Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The elves' terrified appearance aroused the Norscans' immense fanaticism, and these northern hunters chased after them like hounds smelling the scent of prey.

A cloaked figure stumbled and fell to the ground, shrieking curses at his companions who had deserted him, in a high-pitched, thin voice with strange cadences.

The other fugitives turned to laugh at their companion, and the cruel contempt was engraved in the heart of Gesven through that strange and musical language. Then he saw why the elf had fallen, and an arrow was deeply embedded in the knee of the fallen man, standing there like an accusing finger.

When the fallen man tried to stand up, he saw the face of the elf clearly. The skin was too white, delicate and perfect, the bone structure was delicate and sharp, and the facial features were too perfect to be human. The face exuded a strange and alien temperament, and it faintly revealed a sense of ancient eternity, mixed with terrible malice and evil.

A deep sense of satisfaction welled up in him as he swung the axe and brought it down violently, splitting the elf's raised arm and its hateful face.

The axe was deeply embedded in the elf's skull, forcing him to squat and struggle to pull it out. Some of his followers stayed with him to help, while others continued to chase the shadows frantically. When he pulled the axe out, he had fallen behind the team and witnessed everything that happened next.

The elves let the Norscans almost catch up with them, and then pulled away with a speed and agility that he could not understand. He realized that the creatures were teasing them, as if they were playing a game of chase. A sense of foreboding came over him, and he saw the elves escaping around the fence towards the snow-covered earth bank. He turned and ordered his followers to blow the horn to recall the warriors, but it was too late.

A row of elves appeared behind the snow bank. They were wearing dark armor, tall and narrow helmets, and holding heavy steel weapons. His throat was bitter. He knew the horror of those steel weapons. Some warriors also recognized these weapons, screamed to warn their companions, and fell to the ground.

But the warning came too late.

The elves fired a volley of arrows. The steel crossbow bolts pierced the bodies of the Norscans, causing them to fall to the snow. They were hit in the abdomen, chest and knees, and they fell down groaning in pain, but no one died on the spot.

Those who had managed to avoid the crossbow arrows and those lying on the ground stood up and rushed towards the elves with roars. Experienced warriors knew that the crossbow needed time to restring, and this period of time was their chance to chop off the heads of defenseless archers.

However, the elves remained where they were, without moving, neither reloading their arrows nor retreating, waiting quietly for the Norscans to approach before raising their weapons again.

The crossbow seemed to be equipped with some kind of evil rapid-fire device, and another volley of arrows hit the warriors' faces directly, tearing their flesh and bones apart with terrible force.

The elves no longer toyed with their enemies, but aimed their crossbows at the backs of the survivors who fled after the second volley, firing round after round of those terrible arrows.

Then a third company of elves rose from behind the snowbank, armored like the crossbowmen but with scaled cloaks on their shoulders, and at the steady trot of a crew they rushed down from their position behind the crossbowmen and began to slaughter the Norscans wounded by the volleys of arrows.

Gusven could only describe these elves as cruel, like vicious children torturing injured animals. From the unbridled laughter of these scale-clad elves, he could hear that this cruelty was completely random. Rage welled up in his chest, but soon his fear of these demons overwhelmed his self-esteem.

"Retreat! Retreat!! Retreat!!!"

However, when he turned to his follower, he saw that his face was pale and he was staring at his broken wrist in disbelief. Blood was gushing out of the broken wrist and the hand holding the horn was lying on the snow.

Just as the follower opened his mouth to shout, a flash of cold light flashed, and a thin crack appeared in his throat. His eyes became dull, and his head drooped weakly, revealing a horrifying bloodstain on his almost severed neck. Dying, he knelt on the snow, and then fell face down to the ground.

Behind the follower's body stood the figure who had just slit his throat.

It was a being with an impossible, beautiful and cruel enchanting figure, with graceful curves, long limbs, and almost naked, with only some suggestive armor adorning her body. The blood of her followers dripped from her long dagger, but it did not prevent her from smiling and looking at Guswen.

"I'm going to tear your heart out of your chest, and now you can start begging for mercy." She spoke in a strange, melodious and threatening tone that Gusven could understand.

