This is the tale of my Bretonnian army and how they became corrupted Warriors of Nurgle.
Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3
Evrard could feel it. Illness was beginning to set in. His joints were beginning to ache and he felt feverish. But, as a Questing Knight of Bretonnia, he had sworn an oath to never spend two nights in the same place. So he got up and began packing his bed roll. He heard the coughing of his companions as they roused from their sleep. There were only two of them now, Sir Rolant and Sir Guiscard. In total, seven of them originally set out from Castle Valais when Evrard had his Grail vision. He remembered the look on his father’s face when he had told him about taking the vows of the Questing Knight. Was it disappointment? Skepticism? Either way, it stung. But Evrard understood his father’s reaction. His father, Baron Thibault de Valais, didn’t have any other sons, and he was looking tired of late. Evrard knew his father was likely hoping for a Grail vision of his own so that he could pass along the responsibility of managing the family’s estates to his son. And maybe go on one final adventure with the hope of glory and, let’s face it, prolonged life at the end of it.
And admittedly, Evrard had been impetuous in his youth. More than once, he and his friends dove headlong into ill-advised misadventures in the forests surrounding their lands. But the forest of Arden was a dangerous place. And he remembered the shame of having to be rescued by the old baron himself on one occasion. So he understood the disbelief in his father’s eyes. But still, it stung.
And truth be told, he was starting to doubt himself as well. It had been weeks since he last had a vision of the Grail. A year ago, when the seven companions set out on their quest, Evrard had been guided by constant visions of the Lady and her Grail. Assuring him that he was on the right path. Driving him onward as they adventured across the breadth of Bretonnia. They slew the dark creatures of the forest and rendered aid to the poor imperiled peasants of the realm. When the visions led them across the border into the Empire, Evrard didn’t question it. He knew the Lady of the Lake might lead her knights into the wider world to slay in her name and bring justice to the enemies of Goodness. Many questing knights discovered the Grail in far flung lands when they were finally judged worthy. So Evrard still didn’t question it when his visions led him beyond even the Empire into the land of Norsca.
He didn’t question it, but he would be lying if he said he felt no apprehension. Norsca is a wild and dangerous land in the best of times. And full of enemies. But it was nearly winter when he crossed into the wild. So yes, Evrard felt fear.
Was that why the visions had stopped? Had the Lady deemed him unworthy because of his fear? Had she abandoned him? He didn’t know. But he felt determined to press onward to prove himself and to regain her favor. Perhaps she was testing him.
It wasn’t long after that the first of their companions died; Thomin. He and Evrard had been friends since childhood. They had squired together as boys. Dying in his sleep of hypothermia was an unfitting end for a knight as skilled as Thomin.
Soon after, the sickness came. One by one, the seven companions fell ill. Another died in the night. Two others turned back and went home. So now it was just the three of them and it was Evrard’s turn to fall ill. But he would not abandon his vows.
“Up, brothers!” he said, “Another day has dawned in this wretched land, and the Lady has more deeds that need doing.” Without a word, his two companions rose and began to pack. They never complained, never grumbled, but Evrard could see in their bleary bloodshot gazes that they too were beginning to doubt. But he knew they would never abandon him. He would be sure to reward their fealty when they returned home. But for now, they needed to push on.
And so they did. For another week they plunged northward, battling chaos tribesmen, and slaying the terrifying beasts which were native to these wild lands. On the seventh morning, a blizzard blew in and they were forced to remain camped. The night before, they had slept under a rootbound and rocky outcropping on the shore of a frozen lake. It was too dangerous to leave this natural shelter while the blizzard raged on, so they waited.
As the hours passed, their fevers worsened. And Evrard’s fever played tricks on his mind and eyes. His head was pounding. And through the storm winds, he thought he saw the shapes of diminutive figures dancing marily on the lake. He suddenly realized that he could no longer tell how late it was. The storm made everything dark and he was beginning to worry that he would spend too long in this place, breaking his vow to never spend two nights in the same location. Painfully, he rose to his feet, dropping his blankets as he did.
“What are you doing?” shouted Rolant over the howling wind.
Evrard didn’t answer. He was staring out at the lake. For there, hovering over the ice field, floated the Grail. Even wrapped in the twisting winds and shrouded in the swirling mists, it was the clearest and most glorious Grail-vision he had experienced yet. So the Lady had been testing him after all. She wanted to see if he would uphold his vows even at his lowest point, and he had passed her test. He took one step towards the lake and collapsed to his knees as his body was wracked with coughs. His chest was stabbed with a thousand frozen needles with each convulsion. His limbs were on fire. His head was swimming. But he would not give in to despair.
He rose and took another step. The needles stabbed again as his fluid-filled lungs spasmed and clawed to catch one more breath. But this time he kept his footing and took a third step.
“Where are you going?” Rolant shouted again.
“He’s delirious” he heard Guiscard reply. “The fever is taking him.”
With each step the Grail receded into the storm at pace with Evrard’s advance. Until finally it vanished. But he knew he was on the right path so he trudged on. Finally, a figure began to emerge from the mists. It was a knight, clad in green armor, atop a glorious white charger, and in the figure’s right hand; the Grail! Not a vision or an apparition but real and solid! The Green Knight of legend stood before him! Evrard fell to his knees before the figure in rapturous awe.
Back on the shore, Rolant and Guiscard watched. But it was not the glorious Green Knight that Evrard knelt before. It was a grim, decrepit figure, clad in rusted plate, cloaked and hooded in filthy robes. And it was not mounted atop a glorious white charger, but rather a twisted rotting wolf-thing. Its eyes were pale with cataracts. They looked like puss filled boils in their red sockets. Even from the shore they could smell its hot disgusting breath as it panted and wheezed. They could see the thick black ichor that oozed from its bleeding gums and fizzed onto the ground.
Their hearts and their tongues had been frozen with terror when they saw Evrard kneel before the rotten knight, but the spell was broken as they watched the scene continue to play out before them and they screamed warnings from the shore. But Evrard didn’t seem to hear them. And their bodies were too weak with sickness to move. So they could only look on in horror as the rotten knight dismounted and approached Evrard. The figure raised the false flyblown cup and began to pour its contents onto Evrard’s head, anointing him. Evrard lifted his gaze and allowed the disgusting libation to pour over his face and into his mouth. The smell of the rotten bile hit the companions on the shore and they retched.
But the horrors were not over. After the cup was drained, the un-wolf stepped forward. Its body began to convulse unnaturally and a wet gurgle rumbled in its throat. Just then, its skin split and its pelt began to slough off like a snake shedding its skin. Or an animal rapidly decaying. The pelt slumped heavily to the ground with a wet thump. Strings of connective tissue clung to the beast’s raw quivering flesh. Its unfocused eyes rolled in their sockets and it drooled more acid ichor onto the ice. It seemed half mad with pain.
The hooded figure stooped to pick up the steaming pelt and placed it around Evrard’s shivering shoulders. “Arise, Sir Evrard, knight of the True Grail.”
Evrard rose. His limbs no longer shook and he stood a little taller and a little straighter than he had in months. He turned to face his companions on the shore. They could see a new grim vigor in his face, and they despaired.
Kitbash Chaos 
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