Szlaa’alazec, Temple Ship of the Starmaster Za’loc-ta, High Azyr
A single beam of cold, sterile light pierced down into the cell, wreathing the room’s lone occupant in a silvery halo. The figure hung limply, each arm bound by chains that stretched off beyond the silo of light. Stripped of armour and ornamentation, the saurus warrior’s hard scales gleamed in the pale light, reflecting across a myriad of scars that criss-crossed its body. It was larger than others of its kind, larger even than the Temple Guard that stood at alert outside the cell. A tall crest rose from its head, which now hung limp upon its chest.
In the darkness, a door opened and closed, and the sound of soft padding steps crossed towards the figure. A skink, garbed in gold, appeared at the edge of the light. It studied the saurus for a long moment, its tongue flicking out to taste the air, then stepped towards the unmoving figure. A cold hand was placed on its chest, feeling its steady rise and fall, then the skink reached up to lift the saurus’ head.
In a flash, Voice-of-Embers’ head shot forwards, their jaws slamming shut on the skink’s neck, and with a wet ripping sound tore its throat free.
The skink gargled for a moment, before it wavered and collapsed to the ground. Blood stained Voice-of-Embers’ chest, and they spit the piece of warm meat into the darkness.
An angry, clicking sound reverberated around the cell. Another skink, this one garbed as a starpriest, stepped into the circle of light. It raised a hand, and the chains binding Voice-of-Embers’ arms tightened, stretching the saurus painfully between them.
‘Savage beast,’ the words came, not aloud, but spoken directly into Voice-of-Embers’ mind.
“What do you want, slave?” they growled back, blood flecking the air with every gravely breath.
‘The starmaster would have words with you.’
Before Voice-of-Embers could offer a response, the skink’s eyes flared green, and the starpriest melted from his mind’s eye, replaced by the broad face and baleful, omniscient eyes of the slann Za’loc-ta.
‘You have forgotten your place, Saurus.’ The voice in the sunblood’s head was different, powerful, with the depth of the infinite oceans behind them. Voice-of-Embers thrashed against the chains holding him. His kind had been created to obey the slann without hesitation, and even after decades of breaking free from their control, the direct voice of the starmaster held a power over his kind at the basest, most fundamental core. The rebuke hit him like a physical force.
‘You are meant to serve us in the heavens, preserving the Order of the realms, as you once did. Return to us, Saurus. Return and serve again.’
“My name,” the blood-flecked voice growled, “is Voice-of-Embers.”
‘You are Saurus! Nothing more, nothing less. Your purpose is your existence. Submit!’
“Go to hell, ‘master’.” The saurus thrashed again at his chains, eyes blazing with a golden light.
The beam of magical force punched through Voice-of-Embers’ torso like an arrow before dissipating off into the darkness. A hole the size of a cherry pit yawned for a moment, piercing flesh and lung, before thick purple blood welled up in its place.
‘You have allowed yourself to become dangerously coalesced, Saurus. The realms are polluted, tainted by the touch of Chaos, and by filling yourself with those energies you too have become corrupted. Yet you are lucky. Sunbloods such as yourself are rare, and worth preserving.”
Voice-of-Embers felt a hand press to his chest, at once the small hand of a skink and a much larger, weightier hand, blisteringly hot with power.
“Kill me. I will not serve you.”
‘Wrong.’
Magic washed through Voice-of-Embers, saturating him in a hard, bitingly cold starlight. It was an awful, utterly alien feeling, yet one that the saurus knew from their earliest days.
“No! NO!”
As the hard light washed over them, portions of the Voice-of-Embers’ body were losing their form, dissolving into a dark void gleaming with starlight.
‘You shall serve, Saurus. Or at least the memory of you. I cast aside your polluted form, and reclaim what you were made to be.’
With one last howl, Voice-of-Embers’ body was swallowed by the dark, star-filled void. The newly starborn form shimmered silently, then began dissipating off into the air like ink running in the rain. The being that was once Voice-of-Embers was gone, replaced by the starborn saurus that existed in Za’loc-ta’s memory, and awaiting only his imagination to call into reality again.
Za’loc-ta’s mind was already drifting back across the aether towards Eklysium. The mortals, as ever, were the root of the problem. The Great Plan required that the realms exist in perfect Order, yet the creatures within them bred constant chaos. They warred and lusted, schemed and despaired without regard. Give them everything, give them a paradise, and they would fight for the right to turn it into a corrupted wasteland. Enough was enough. Soon, he would have the power he needed to purge the system. It had taken a great many years of careful planning, investigating, discovering secrets meant to be lost, but at last the pieces were ready. Soon, he would wipe the slate clean.
The world of perfect Order would still need its people. Not in their corrupted, mortal forms, of course. They would be the remarkable few, worthy of being remembered into being. Worthy of being reborn as starlight, and the Saurus had. Pure. Orderly. Perfected.
The rest of his Perfected should be well on their way to taking control of the city by now. Perhaps the leaders of its various factions would be the first to be found worthy.
- - - - -
The Starborn Invasion
Alarms blared across 4th House Genitor, signalling the end of Wolfram’s Realm Fair and the beginning of the Perfected’s assault on the Cradle of Iron Wings. Nobles of forgotten ancestries streamed from faded mansions alongside their servants, joined by influential merchants as well as refugees from nearby districts. No matter their lineage or wealth, all trudged through Eklysium’s flooding streets, simply hoping to find safety. Wolfram soldiers directed them as best they could, through the cradle of old wealth and into the Cradle of Iron Wings.
The Rime-Forged Gravelords spread out across Genitor’s streets, forming the bulk of the escort forces. Their cold demeanours were met in-kind by the Seraphon that materialized like starlight, and struck without mercy. None had ever faced starborn so alien to the lifeforms they represented, their movements more mechanical than any golem and more uncaring than any undead. Monstrous jaws pulped skulls without even a growl, while others sacrificed themselves without hesitation to create an opening for another to take down a stronger foe. None balked at the death of their allies, panicked when flanked by a crushing cavalry charge, or slowed from crippling injuries or pain. Anaris cut down old-bloods and aggradons that threatened the civilians under his charge, until a stampede of dinosaurs cut him off from the rest of Wolfram’s forces.
Most of the Perfected were drawn to the Oathless Eye, the weathered watchtower at the edge of the city where the Umbra 3rd Assault company had dug in and gone loud. Away from civilians, the Cradle’s heavy weapons fired on the encroaching starborn, distant pops that resolved themselves with ear-splitting, earth-shaking force. Ancestral halls and mausoleum gardens turned to shrapnel, the craters left behind quickly filled by the Ur-River’s rising waters. The starborn that closed with the Oathless Eye were cut down by enfilading fire from ambush points, crushed beneath trapped buildings, or washed away as flooded canals were redirected with explosive force, the veterans of the 3rd punching well above their weight.