Yi Yin looked at the burning scene in front of him, looked at the corpses on the ground, wrinkled his noble nose, and the smell mixed in the wind made him disgusted. He rubbed the gems on his knuckles with the gloves on his hands. This was his habit. When he felt angry, he would do this action.

Usually when he got irritated, something would die, always in some funny and bizarre way.

He turned around, an impatient look on his pale face, his gloved hands separated from each other and touched the hilt of the rapier inserted in the purple belt at his waist, his cold eyes cast on the stern face of the first mate.

The first mate was much taller than him, and under the thick sea dragon skin cloak, he had a body that seemed almost too strong, which was particularly strange among the elves who were known for their slenderness. Even so, the first mate finally turned his eyes away and obeyed.

"These beasts could have been tougher. After drifting on the sea for several months, such a scene can't dispel our boredom?" Yiin said lazily, with a hint of fatigue in his voice. Then, his face became serious, "This may be our last time... and this is the result?"

The first mate turned his gaze again and smiled a grim, approving smile.
-
Freya's father served in a tower and had to keep an eye on the sea.

Her father was not a slave of the lord, but a free owner with a farm, a longhouse and thirty slaves. But in the lord's territory, whether free landowner or slave, every able-bodied person had to take turns guarding the sea to ensure that any traces of the enemy were found before landing and to give the territory a warning.

However, now everything has changed...

The little girl listened nervously to the shouting, fighting and the sounds of weapons clashing coming from afar. Her eyes swept over the fence, trying to find the direction from which the sound came.

When her observation yielded nothing, she breathed a sigh of relief, then took a deep breath.

Wolves, bears, and ice tigers are just some of the many dangers that roam the glacier-carved valleys that descend from the rugged Norscan mountains to the coast. In the woods, her father once slew a troll in a fight so fierce that he still bears the scar on his face. Yet, it was for his bravery and strength that the Jarl granted him free lands.

Freya smiled when she remembered that even the lord showed respect to her father, but her smile quickly faded. Now, everything around her was unfamiliar to her.

She reached her gloved hand into her goatskin tunic and touched the carved dragon hanging around her neck, a gift from her father that she treasured, a gift made by her father himself, something not even his sons had ever received, a symbol, a silent talisman of the bond between father and daughter.

She knew her brothers envied her and she was hated by her father's wife, the only woman she could ever painfully call her mother. Her real mother was a princess who had been captured during a raid on her tribe's lands.

Her father took the princess away as a trophy, and soon promoted her mother from a common house slave to his wife, a move that deeply angered her father's first wife.

It was her father's wife's constant complaints to her father that caused her father to trade her mother to a warrior from another tribe when she was still an infant.

Freya knew that this was why her father always looked at her with such affection, because she had a part of her mother in her, something that could never be taken away from her father.

She looked up at the sky, at the faint flickering mist in the starlit midnight, and with the help of the surrounding firelight, she stared at the purple tapestry of the sky, trying to make out some trace of what her father had taught her. She could see the raven god wearing a bone crown, and the berserker holding his axe high, with hungry hounds beside him.

Her father had taught her how to find her way by looking to the stars, but had warned her that sometimes the stars could deceive those who trusted them too much, or that if she offended the terrible Tzeentch, the god of change could move the stars and leave her forever lost.

She shuddered and made a crooked finger gesture, said to be a salute to the eagle, the most elusive of the fickle gods. Then she fell, tumbling to the snow. She did not get up immediately, startled by a faint, unidentifiable sound in her ear. She peered through the fence, trying to find the source of the sound.

Were her brothers trying to scare her?

She shook her head. The thought was foolish. Her father's wife would never let her precious child go into the forest alone. And this was not her homeland. This was not Norsca, but a place called Naggaroth.

This realization made her blood run cold. She glanced at the round shield in her hand with a guilty look. She bit her lip and pouted, dissatisfied with her cowardly thoughts. She was separated from her father. She wanted to find her father. Would the legendary shield girl abandon her responsibility just because she heard a voice that frightened her?
Perhaps the gods heard her pleas, or perhaps she was frightened.

