Infuriating: the Tale of Nemesor Zahndrekh and Vargard Obyron

The Nemesor could be so infuriating sometimes.

“My lord, unidentified vessels have entered Gidrim Dynasty space. Preliminary scans suggest they are of Orkish make.”

“Ohr’kssh? Again? The Ohr’kssh Dynasty is trying to rise against the Sautekh AGAIN?”

“…yes, my lord.”

Obyron would have sighed if he still breathed. The Nemesor couldn’t be made to see reality anymore. Where the rest of the dynasty saw hulking, wretched greenskins trying stupidly to stand against the Necrons, Zahndrekh saw only living Necrontyr. Obyron braced himself for what he knew would come next.

“Hail them on my behalf. I can never quite wrap my mind around their accent. I’m sure you can handle the negotiations fine, Obyron.”

Pleased though he was at his lord’s faith in him, this task frustrated Obyron too much to take any joy. He would issue the typical ultimatum, and the Orks, as usual, would reject it and attack, and STILL the Nemesor would wonder about their obstinacy.

Obyron delegated the task to a Lychgard and watched the conversation from out of the camera’s view. He didn’t feel like talking to a greenskin again. The greenskins never felt like talking anyway. It was a formality, demanded by a senile old coot who was barely even fit to lead a cleaning crew anymore, much less a dynasty.

The ultimatum was rejected. As usual. The Orks continued their wild voyage further into the system. Battle was now inevitable.

Obyron wearily shambled back to the throne room. News like this was always a pain to give. As usual, the Nemesor would pontificate about how their brethren were so lost, and ramble about how shameful it was that such rebellions should be so common, and mourn that Necrontyr should die without being shown the error of their ways.

“Why do they persist? Why can’t they see that we should be on the same side? Why can’t we be allies in this? Why, Obyron? Why?”

“The …Ohr’kssh Dynasty is renowned for its warlike nature, but not its intelligence, my lord.”

“Such a pity. We shall strike swiftly. Be merciful, my dear Obyron. Mercy is the mark of a great man, and we are nothing if not great. Accept their surrender as soon as it is offered and bring me their commander, that I may speak to him.”

“…yes my lord.”

Obyron turned to leave the throne room and begin marshaling the Gidrim Dynasty’s forces. It would not be a long war. Barely worth the trouble, even. It was simply another annoyance in an eternally annoying unlife.

As Obyron reached the door, he heard the Nemesor speak again.

“And Obyron?”

“My lord?”

“When this is through, drinks are on me.”

Unbidden, a memory flashed into Obyron’s mind. Zahndrekh was still flesh-and-blood, and had just come of age a year ago, inheriting his father’s lands and title. Obyron had just similarly inherited his office from his own father. The two of them had just led the conquest of a neighboring province on the surface of Gidrim, incorporating it into Zahndrekh’s substantial territory. In celebration of their victory, the two drank the night away in the biggest settlement in the province. A perfect, almost photographic image came to mind of a crowned Necrontyr leaning on his bodyguard as they staggered back to camp, happily inebriated, in the wee hours of the morning. A conversation replayed in Obyron’s mind, as if recorded.

“Obyron, what do you call a province on the other side of Gidrim?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Mine by the end of the year!”

Obyron couldn’t breathe, but he could have sworn he felt an all-too-familiar choking sensation. He touched a metal finger to his cheek. No moisture. Of course not.

“…yes, my lord.”

The Nemesor could be so infuriating sometimes.


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