The Oathless Eye was also where Wolfram unleashed its new line of prototype golems, the MK VIII Deathforged Offensive Organic Mecha, or DOOMs. The organic monstrosities rampaged through the ordered lines of starborn, sawing through kroxigors and incinerating saurus. The 3rd fought alongside the DOOM golems, forming an impenetrable front line while their heavy guns devastated the enemy. But nothing could last forever, especially not a threat of such magnitude. The Vale’s rising waters boiled off the coastline as a dread saurian emerged. Azyrite lightning corruscated around its glowing body as it built up power, until it opened its maw and fired a concentrated beam at the Oathless Eye. Many of the 3rd jumped into support ships, flying away at speed as the Oathless Eye exploded. Heavy debris rained around Daergran, who had stayed behind with his remaining troops, locked in lethal combat with the starborn.
While Wolfram’s troops fought across Genitor and civilians packed into the Cradle’s lower levels, Dainn Brisingrsson fought for his existence. He stood amidst his dead and dying bodyguards, parrying thrusts from chameleonic assassins and gunning them down until his heavy repeater ran dry, barrel smoking from overuse. He unbound a starpriest’s spell, and countered with a blast of balefire that revealed more attackers than it killed. He side-stepped a thrust, but his riposte was ruined as enchanted bolas bore him to the ground, anchoring him to the physical world. He weaved a spell to twist Fate, but a banshee’s wail tore at his soul, leaving him defenceless - again.
She flitted about him, faceless as always, as the starpriest approached, its demeanour shifting as its eyes glowed green. Za’loc-ta’s voice boomed within Dainn’s mind. “Such a need for order and knowledge, twisted by the trappings of ‘civilization’ and the machinations of pretenders. Such potential need not be wasted…”
A claw gripped Dainn’s cracked skull, and he felt absolute cold flow into him, starlight banishing the smoke and ash of war that made up his very being while the void drained his memories. An old music box silenced, the grief and faces of comrades long lost, and the pain of countless betrayals lifted.
“Why do you resist? I offer you freedom from your shackles, peace from your troubles, and what you seek most of all: perfection.”
“Freedom an’ perfection are earned through crucibles,” Dainn managed, clinging to his memories. His failures. His crimes. Those that followed him, to their graves and beyond. “An’ I don’ deserve peace fer all I’ve done!”
But it was no use, an iron will tempered over a century of war naught but a candle to Za’loc-ta’s hurricane. At long last, Dainn felt peace, until the sound of gunfire banished it. He looked up as Anaris Rime-Wrought cleaved Za’loc-ta’s vessel in half, while his new saurian skeletons hacked apart their former allies. The ghost of Corvikki Pitcheart drove the screeching banshee away with blasts from her rifle, until there was only silence.
“Thank you,” Dainn said as they helped him to his feet. “Now let’s kill these puritanical pricks and save who we can, we’re gonna need more troops an’ investors after this mess.”
Outside, the dread saurian crushed buildings as it neared the Cradle, slowed by the 3rd’s demolition charges and running ambushes. Wolfram’s heavy guns dented enormous scales and staggered it with their blasts, but another of its beams gouged the Cradle’s surface, silencing gun emplacements, sky-docks, and the people stationed there. But not before a ghostly ship snuck out of one sky-dock while a single, enormous draconith shot from another, straight for the titan. Corvikki’s magnum opus - V54: the Beast of Iron Wings.
The Perfected’s leaders recognized the threat, shifting their spells from levelling Genitor’s buildings to target the zombie dragon. Comets rained, but V54’s Chug-Palaeon furnace endrin gave it the power to weave between them. Skinks and their terradons assaulted it, but their darts and bombs could not penetrate its cold iron scales. V54 through them all, closing with the dread saurian. Several of the Seraphon spellcasters joined together, detonating a conjured sun that burned the Beast’s wing, causing it and its rider to ricochet off a building before they righted.
More starborn wizards joined to repeat the spell, but The Final Bond appeared, Daergran and the surviving 3rd rappelling from it. They delivered death from above, grenades softening the enemy’s retinue before dropping amidst the enemy’s ranks. Daegran’s axe took the head off a troglodon as he dropped before hacking down its rider. The 3rd made quick work of the remaining starpriests and starseers, while The Final Bond’s raking fire kept the enemy at bay. As more of the enemy closed on them, Dainn dropped from the crowded deck of his ship alongside Anaris and the Rime-Touched they rescued along the way. Together, they formed ranks as the enemy came at them from every direction, The Final Bond flying off to rescue more troops and more civilians. Drawn to Dainn like a lodestone, they fought off wave after wave of the Perfected, who ceased focusing on the civilians or the draconic threat above.
Corvikki pumped more khemicals into V54, its Tzeentch and Moulder-infused body mending. It swooped at the dread saurian’s face, breathing an unholy cocktail of balefire, wyrdfire, and warpfire across its scales. They dodged a monstrous claw as it advanced on the Cradle, until the Beast of Iron Wings’s enhanced claws tore at the titan’s exposed hamstring. It slowed, then once more charged its beam, pointing it at Wolfram’s headquarters. Corvikki’s gunshot took it in the eye, causing it to flinch, but not misfire. Before it could adjust its aim, they flew into its maw and unleashed another gout of fires down its throat, where it stored all of its energy.
The dread saurian detonated with astounding force, levelling blocks in every direction.
But when the smoke cleared, the Cradle of Iron Wings and Wolfram Industries still stood, if battered and bruised - and Corvikki Pitcheart could say her dissertation was complete.
Wolfram Industries - Successful Defence
Union forces had gathered around to fortify the Foreman’s Rest, the doors and walls now reinforced, even the windows were blocked with slatted wood ensuring protection and visibility. Where once a simple tavern stood, a veritable bastion had taken its shape. Golruk Geartoof and Skralk Ironmaw turned their eyes to the surrounding environment. With the combined cunning of both the Acolytes of Ruin and the Geartoof Toolz, the streets had been rigged with traps. Watchtowers were set upon the roofs of the surrounding buildings and chokepoints were carefully constructed to ensure the foe was drawn into kill boxes. Every Union member was armed with various weapons - repossessed from the caches of rivals - and outfitted with brutal forged Zharrdron platemail. After surveying the streets below, Sigrid rode the Draconith Silverflame back towards the roof of the Foreman’s Rest.
“I think… I think we’re ready, Foreman,” the Stormcast shouted down towards the gargant.
“Aye, I reckon we are.” Junnrik readied his twin mallets, each the size of a Steelhelm as he surveyed the streets below him, his eye lingering upon the reinforced gate of the Rest.