As she climbed out of the snow, she saw the wooden pillars that supported the tower, she could see the tower itself, the thatched roof groaning under the snow. She couldn't tell what she saw for a moment, she couldn't tell what was real and what was fake, she didn't understand why she saw the scene that only existed in Naggaroth, but it didn't stop her from screaming like a frightened lamb to find her father.

Suddenly, she climbed the crude ladder that rose from the support tower and opened the trapdoor of the tower. She pulled her hand back in shock to find it covered with warm, wet crimson. She stared in horror at the rungs of the ladder and the blood that continued to drip from it. She looked at the tower with new fear. After a moment, fear finally determined her choice. Despite the blood on the ladder, the tower was still her only refuge. Her father would protect her. Her father would not allow anything to take her away.

Trembling, Freya climbed into the tower, her tiny body struggling to free itself from the iron traps that held her. The room she lifted herself into was dark and filled with shadows, the only light coming from the long windows that faced the sea. She was struck by the menacing gleam of the sea and the starlight that rose above the waves, and through the thick fog she could vaguely see a ship anchored in the fjord.

wrong.

The ship was no longboat, but a skinny vessel with cruel sails and evil hull angles. It looked to her more like a barbed dagger floating in the water than a ship. Her breath caught in her throat, and she dropped her buckler when she realized what it must be.

Bards sometimes tell terrible tales and old fables about sea elves, demons with devilish souls and hearts of ruthless malice. Better, the bards say, to cut one's own throat and curse the gods than to fall alive into the hands of the elves.

The trembling girl stepped back from the window, shrinking away from the sight of the strange ship. She felt something sticky pulling on the sole of her shoe. She turned sharply and screamed when her eyes identified what was pulling her.

A mass of dismembered flesh, barely recognizable as a human. Yet she recognized it immediately, for though it was disfigured, there was a hint of what her father's face had looked like before, with old gray scars from his battles with trolls in his youth. The blood soaked through the leathery face, making it all the more striking, the scars carefully and cruelly re-opened and filled with blood.

"What is she...doing?"

The Druchs who had just finished fighting stopped what they were doing and watched the Yankees running, spinning, moving, and screaming in the snow. They were like the audience below the stage, watching and appreciating, without interrupting or shouting, but just whispering.

"Put on some kind of show? Like we saw in Chapeiuto?"

"What are you talking about? How can this be compared?" A Druki pirate pointed at Freya and said with disgust.

"I bet the corpse knew her?"

"You're talking nonsense," said a Druch pirate, raising his harpoon crossbow and aiming at the Yankees.

The captain came over from the other side and raised his hand to stop the pirates from shooting.

The sound of crunching footsteps on the snow pulled the girl's gaze away from her father. A slender figure separated from the darkness and solidified into a tall and elegant figure in Freya's sight, as if it were some kind of flawless elf illusion.

The milky white of her skin, like polished alabaster, shone in the shadows, but the purity was broken by the black armor on her shoulders and the high leather boots studded with silver spikes. Her shapely legs extended upward to a belt made of transparent tulle, embellished with tiny rubies and gold thread beads.

The slender figure was covered only by a metal breastplate, which was like a claw-like steel finger, binding the firm breasts. The figure's face was surrounded by a mass of black messy hair, and on the head was a jewel-studded headband, and the rubies flickered among the black hair like hungry eyes. The face was breathtakingly beautiful, and the perfect combination of symmetry and beauty made people feel shame, desire and disgust involuntarily.

The captain had a creepy smile on her face, a smile full of irony and perverted desire. She slowly raised her hand, her movements too graceful to be human, holding a slender dagger, blood was dripping from the dagger, and Freya recognized it as her father's blood at a glance.

The captain's tongue came out from between his lips and gently licked the blood on the dagger, as if he was enjoying some kind of luxurious delicacy. Her eyes closed, and an expression of near ecstasy and intoxication appeared on her face.

Freya stared in amazement as the vile creature licked the other dagger clean in the same manner.

When the last drop of blood was licked, Druki opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on Freya, as if noticing her for the first time. A cruel and hungry smile appeared on her lips, and she took a step towards Freya, lowering her body, the barbed daggers gleaming in the darkness.

