sky, their weapons falling and raising in rythmic slaughter . Above us fluttered the banner of our company, its caged soul forever reaching for freedom that would never come.

I knew that cage. I had seen its like in visions granted by our God. It was not merely a symbol of those we hunted, but a promise of what awaited those who failed him.

Yet I had no fear of the cage. Not anymore.

One day, I will be more than a warrior of chaos. More than a servant who gathers souls for my Gods pleasure. I will become Gorth's chosen, his greatest servant in the mortal world. Eventually I will rise beyond flesh and blood, beyond the petty struggles of mortal warriors, and claim the ultimate reward: ascension into daemonhood to sit at Gorth's side in his feast hall.

Let the weak flee. Let the faithless perish. Let the world tremble at the coming of the Soul Hunters.

I, Ba’kar Soulstealer, will prove myself worthy.

And Gorth will feast.