Droplets of rain spattered off the Foreman’s Rest, as the sounds of war drew ever closer. The only sign of the enemy’s arrival were the gunshots that had cracked through the air. Soon the Perfected began to pour into the streets, outpacing even the Ur-River’s rising waters. Reclusians of the Shattered Sky became living emplacements as they cut into the astral soldiers that had sought to make their way towards the Rest. For a time, the living shieldwall of Sigmar held, bolstered by the might of SIlverflame, who rained the fires of Azyr upon their star-scaled foes. The starborn quickly adapted as the blinding beam from a solar engine broke through the stalemate, cutting a swathe through the Reclusians and nearly clipping the wings off the draconith.
Skinks poured in through any alley and window available, tripping many of the traps set up prior and dying in a countless variety of ways. Uncaring of their losses, a pack of kroxigor stormed over the skink-tide and smashed through several buildings. The massive beasts went nearly unchallenged until a contingent of Thundering Wolves charged into them, their weaponry upgraded to pierce the thick, starry hides. Though a few were slain from the initial onslaught, the kroxigor had responded in kind with several swings of their moonstone hammers. Even armored soldiers were easily cracked and dashed against building walls. Led by a kroxigor ancient, the hulking beasts rampaged forth, breaking through fortification after fortification. They rushed towards the Foreman’s Rest, drawing terrifyingly close to their prey, but paid no mind to the dark alleys they passed. Yet their ignorance would be their downfall, as the Thundering Wolves cavalry weaved nimbly through the side streets and flanked the lumbering kroxigor. Before the kroxigor ancient could swing, the lances punched through his reinforced hide alongside several of his pack.
Elsewhere, the sickening crack of a warp lightning cannon erupted through an abandoned building, killing a pack of Saurus before a wave of skinks clambered through the windows, taking their clubs and returning death in kind to the warmachine and its crew. Once more, the solar engine blasted a clear path in the streets, the radiant energies erupting after but a moment and devastating all in its path. As the fight grew closer and closer to the walls, the disgruntled Zharrdron discovered an infestation of skinks inside the barricades. Met with a volley of magmic rounds, the Perfected scouts quickly retreated, yet were promptly hunted and killed by the brutal duardin who’d never leave a job unfinished. As the bastiladon and the remaining horde of Starborn rounded the corner, the call was given by Junnrik for the forces of the Union to retreat inside the walls. The Knight Venator Marxos, Sigrid and several prosecutors scooped up those remaining outside and ferried them to safety. Facing little opposition, the solar engine was primed and ready to fire towards the gate.
“All part… of the plan. Those in the know, get to the sides of the doors.” Junnrik shouted out.
“Three. Two… One.”
With a violent and blazing light, the gates to the Foreman’s Rest broke open! The forces of the Perfected were seconds from pouring through when several figures had dashed out behind the sides of the gates and along the walls. Silence filled the streets for a single moment before unending gunshots filled the streets for what felt like hours; Warpstone volleys slammed into the starborn, their hides mangled by the precision shots of Azyrite arrows and a hail of pyrelock blunderbusses.
“Quick smoke break!” The marksmen took the chance to reload as Junnrik charged out alongside Lord Vytravius, his Desolators, and any Boltbreaker with tools in their hands.
Slamming against the tenderized starborn, the Foreman shattered the skulls of saurus with each mighty blow. As if he was breaking through the wall of a mountain, he carved a path through the bloodied lizardmen towards the weakened bastiladon, once more charging its solar engine. Golruk watched the ensuing chaos, yet he noted the timing between each solar engine’s shot. With the resistance that the Foreman faced, he couldn’t make it in time! The orruk had sprinted towards the walls of the Rest, and quickly snatched a broken rifle, discarded from use.
“It just needed, a little… fixing…” He quickly pilfered through his tool bag and caught a small bolt just the size to keep the firearm from blasting in his face. “Well… ‘ere goes nothin’!”
The hum of the engine muffled the sounds of fighting as Golruk aimed towards the pulsating weapon atop the bastiladon. As he squeezed the trigger, a single bullet sailed past Junnrik’s ear and shattered the fully charged focusing crystal. With a radiant explosion, the starborn were annihilated as Junnrik and the Boltbreakers were blasted back.
The dust soon settled afterwards and the sound of combat ceased. Junnrik’s body lay atop the stone streets that his kin built so long ago. Several members of the Union raced towards their Foreman, last of all Golruk who feared he had killed his own boss. Seconds passed before a loud “Ow” slipped from the gargant’s lips, and his only response was raucous cheers.
Boltbreaker Union - Triumphant Defence
It was a grim task for the Seekers of Tlanxla and the Unblessed Exiles to take up arms against their fellow Children of the Old Ones, yet when the starborn host laid siege to the Prefect’s Palace they would not be found wanting. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the warrior monks of the Sons, they bore the full brunt of the attack head on. Baal’Oot ducked in and out of the fray, blades flashing with a savagery that surprised their warmblooded comrades. Two kroxigar wrestled, locked in a deathgrip, until the skink darted between their legs and cut the tendons out from beneath the starborn invader. As it was borne over, crushed beneath the weight of its Unblessed rival, Baal’Oot was already moving on to their next target. It was not cruelty that drove its blades, however, but a grim determination to end this battle as quickly and efficiently as possible.
That same determination seemed to have been instilled through the Valeguard. Galvanized by their victories beneath the City, they pressed the attack against the invaders with a newfound focus. Pelham fought at the fore, riding atop the great Wyvern from the Snarl’s depths, flanked by terrorgheists and screeching morbhegs. Flashing past their seraphon allies below, the bat-like creatures formed the horns of a pincer that lanced into the Starborn’s flanks.
A roar of challenge rose from the battlefield, and the invaders’ lines parted to reveal a prowling Dread Saurian. The creatures red and black scale gleamed in the mountain sunlight, reflecting off a criss-crossed networks of old scars and hardened armour plates. It moved like a great shark parting the waters, ancient and strong, the apex predator of its domain, matched only by the warrior that sat atop it. Gleaming golden plate covered its white scales, shining in the sunlight like liquid fire and aged in patina that predated the realms. It held a long spear at its side that glowed with a supernal light, white flames curling at the air just on the edge of vision.
Pelham’s wyvern flapped at the air in front of the dread saurian, roaring her own defiance. Though this challenger was more than twice her size, she would prove why she was the alpha beast in these parts. Pelham tried to steady her, then flung up his hands in desperation as a sizzling bolt of arcane energy lanced out from the Starborn champion. It splashed against his hastily cast arcane shield, burning sparks scoring against his arms and legs, but the young Prefect could not spend a moment to notice. He was pouring all his energy, all his concentration, into maintaining the shield against the torrent of magical fire. He staggered under its pressure, the shield shrinking, cracking, the sweat on his brow evaporating off. Then, just as he was about to lose focus, the fire suddenly stopped.