Freya felt her heart beating wildly, as if it was torn apart by great fear, but she still couldn't look away and could only look at the elf's evil eyes. The elf came closer, and she could smell the scent of exotic powders and spices applied on the elf's pale skin, as well as the pungent smell of her father's blood, and the elf's dark lips gently brushed against her ear.

"Shh!"

The whispered words sent a shiver through Freya's senses, and the paralyzing fear was broken. She screamed and stumbled away, and as she ran into the darkness, she heard a soft, pleasant laugh, the cold laugh of her father's killer.
-
"Tell me what I have to do," Kurt insisted. "Take it off!"

"I'm going to freeze," Kurt muttered, a complaint in his tone.

"The warriors of the gods fear no snow, and, tonight, worse things than freezing could happen to you."

Stung, Kurt stripped off his clothes and shivered in the cold. It wasn't long before the fire was lit, and warmth washed over him as the flames began to spread and rise into the air.

A shrunken old man with long, flowing hair and beard in an intricate braid appeared before him, holding a dagger with strange runes engraved on the blade that he didn't recognize, and in the elder's other hand he held a bag.

"Stop talking, concentrate, and think of the gods."

When the elder finished speaking, he knelt on the snow and drew a winding line on Kurt's feet with the tip of the dagger.

Blood gushed out of the wound and dripped onto the snow.

Kurt closed his eyes, ignoring the sting of the blade and allowing the Elder to continue his bloody work, cutting fine, delicate lines and shapes into his skin.

Soon, he felt the blood running down his legs, chest, and arms, and when the elder began to paint on his face, he opened his eyes but remained still, allowing the elder to carve the runes into his cheeks and forehead.

Blood began to flow into his eyes and pooled on his lips with a bitter taste. He focused on the feel of the blade and forgot the noisy sounds around him.

Read more latest popular novels at 6.9*shuba!

After completing part of the ritual, the elder began to chant, taking the runestone from his bag and holding it tightly in his hand, with a warm light flowing out from his fingers. He whispered in a language that Kurt could not understand, and although he could not hear the specific words, Kurt still recognized four words, the names of the dark gods of the north: Khorne, the Lord of Bones and God of Battle; Tzeentch, the Lord of Change and God of Magic; Slaanesh, the Prince of Darkness and God of Passion and Pleasure; and Nurgle, the Lord of Decay and God of Plague and Famine.

When Kurt looked at the elder's face, he found that the elder was bleeding, and a small amount of blood oozed from the elder's forehead and dripped onto the skin. The color of the flame began to change, and the orange flame was contaminated by green and blue. He felt the wound on his skin begin to burn, and it was a slight pain at first, and soon became more and more intense. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The flame seemed to penetrate the wound and invade his blood vessels.

As the chanting grew louder and the other Kurgans prayed, the elder circled Kurt, scattering the runestones in a rough circle.

The runestone glowed bright blue, more intensely than before, and the snow hissed with steam.

Kurt felt the aura of the gods reverberating around him, and deep in his mind, filaments of energy surrounded him. Power rose from the ground beneath the elder's feet and descended from the cloud-covered sky. A dark cloud split open, and the light of Morslieb shone down, revealing an eerie green color, dyeing his surroundings a dark glow.

His body twitched, and his mind was filled with swirling images. He saw endless columns of warriors marching through the blood-stained snow, their weapons dripping with blood. He saw strange beasts roaring songs of praise into the night sky, and skeletons in ornate golden armor traversed ancient sandstone ruins. He heard wild creatures roaring in the depths of the ocean.

It all flashed through his mind in an instant, the sights, sounds, smells, and touches so real that it made him shudder. He shook off the illusions and focused on the ritual.

The fire within him surged through his blood, burning his heart, consuming his lungs, and scorching his mind. He was drowned in pain, clenching his teeth and screaming. He opened his eyes and looked at the burning fire. The dancing flames appeared and disappeared in his blurred vision. His surroundings began to distort in his vision, merging with the fire into a magical vortex of fire and shadow. However, the fire in his body was still burning, and the power rushed through his veins, through his muscles, flowing into his fingers, and even overflowing from his eyes.

