For all their love of war, few Daemons of Khorne relished the idea of marching against the forces of the Plaguelord. Of course, no one ever so much as breathed a complaint within the Axe-father's hearing, but the relief that settled over the Blood-Realm at the conclusion of the latest tiff was unmistakable.
The Greater Daemon Mhaa'tyr the Widowmaker itched his brass hide, his snout wrinkling in disgust at the mess crusted beneath his talons. Blood; his own blood. From a wound, but not one wrought by a blade. Rather, a cluster of Nurglish ticks, specially bred to plague his kind by the Fly Lord himself, had fastened themselves stubbornly to his skin, draining his essence. Weakening him.
His host had suffered similarly, the loathsome little insects finding their way beneath scale and mail both to irritate, inflame, and infect. Mhaa'tyr sneered as he regarded them, absently sticking his blood fingers into his mouth. Yes, they were smaller and would fare worse because of it, but no Khornate bore witness to weakness and failed to react accordingly. Mhaa'tyr had marched what remained of his army here for one reason and one reason only, the spent and winded force looking up into the black leaves of the blood bark trees expectantly.
Here and there, the vegetation would shift and ripple. The tip of a tail could be seen here, the joint of a wing there, and soon enough these resolved into shapes: beings. Scruffy, pinioned, furtive; the Chaos Furies of Khorne were as grateful for the end to this war as the Warriors of Khorne, but for a different reason.
With the careful movement of creatures accustomed to being unwanted, the Furies descended down the barks in pairs and trios. Some glided down, landing a few meters from a whichever warrior they had chosen, regarding them with avian interest. Regarding their unwelcome "guests" with unmistakable hunger. And as that hunger grew, caution shrank and the Murders of Khorne quickly crowded in on warrior and daemon, pecking and nipping away the blood-filled daemon-parasites before shying away, only to return.
With greater caution was the Daemon Warlord Mhaa'tyr approached. And only with his tacit permission was he engaged, touched, scaled, fed upon. Each tick ripped free was accompanied by a sharp stab of pain and a twitch of hide by the Bloodthirster steadfastly ignoring the happenings and choosing to sharpen his axe instead. He did not enjoy it. But he enjoyed being infested even less.
So he endured the feeling of Fury hands and Fury feet running up and down his body, he paid little mind whenever two of the winged imps warred over a particularly rich patch of parasites, and he spitefully ignored whenever a larger, more daring Fury decided a warrior was a better meal than his mites...