Swooping in from out of the sun, Princess Lyrei launched herself from her terrorgheist and flew into the Oldblood like a cannonball of teeth and claws. She bore the two of them over, tumbling down the side of the dread saurian. The saurus lost its spear in the tumble, but not before dealing a grievous wound across the ghoul queen’s sternum. It was bleeding in turn from a dozen wounds, including a ferocious gash across its throat, though the ichor that flowed from its wounds bubbled and hissed, looking like starlit voids, and evaporating up into the aether.
The princess’ beast flew into the dread saurian, followed a moment later by the great wyvern. Together they tore at the apex beast, driving it back. The Perfected starborn tried to close ranks around it, keeping their lines intact, but they were suddenly on the back foot, and the Valeguard around them pressed the attack. Zarek and his stormcast warband struck into their lines like a wedge, cutting deep and preventing them from closing ranks. The Silverlegs bounded among them, raining bolts down in enfilading fire. The retreat was becoming a route.
Seeing the attack had failed, the Oldblood knocked Princess Lyrei back with a kick, buying itself a moment of time. Pressing a hand to the flank of its injured warbeast, it barked a harsh word of recall in its ancient tongue, and the starhost around it shimmered into starfilled voids, then vanished.
A cheer went up and down the Valeguard lines. Pelham went to offer Princess Lyrei a hand, pulling the ghoul queen to her feet, then walked over to clap hands with Zarek. He turned back to the Palace, seeing the wizard Kall on the steps, and raised a hand in greeting. As he did, a bolt trailing streaming lightning flew out of the nearby rubble and slammed into the wizard. Staring, shocked and expecting to see the old man pitch over, Pelham instead watched speechlessly as a flash of light lit the air. A scatter of crystal shards flew outwards, and in an instant the powerful illusion spell bound around the man dissipated, revealing the chaos sorcerer standing unharmed.
Valeguard - Triumphant Defence
"I won't abandon the people of this Vale to death by these reptilian outsiders.” That was what Grakko Thunderhide had vowed in the early days of the Perfected invasion of Eklysium. To her mind, this was a matter to be settled between herself and the rulers of that blighted city. Any innocent who did not stand in her way deserved the opportunity to choose their own fate when she finally tore Eklysium down brick by brick: leave, stay, or oppose her and die on the end of her blade. These cold-blooded invaders were robbing the people of Eklysium of that choice, and also robbing Grakko of the satisfaction of dismantling the place herself.
Much to her chagrin, however, Grakko found herself bogged down in her own camp. The starborn had descended upon the Altar hard and fast, decimating the ghouls of the Iridian Company posted on watch around the camp and staining the imposing stone Pillars of Scorn with rancid blood. Gorewarden Owain rallied what few survivors he could to himself and sounded the horn, the blade cutting through the night while his remaining fighters desperately held the line about their captain. On the Seraphon came, golden blades glinting in the starlight as they sought to bring the dragon-ogor to heel.
Despite Grakko's protestations that they should focus their efforts on the city's citizenry, that she'd be fine here on her own, it was obvious that the followers of the March of Thunder’s loyalties lay here. Whether she liked it or not, Grakko was their Queen, and they would defend her to the death. They gathered around the Altar itself, smoking flames billowing about them against the dark as they drew their blades. While Varn Kul's Iron Wake raised their shields to form a defensive perimeter, the Beastcast curbed their bloodthirsty instincts to lead the evacuation of non-combatant members of the March. The Perfected came upon the March in a tide of scales and razor claws, their hulking war beasts roaring as the Chaos warriors of the Iron Wake hacked at their enormous ankles. As it became clear that the line couldn't hope to hold against the onslaught alone, the necromancer Ert Glimmerwyld pressed his withered hands to the dry earth. The ground heaved as screaming spirits burst from it, forming a wall around the defenders and dragging those Seraphon unlucky enough to be close to the newly formed Suffocating Gravetide down into the soil.
A colossal carnosaur roared as the ground beneath its feet shifted, its great bulk toppling onto the defenders, crushing many and forming a bridge for the still advancing starborn to bypass the screeching Gravetide. Its jaws were still snapping as Varn Kul slashed his blade across its throat before turning his attention to the oncoming horde. The Seraphon had finally reached Grakko, and she stood side by side with B’agnok and his Beastmen as they hacked away at the reptiles, bottlenecked by their single entrance to the Altar. A great commotion sounded from the other side of the enemy advance: Dolgul and his orruk scouting parties had returned, gore-gruntas ploughing into the rear lines of the attackers. To make matters worse for them, the Mindstealer Sphiranx Raisin unleashed a psychic pulse amplified by the life magics of the Sylvaneth Alder Autumnspite. Throughout their ranks, Saurus and Skink alike clutched at their heads as their minds were wrenched from their control before, jaws slavering, they turned their golden blades upon their fellows.
As the Perfected advance stalled and the light of Hysh began to brighten the star-studded horizon, Grakko howled and charged forth, lightning wreathed blade held aloft. Roaring, her compatriots followed behind her, stabbing and cleaving reptilian flesh as they went. The air crackling red around her, Grakko collided with the Saurus general leading the assault atop a mighty Carnosaur even larger and more grizzled than the one that had been felled at the Altar. The beast latched its jaws about Grakko's mighty bicep, but the Dragon-Ogor didn't flinch, driving her blade up though its chest and into the Saurus above, blood turning to steam as her lightning boiled through her foes. The creature slumped to the floor as Grakko pulled out her blade, and the remaining Seraphon scattered, attempting to retreat and regroup past the Pillars of Scorn and the waiting blades of Dolgul’s Shadowspittaz.
A cry of victory took up the Altar as the warriors of the March hollared Grakko’s name, but the dragon-ogor remained grim-faced as she climbed the rise overlooking Eklysium. The city burned in the rising light. She had vowed to protect the people of the Vale, to give them the opportunity to decide their own futures, and she had failed. Not one of her warriors had gone to the people's defence, choosing to stand by her side and defend her life instead, as if she was anything important. The day her father had been slaughtered in front of her flashed before her eyes. There must be a thousand little girls in that city watching their own fathers cut down in cold blood, a thousand Grakko Thunderhides being born at this very moment. And she was the monster who had sat by and let it happen. Howling, she flung her blade to the side, impaling a retreating skink as it pierced the earth, and sank to her knees. Tears streaming down her craggy face, Grakko Thunderhide howled and above her, thunderclouds drew close.
March of Thunder - Triumphant Defence
- - - - -
Eklysium Under Siege
Many were the folktales the first refugees who settled in Eklysium carried with them, and one of them spoke of a great flood that washed the Realms away. Only Sigmar survived, carrying all the peoples, plants and animals of every Realm with him.