The swirling scene gradually solidified into strange shapes, strange fish flashed before his eyes, with invisible energy clouds, burning eyes and hideous faces. A shadow creature jumped at him from the light, claws pointed at his face. He dodged and fell to the ground, and the shadow passed over his head. A two-headed snake wrapped around his legs, its skin full of barbs, tearing his flesh. He broke free of the snake, blood splattered everywhere, and forced himself to stand again.

He looked down at his naked body and saw that the runes carved by the elder were burning with energy, each line pulsing with magic on his skin, as if crawling on a living thing. Another demon pounced on him, this one a woman with jewel eyes, fangs like tassels, claws like sickles. He raised his fist, and the demon turned at the last moment, turning into a fragrant mist and rising away, leaving the air with the smell of flowers and blood.

He felt a circle of creatures closing in, hungry for his body and soul. As fear crept into his heart, he felt the fire within him begin to weaken, and the light of the runes began to flicker and dim. He realized that this was the danger the elders had warned him about, but his body was also filled with the power of the gods, which protected him. If he gave up this power, the demons would swarm over him and tear him to pieces.

He summoned all the energy and will in his body, focusing his energy on the fire burning in his body, imagining that it grew like a normal fire with the help of a breeze, fueled by the breath of the gods. He felt the energy surge into his body again, he controlled the pain, and began to laugh. He felt the breath of the gods and heard the gods whispering in the depths of his mind.

The gods laughed at him, praised him, roared with laughter.

Kurt's vision became clear, and he stretched out his right hand towards the image of the flames. He imagined that the flames became his armor and weapons. The colorful flames jumped into the air and surrounded him, but did not burn his body. The fire in his body became hotter, and he used this power to draw the flames into his muscles and tendons, penetrate into his bones, and merge into his eyes, ears and nose.

After a moment, he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The elder fell beside him, unconscious, blood oozing from his nose, ears, and eyes. He pulled himself up and looked at the woodpile, and saw that the flames had gone out, leaving only smoking embers, as if they had been burning for days, not just a moment.

The clouds in the sky were also breaking up, a strong north wind blowing them away, allowing the moonlight from Morsleeb to penetrate the clouds.

He looked around, feeling lost, unsure how long he had been away from this world. His eyes fell on the onlookers around him, some of whom had their arms crossed and their faces grim. He stood up and stepped across the ground, the snow hissing and evaporating under his footsteps.

"Are you willing to swear to follow me?" His voice was deeper and more powerful than before, echoing in the night sky like the roar of thunder.

“You survived, but you still have to prove your worth.”

"I challenge you!"

A young onlooker stepped forward and shouted. He was one of the youngest among the Marauders, but Kurt knew he was strong and fast. He had the beginnings of a beard on his face and held a sword in his hands, the hilt of which was carved into the shape of a coiled snake.

"Then attack me."

Kurt said confidently, spreading his arms.

Everything seemed to slow down now. In Kurt's eyes, the Predator's sword stabbing at his abdomen was as slow as a snail, giving him enough time to react. In other words, his speed was far beyond that of an ordinary person. He quickly stretched out his hand, knocked the sword out of the Predator's hand, and threw it into the snow.

"try again!"

The Reaver picked up the sword and stood in front of Kurt again. This time, he launched a downward slash, aiming at Kurt's left shoulder, but Kurt dodged to the side and grabbed the blade.

Blood oozed from between Kurt's fingers.

The Reaver gripped the hilt with both hands, trying to pull the sword out, but Kurt stood still, his grip as firm as a blacksmith's pliers. Then, with a slight flick of his wrist, Kurt pulled the sword out, spun it in the air, and caught the hilt.

"last chance."

Kurt said, throwing the sword back to the Reaver.

The young Kurgan approached more cautiously this time, then suddenly rushed forward, thrusting out with his sword.

The blade pierced Kurt's abdomen, tearing his internal organs and causing him to stumble back.

The Marauder let out a whoop of triumph, but his joy quickly turned into a look of fear as Kurt slowly reached out and grasped his wrist, pulling the blade deeper until the tip came out of his back.

