Since I'm spending all my time inside these books, you might as well get a little look-in as well. I chose these couple of a pars because they're written from the point of view of Lord Guyuk ur Grymm, one of my fave monsters. It struck me as I was editing them just how knowledge of the Horde culture and lore they assume. But then, this is from Book 3.
To give just enough context to understand what's happening, Guyuk is leading a raid into Manhattan. I've clipped a few details here and there to avoid spoilers.
(Image from The Land of Shadow)
There was a short interlude of violence, and all resistance collapsed.
Little pride was to be had in the victory, Guyuk told himself as he used the edge of his great round shield to carve one of the last fleeing humans in two. The shield’s iron edge was chamfered to a quarter claw thickness. Keen enough to slice through boiled wulfin hide armour when wielded by a strong arm, well trained to the task. Used in such a fashion upon the unprotected bodies of the calflings, it was a spectacularly gruesome kill. Bloodwine and sweetmeats fairly exploded from the fragile bag of thin skin, painting the Lord Commander in hot gore.
Not a killing to sing about, or record in the Scrolls, but it did afford an opportunity to practice one’s self denial. His head reeled with hunger, and long tendrils of acidic drool swung from his fangs. Not one morsel did he take from the quarry, though. Nor any of his Guard. They encircled their prey, crushed all resistance with swift resolve, then stayed their claws and blades.
The Cohort had emerged many leagues from the centre of the metropolis where the human Champion and his thrall were heavily engaged. Still, the incredible scale of this settlement was of an order to daunt even the strongest mind.
Was it so great that even a Regiment might not fully invest it? Guyuk pondered this as a form of meditation to still his rumbling stomachs. He spat a stream of digestive phlegm to the unnaturally level ground. From where he stood, the whole of the sky shield-wise to the moon seemed filled with the towers of humanity. Projects, the Threshrend called them, and the word seemed freighted with a dark significance.
These man-made ranges were indeed the project of a malign and terrible power. Even as he looked upon them he saw the small flashes of light and fire which he knew to be the talebearers of the human’s ranged weaponry; the guns of the calflings, such as he had just encountered. There was no sense of massed and coordinated fire, but the occasional streak of magick light – of the cursed ‘tracer’ rounds – indicated that the attention of the armsmen was focussed on the war bands which even now rampaged through these Projects a league’s distance moonwise.
“Secure the prisoners,” he ordered. “Do not damage them.”