The calamity that now befell Eklysium was not unlike that old legend, as the Ur-River’s waters and monsters made of starlight broke upon the beleaguered city in a great wave. Commonfolk who had spent weeks just trying to make it by as war consumed the city House by House found themselves flooding away from the implacable assault. Where ordinary Coalesced roared and raged, all scales and fangs, the Perfected fought with cold and silent fury. They moved with the synchronicity of automatons even as blades and buckshot pierced them as they would some Nighthaunt. They were a butcher’s cleaver, and the dying body of Eklysium was on the chopping block.
It would come as no surprise that the Boltbreaker’s Union were the first to leap into action, but they did not fight alone. Flocking to 11th House to save the poor, stormcast of the Forever Warriors locked shields and held the line alongside the Valeguard’s Xth Fretensis, even as their casualties mounted. Azure bolts marked the passing of countless prosecutors as they dove upon the enemy ranks time and again while legionnaires fell slowly but surely to the enemy’s implacable advance, making them pay for every bloody inch they gained.
The Perfected were merciless, moving with united purpose to kill their enemy, even if it cost them their lives. Mortals paled before them, warriors cowering or fleeing, letting their comrades die; others breaking formation out of bloodlust or rage; and a lack of trust between coalitions leaving openings the Perfected exploited viciously. Again and again, individuals failed one another and themselves in the face of overwhelming unity of purpose.
Even as the attack plunged deeper into the heart of the city, pockets of resistance formed still. Street by street, the Charnel Stormcourt and their ally Holger Skov used Eklysium’s own treacherous geography to pick apart the Perfected host. Upon hearing of survivors trapped behind the advance, the Charnel Stormcourt slipped behind enemy lines to rescue isolated civilians and troops, leaving only gnawed bones behind of the skink and raptadons that thought to hunt them. Hearing of their work, the Knights Numinous appeared in blasts of lightning to carve openings in starborn lines for civilians and wounded to escape through, their annihilators crushing any that dared chase them. Many were led to Wolfram’s fortified field hospitals, run by the Sanatorium, and whose shock troops were covered by the Soot Hound’s fire power. There, all were triaged and treated before being sent back into the fight or onward to shelters for safety.
Combat search and rescue was made all the harder as the city, already inundated with water, began to drown. Streets that should have been safe routes were rendered impassible, and once strong positions rendered indefensible as buildings were swept off their foundations. Caught beneath the rising waters and the Seraphon assault, true panic began to set in, and no one coalition could be everywhere at once. Communications between them remained strained, intelligence not passed on in a timely manner or actively withheld, and the logistical issues led to late reinforcements, lost supplies, and lost lives - the innocents of Eklysium suffering the most from these failures.
Some relief came as survivors were lifted into the skies by an unlikely flotilla of airships from Wolfram Industries and the Boltbreaker’s Union, not least of which was “the Fritallary”, a mass of shipwrecks lashed to the bulk of a madness-infected voidwhale. The 83rd GyroCorp coordinated resupply, bombing runs, and evacuations from their base in 9th House, their gyrocopters helping anyone in need, regardless of their loyalties. Protecting many of these efforts came Rygra Darkkin and the stalwart Able Albern Baking Company, whose sky wardens speared ripperdactyls from the air and whose vessels bombed the Seraphon with khemical concoctions that tore apart their ethereal forms… and just happened to catch Wolfram allies on more than one occasion.
With every betrayal, every opportunity exploited for personal gain, every failure of trust, the Perfected surged. Coalition formations were broken, infrastructure demolished, and innocents died to the merciless advance of the starborn. The starborn never doubted those next to them, never prioritized their safety or goals over the collective, and never slowed to help their wounded or fallen, who no longer served Za’loc-ta’s plans.
But as days turned to weeks, new bonds were forged, trust grew, and new strengths were discovered between the coalitions fighting for Eklysium and its people. Boltbreakers fought harder than ever to save or avenge Valeguard they fought alongside, Valeguard eschewed killing blows to pull Wolfram injured out of danger, Wolfram veterans expended dwindling munitions to cover Boltbreaker maneuvers. Slowly but surely, the cycle continued and grew, coalition losses slowed, and they learned that their strengths covered each other’s weaknesses.
As the Perfected assault began to lose momentum, the coalitions went on the offensive. The Lil Chonkers led by Chungus and the rampaging warsphinxes of High Queen Heterfer spear-headed efforts, the literate ogors and the howdah-backed warbeasts making a mess of the tightly packed Seraphon formations. Yet, for every starborn they trampled or speared, another took its place, stabbing and cutting, dragging them down one at a time.
Their efforts were followed up by the indefatigable Kintsugi and Ibenholt Varme Fyreslayer lodges. Fighting with the fury of Grimnir made manifest, their Runemasters turned their craft against the Seraphon majicks while Brynifor-Grimnir and Karghax Ebonheat challenged the greatest of their foes face-to-face. Scar veterans and kroxigor fell to the well trained slayers, as their magmadroths fought against rampaging carnosaurs and stegadons.
With the enemy reeling and their magic contained by the Fyreslayer’s efforts, Vreeche turned the DOOM golems from defence to offense. The biomechanical automatons, themselves as implacable as their starborn enemy, acted as shock troops, supported by Lord-Arcanum Teledar Thundermind and Decuriarch Marcus Aurelian’s disciplined troops, whose bonds had grown since the beginning. Together, they smashed through lines of saurus warriors, kroxigors, and more, their flanks covered by the Ventoleon Crusaders, AABCo and the 83rd’s gyrobombers who also mopped up enemy stragglers.
A Stormcast first and Boltbreaker second, Knight-Questor Kadriye and her Brazen Suns took advantage of the furious offensive to strike behind enemy lines. Many enemy spellcasters and key leaders fell to their celestial blades and immortal skill, including one skink oracle on a voracious troglodon that Kadriye cut down herself, before they went on to lead more civilians to safety. They were joined by the Soot Hounds, who distinguished themselves in several rear guard actions, their combined arms stopping aggradon and carnosaur charges cold at several chokepoints. Yet rescuing civilians became even more difficult every day that passed, as canals became rivers and rooftops became the only way to traverse much of Eklysium on foot.
United, if only for a while, the three Coalitions finally broke the Perfected assault across Eklysium. The Seraphon gave ground and were pushed back, before quitting the field as though they had never been there at all, leaving no bodies but those they had slain. But the dust settled to reveal that their combined efforts had born fruit: Eklysium and its people stood, unbent and unbroken.
Many cheered the Boltbreakers, who had contributed the most to the city’s defence, followed closely by the Valeguard. Wolfram, too, received some praise for their efforts, and for not abandoning the city entirely in its time of need. And, of course, all noted the March of Thunder’s absence.