Kurt smiled at the Predator, then swung his free hand, his fingers like claws, muscles as hard as iron. His hand hit the Predator's chest hard, and the Predator was thrown more than ten meters away like a stone, and fell heavily in the snow, with painful wails tearing out of the Predator's mouth.

The other raiders quickly gathered around the raider, and cried out in surprise when they saw five bloody holes in the raider's chest, each one as deep as if pierced by a spear.

Kurt pulled out the sword that was stuck in his body, and the blade was stained with his black blood, which did not gush out, but slowly seeped out. He threw the sword into the ashes of the fire, shook off the blood of the plunderers on his fingertips, let the blood drip into the snow, and then looked directly at the plunderers present.

"The gods have spoken! I am the chosen one..."

Kurt roared, however, before he could finish, a strange and bizarre rhythm interrupted his roar.

"Hey, what are you monkeys doing here if you're not going to fight? Is this... some kind of ritual?"

The "Hook Blade" Seonlan suddenly appeared and taunted, and behind him was the slowly approaching Heart of Winter. After saying that, he handed the halberd to the relative beside him and hooked his finger at Kurt who was standing there in a daze.

Kurt looked at the elf that emerged from the darkness angrily, his eyes flashing with bloodthirsty light. He growled and rushed towards the elf. His strength was obvious, and every step he took made the snow creak. His figure was like a furious beast, rushing straight towards Seonlan.

"A nice gift?"

Seonlan took a few steps forward, then stood there, his expression showing undisguised sarcasm. Kurt, who had completed the ritual, was fast, but he was faster. He slightly turned sideways and avoided Kurt's first attack. The moment he avoided it, his first attack appeared. His movements were as smooth as flowing water. A backhand elbow hit Kurt's jaw, and the huge impact made Kurt's head suddenly tilt back.

Kurt roared, and his hands grabbed Seonlan's waist like steel pliers, trying to use brute force to throw his opponent directly to the ground. But Seonlan bent his body and hit him in the lower abdomen with a knee. His movements froze, and Seonlan took the opportunity to raise his hand to grab his wrist, twisted it hard, and threw his body to the side. He fell heavily on the snow, splashing a piece of snow.

"Speed? Brute force?"

Seonlan sneered, and he raised his foot and moved closer to the fallen Kurt.

Kurt got up from the ground in a rage, waving his fist and rushing towards Seonlan again. This time, he concentrated all his strength on his right fist and swung it towards the opponent's head.

But Seonlan was not panicked at all. He lowered his body, nimbly dodged the fist, and slapped Kurt's elbow with his backhand.

With a snap, Kurt's arm bent at an unnatural angle. He roared in pain, but did not flinch, and swung with his left fist.

Seonlan had already seen through the guy's intentions. He grabbed Kurt's left arm and twisted it, knocking the Yankee to the ground. Kurt struggled to stand up, but he stepped on his chest and pressed him back to the snow again.

"That's it? Is that all you have?"

As Seonlan spoke, he leaned over and punched Kurt hard in the face. The sound of the fist hitting flesh was clear and heart-pounding. Kurt's nose broke and sticky black blood slowly flowed out.

Kurt struggled to resist, but Seonlan quickly grabbed his arms with both hands, smiled coldly, and pulled hard. With the sound of bones breaking, his arms fell down weakly and were taken off. He screamed in pain, but could not break free from Seonlan's control.

Seonlan pressed Kurt to the snow, punching him like raindrops. Each of his punches had the force of thunder, beating Kurt's face into a bloody mess. The snow was gradually stained black with blood, but he still did not hesitate. He was like a cold beast, completely destroying his prey.

As Seonlan had had enough of the beating, with a snap, Kurt, who was beaten unconscious, had his head spun 180 degrees.

Seonlan stood up, shook his bloody fist, looked coldly at Kurt lying on the snow, and then turned around. The Heart of Winter was just like the cold winter. They stood there, watching the scene silently without a trace of pity. After turning around, he casually waved to his relatives, signaling them to deal with the remaining plunderers who had no will to fight.
-
Dacus never participated in the battle, but sat on the barrel, quietly watching Newker constantly dispatching troops. After Jaeger left after receiving the order, he muttered something in a low voice.

"Oh, what a mess." (End of this chapter)