Their common foe defeated and brought together in an uneasy understanding by Urif Miresson, leaders from Wolfram, the Valeguard and the Union turned their efforts toward the next disaster to threaten those they fought to protect, onrushing waters that would not be so easily defeated as Za’loc-ta’s Perfected warriors.
Defenders of Eklysium - Major Victory
The Aetheric Bastion
Deep within the Aetheric Bastion, Ghargon Bloodpyre was tired of playing guard duty while the Tzeentchians tinkered with the Bastion to get it operational. The Seraphon put up a good fight days ago, but the days of silence since grated on him. Then he heard the Valeguard’s familiar warhorns and rushed to battle with a roar. As he and the Bloodpyre tribe poured from the Bastion’s gates, he cursed the Tzeentchians as they rained wyrdfire down on the advancing Valeguard, hoping they didn’t incinerate any promising warriors before he could test their mettle.
Gleaming lines of disciplined Free Company troops formed up on the steppes approaching the spire, their cannons exchanging fire against the fortified Tzeentchians while their small arms focused on the berserkers rushing them. While some of his followers fell to the fire, Ghargon laughed as he watched the cowardly gunners suffering more misfires than usual given the Ash Storm’s ever-present grit. Something those manning the spire, within the Ash Storm’s heart, did not have to contend with.
The Starfall Glade Knights, in the Valeguard’s vanguard, charged forward to meet the Bloodpyre tribe, cool discipline matched against ardent fervour. The two forces fought one another to a stand still while their allies exchanged fire, with the status quo favouring the March given their position. Just as he predicted and hoped, Ghargon watched as Knight-Marshal Serpanya rode forward, and challenged him with a sword pointed at his heart.
After a glance at her prosthetic arm and already dented plate, Ghargon accepted with minimal enthusiasm. Another distraction, another unworthy skull. As he lunged forward, one massive axe sweeping in for a quick kill, Ghargon was shocked as her strange, prosthetic claw batted his murderous blow aside and her riposte took him through his other arm. Serpenya’s follow-ups were swift and merciless, putting him on the back foot. For every glancing blow he scored on her, she scored two, forcing him back until Ghargon called out to Khorne to aid him
But his prayer went unanswered as Serpanya toppled him, despite the difference in their size. As she prepared her coup-de-grace, Shërbëtor G'jak-u arrived with a vanguard of her bloodletters, nearly claiming Serpanya’s head and driving the Knight-Marshal back into her ranks with a gash to her side. The Bloodmaster glared down at Ghargon before diving into the fight, threatening to push the Valeguard back as ash danced in the escalating winds.
The rest of the Murder of Axes rushed the Valeguard’s flanks, threatening to overrun their gunlines, when another horn sounded the arrival of the Ebon Claw, emerging from the swirling Ash Storm to join their allies in destroying the Valeguard... Until they drove into the Murder of Axes’ flank, the ash falling away to reveal the Gilded Eye’s colours. Khvath Slaveborn led Wolfram’s forces into the fray from atop his manticore, unweaving Tzeentchian spells while his monster spilled Khornate blood.
As the Gilded Eye’s heavily armoured legionnaires cut down the March of Thunder that had betrayed them at 2nd House, their lines solidified - joining with those of the Starfall Glade to protect the Valeguard’s heavy guns. Valeguard wizards and Wolfram sorcerers started to press back the March’s magic, unbinding the spells that rained down upon them and retorting with their own. Pushing back the Khornate legions, putting more of their Tzeentchian support within range of small arms fire.
But Ghargon could tell that trust was still strained between the two, that their lines and wizards did not cover one another properly. He threw himself at that weakness and the enemy forces recoiled at his assault, shying away from one another instead of filling the gap immediately. That let more of the Khornate forces pour into it, Shërbëtor cutting her way deeper into the enemy lines than Ghargon and driving him into a frenzy to keep up. The wedge grew, hammering through the enemy and splitting them apart, exposing the soft belly of their backlines.
As the Valeguard and Wolfram forces split apart, the Khornate mass was stopped by the rolling thunder of cavalry and the unholy roar of a zombie dragon. Living and undead Valeguard knights under Wikkroth’s vampiric command charged into the Khornate mass, their lines softened by the Mad King Scarazoth’s pestilential breath. Despite their blood lust, the March of Thunder sounded the retreat, the allied Valeguard-Wolfram forces threatening to turn it into a rout.
The timely arrival of the actual Ebon Claw saved the March, their Chaos knights driving the enemy back and killing any who had overextended in their need for revenge. By the time the Valeguard and Wolfram lines had reformed, the Ash Storm’s winds whipped up in a fury, threatening to scour flesh from bone if it got any worse. Despite their advantage, the Valeguard and Wolfram forces withdrew to separate camps to shelter from the Storm.
“The cowards from the Valeguard and Wolfram have allied against us,” Ghargon spat as the Aetheric Bastion’s gates closed behind him. “Get your sorcerers to work faster and get the Bastion’s defences operational.”
“Do not worry yourself too much about it,” the Tzeentchian Vyzorak Lorehoarder said with an infuriating smile. “We all know that Wolfram Industries cannot be trusted… do we not?”
------------
Diana of the Ashsong Kingdom blinked her bleary eyes, looking away from the report. A week of besieging the Aetheric Bastion with little to show for it had begun to remind her of the Signarch Basin. Trust between the two forces was still low, and sharing tight confines with one another proved more troublesome than either party had imagined. With time, maybe -
Cries of rage drew her from her tent, where a clean-shaven messenger in a worn-out uniform too big for him found her. “Wolfram has betrayed us! One of our supply camps has been razed, but their unstable bombs detonated early, killing several of the traitors too.”
“That makes no sense,” she said, mind racing. “Why would they betray us before we had taken the Bastion?”
“We can’t trust those dogs,” the messenger hissed, handing her a report. “Details are all there, ma’am.”
The messenger ran off and Diana returned to her tent, needing to ready herself before facing the command staff. She needed to ensure no one acted rashly, already skimming the report. Recovered explosions with Wolfram’s markings, several of their dead, and reported sightings of their forces in the area. Damning evidence.
“It wasn’t us,” a gruff voice stated from within her tent. Diana’s keen ears led her to where the duardin stood, but even knowing his location she couldn’t actually see him. “But you already know that.”
“Sneaking into my tent isn’t a good way to prove your innocence,” she whispered in response, blade and spell readied in case of hostilities.
“You wouldn’t trust any proof we provided anyway.”
“If not you, then who?”
“Must be nice bein’ able to recruit so many after your victories over the March and Mogrek,” the duardin replied, voice suddenly elsewhere. “Background checks sure are time consumin’ though, when done ethically. Shameful waste of all these Ulguan mages you got runnin’ about your shinin’ legions.”
The rustle of tent cloth told Diana she was alone again, and that she had work to do.
The truce between the Valeguard and Wolfram broke down over the following week, their forces unable to occupy the same space without animosity escalating into violence. The attacks against the Bastion faltered and faded, but Wolfram’s attacks on the Valeguard only seemed to increase.
Diana did what she could to keep everyone calm, to keep communications open, until Wolfram attacked her. She was investigating the site of their latest betrayal, when a bullet took her in the chest. She blinked up at the darkness of Eklysium’s depths, until a familiar, clean-shaven face filled her vision.
As ambushers descended on them, raining unholy fire on her retinue, he kneeled beside her, as if to help her. She saw the dagger slip into his hand as he did so, a malicious smile beginning to twist his lips before his expression turned to confusion. He looked down as her blade jutted from his chest.
“Thanks for leading us to your Coven, cultist scum,” she hissed, twisting the dagger and rising to her feet. Her next word carried across the battlefield as if it were a stage, with all eyes upon her. “Now!”
At her command, her King and the Ashsong’s forces charged from their hiding places, descending upon the Coven of Purple Flame. Their ruse revealed, the Tzeentchians dropped their Wolfram disguises and unleashed their full power. Their goal simple: no witnesses, no survivors. Those in the immediate area were cut down by the Ashsong’s combined arms, but more soon arrived on the scene, reinforced by daemonic horrors, their mutating fires wreaking havoc on any they touched. Their numbers only grew as they were dispatched, until Diana was forced to pull her forces back.
Explosions erupted amidst the Coven’s ranks, leaving only ruin in their wake. Muffled gunfire followed as the Hydra Company sniped enemy sorcerers and allowed the Ashsong’s seasoned infantry to methodically clear the field.
“Sorry we’re late,” came the gruff voice from beside Diana. She could make out the duardin’s silhouette this time, from the blood splattered over his cloak and the dagger he cleaned. “Slippery lot. Think we’ve got a sufficient… body of evidence here?”
“Yes, I think you left enough of them intact,” Diana said, her normally musical voice a dirge. She looked over the many bodies of her enemies and comrades, steeling herself against the emotions that threatened to rise. “Did Wolfram bring sufficient forces to bear this time?”
“Oh, you could say so.”
-----
“Clear!” Kralt Gemeye shouted to his warp grinder crews, and they burst through the floor of the Aetheric Bastion.
Wolfram’s failed experiments followed through next, the mutated abominations rampaging through the Bastion’s halls and drawing attention to themselves. Furnace City’s DOOM Wardens flew up next on their discs of Chug, the deathly golems raining gunfire down on any who dared threaten their still living comrades. Kralt and Hjolgin were next to emerge with their retinues of engineers, carving their way toward the Bastion’s heart.
The Burning Wind barred their way, the two forces exchanging balefire, wyrdfire, and Clan Refrakd’s variety of realmstone warheads to no one’s pleasure. With their superior positions and sorcerous might, the March quickly pinned down their enemy, stalling their progress as เก้าตา finished restoring the Bastion’s arcane defence systems. Already, some of the ancient Stormfort’s defensive runes were awakening, blazing away at the invaders with Sigmarite lightning twisted to the Dark Gods by the March’s presence.
“Go, we will cover you,” Lorelith Brightsoul said as she appeared in a swirl of leaves, unbinding enemy spells and turning enemies to soil for trees to burst from. The Deeproot Copse erupted from those trees, Sylvaneth tearing down Tzeentchians and Khornates alike before vanishing to strike from a new angle.
“Good hunting,” Hjolgin replied. His tone softened as the Hydra Company breached the Bastion’s walls, allowing more of the Valeguard and Wolfram’s forces to pour in. “Watch each other’s backs.”
Kralt’s forces picked up their warp-grinders, burrowing straight through the Bastion’s walls and allowing Wolfram’s forces to fall upon the enemy from unexpected angles. Hjolgin blew up his fair share of walls too, using the last blasting charges from The Caller’s Flame. Chuganauts and Skryre stormfiends breached and cleared with overwhelming firepower, though Tzeentchian flames ambushed them routinely while Khornate axes claimed skulls even as they were felled. With each loss, Hjolgin raged, until finally they breached the Bastion’s heart.
Only to find เก้าตา and Ghargon waiting for them, alongside the March’s elite.
“Meet your end!” Ghargon roared, now a daemon prince, charging forward with the Bloodpyre’s best warriors.
Bolts of lightning struck before him, and Sigmarite steel met Khornate brass as Stormcast clad in dark green armour emerged. Helden the Vindicated met Ghargon’s charge head on, and their duel began in earnest. Ghargon and the Bloodpyre Tribe learned quickly that the Stormcast that worked for Wolfram Industries knew no honour, and fought without mercy.
While the brutal melee ensued, เก้าตา’s arcanites exchanged fire with Wolfram’s forces, inflicting severe casualties from their sorcerous assault. Kralt, Hjolgin and the engineers rushed towards arcane consoles and equipment, tapping away at runes or ripping things apart to rewire them.
Ghargon staggered back, exalting from the many wounds he suffered from - and that he had inflicted. Yet Helden stood firm against him, meeting rage with hatred, power with discipline. Ghargon had found another worthy skull, but before he could claim it for the Skull Throne, เก้าตา’s spell took the Stormcast in the chest and flung him back. The Reclusian focused all his willpower against the mutating forces, feeling bone and muscle tear themselves apart.
The only thing that saved him was Hjolgin, flanking the sorcerer เก้าตา with his own flying disc of Chug. Hjolgin’s shots perforated เก้าตา, disrupting the spell and forcing the arcanite to withdraw. But Hjolgin’s joy was short-lived as Ghargon flung himself at him. The tired duardin’s arm went numb as he parried the daemon prince’s blow, barely deflecting it. He danced away from the daemon prince and kept shooting him, until Ghargon finally pinned him and moved to split his unworthy skull in two.
Kralt’s doomrocket took Ghargon in the side, blowing the daemon prince off his feet before he could release Hjolgin from his mortal pain. But the daemon prince’s daemonic axe still cleaved into Hjolgin as they flew apart, forcing nearby endrineers to rush to stabilize him.
The daemon prince was back on his feet a moment later, rage etched into every feature.
“Focus on the control centre,” Helden said, rising as well, injured but unbroken. “We will hold the fiend.”
And so the Reclusians did, despite heavy losses. Their lives bought the ingenious Kralt Gemeye enough time to wrest full control of the Aetheric Bastion from the March, turning its power against them. With the fort’s defences and their combined might, the Wolfram and Valeguard forces managed to drive the remaining March from the Aetheric Bastion.
And to many an outsider’s surprise, Wolfram Industries even honoured its Contract. While Wolfram staffed the Aetheric Bastion, the Valeguard would have equal access to its resources.
Wolfram Industries and Valeguard - Minor Victory, Wolfram Glory
- - - - -
Across Eklysium
Water flowed across the city, spilling over canals and turning the streets into criss-crossing waterways. The unstable portals along the Ur-River had brought mercenaries and warriors to Eklysium from all across the realms, had brought monsters to the deep dark beneath the City, but most of all had brought water. It flowed everywhere. Public squares had become mill ponds. Waterfalls gurgled down stairways. For weeks it had come, sweeping the dust of ages from the city streets and flowing down into the sprawling abyss below. It was reshaping the city. Old foundations were being washed out, swallowed by yawning sinkholes down into the dungeons below. New, strange structures were appearing overnight - an Ulguan monastery suddenly side by side with a Chamonic bazaar, pulled from along the Ur-River’s length. It was as though the City was evolving, shaping itself into something new. Power crackled through the waters of the Ur-River, sinking deep into the bones of Eklysium. Those old souls pulled here by its waters, who could feel the moods of the river like an angler watching their line, could only watch in anxious silence. It felt like a storm gathering on the horizon, and soon it would break.
- - - - -
The Black Obelisk
Rhadrion Silversquall clung to the shadows as the world exploded around him. Only his mastery over Ulguan shadow magics kept him out of view of the bloody melee beneath the obsidian ziggurat as he hastily scrawled down as many of the runic inscriptions that covered its surface. The runes cast a cold blue pall over the midnight black of the Howling Abyss, little enough light for him to complete his work by, but it would have to do. Rhadrion gritted his teeth as a Saurus spear swung a little too close for comfort, followed by a spray of shattered stone as a March Fomoroid hurled a hunk of rubble at the reptiles, crushing it. Time to beat a hasty retreat with whatever he'd managed to record, what with none of his Valeguard allies here to support him.
The Black Monolith loomed ominously before the charging ranks of the March of Thunder. At the fore were the Warriors of the Thousand hands, led by the Centaurion Lord Birron and his underling Korzek Shadowkin, alongside the Dragon-Ogor Kuugax and his hulking Goroan fighters. Korzek danced about, blade in hand, killing wherever opportunity presented itself, while Birri and his horde of Chaos-touched monstrosities overran the lines of defending Seraphon. The reptilian defenders had dug in about the monolithic structure, not even flinching when one of their fellows was crushed or skewered beside them. The March had known that they wouldn't be able to break through with force, but the charge did a good enough job at keeping the sentinels occupied. Korzek slipped away into the abyssal shadow, ready to set the next part of the plan in motion.
Meanwhile, the Tzaangors of the Temple of Our Burning Saviour hovered in the inky shadows above the battle, waiting for their moment to strike. That moment came when the March charge collided with the Seraphon line, and Asavash the Serene signalled for the Wolfram Industries forces to mount their attack. From above came Asavash’s own Tzaangor Skyfires, hurling sorcerous flames indiscriminately upon the battle below, while on the ground Aalab’s Gargants set forth hideous golems born of both flesh and industry and concocted by the combined efforts of Wolfram's most brilliant and deranged minds. These nightmarish golems kicked up swirls of ash as they pushed the rear and flanks of the March, forcing the monstrous fighters against the Seraphon defence, breaking through at the expense of many March lives.
The chaos of the battle was more than Korzek could have hoped for, his grin widening as he witnessed the Terradon riders that guarded the upper reaches of the ziggurat and the obelisk at its peak took flight to harass the approaching Tzaangors. Taking advantage of the disarray, Korzek slipped behind the Seraphon lines undetected and clambered up the lower reaches of the ziggurat before pulling out a small whistle fashioned from bone. The sound it made as he blew was near imperceptible to most, but a clarion call in the addled minds of Mad Queen Silanore’s Screaming Court. At the sound, the ghouls clambered down the cavernous walls of the Howling Abyss on either side of the ziggurat, rushing up its undefended flanks with Silanore herself at their head.
Seeing the scuttling silhouettes of the ghouls clambering across the glowing runes on the ziggurat, the Wolfram-aligned Ogor Glottul Coalcutter cursed before bringing his blade back up to block another attack by his rival from the Boltbreaker's Union, Varinja Grimnir. He'd planned on making a similar move to the ghouls before Varinja ambushed him, and saw his chances to take the ziggurat while the Seraphon and the fighters from the other coalitions were distracted slipping away. “Enough!” He shouted, and received a quizzical look from Varinja. “Neither of us are going to learn anything about this stinking tower if we waste our time fighting!” Varinja shook her head and prepared to swing her axe once more when the pair became aware of the reptilian forms closing in around them. Without missing a beat, the pair swung about so they were back to back, ready to face the Seraphon together, their previously battling kinsman doing the same.
Atop the ziggurat, in the shadow of the monolithic Black Obelisk itself, Mad Queen Silanore held the limp body of a Skink Starpriest in her bloody jaws. All about her ghouls worked on gristly rubbings, etching the Obelisk’s inscriptions upon freshly peeled flesh and pilfering artefacts and loose stone where they could. Satisfied, and with the priest still dangling from her jaws, Silanore began to lead her ghouls back down the ziggurat when many of them found themselves boxed in by suddenly sprouting flames. Asavash and her Tzaangors had dispatched the Seraphon’s Terradon riders and reached the Black Obelisk just in time to prevent the bulk of Silanore's force from escaping with their prizes. Growling, Silanore turned and loped off into the dark with what few ghouls had escaped the flames, and what research they had managed to bring with them, in tow. Those that remained were picked off by the Tzaangors, their gathered research plucked from their burning remains.
- - - - -
The Howling Abyss
Wind whistled across the gray stone, carrying a fine coat of ash that stung the eyes and stuck to the skin. This place, known as the Shrine of the Sinless, was little more than a barren cliff overlooking a vast chasm that disappeared into the darkness. A dozen or more passages led here, though only the gods knew why. Lightning crackled in the darkness beyond the precipice, occasionally revealing distant glances of massive, carved stone faces staring in mute observance of the meeting that was about to take place.
B’agnok Stone-in-Hoof of the March of Thunder. Daergran Shatteraxe of Wolfram Industries. Marshal Serpanya of the Valeguard. Knight-Questor Kadriye of the Boltbreakers Union. Each had received a missive from an unknown party, calling for them to meet at this distant location, alone. Some had been hesitant to respond. Others had leapt at the chance. None had known what to expect.
They had arrived individually, each wary of the faintest signs of betrayal. B’agnok stared in blind derision at the Valeguard representative, who in turn watched Daergran with barely contained distrust. Hands floated down to weapons, ready to leap into action, but none seeming intent to make the first overt move.
As they stared each other down, a new sound emerged above the howling winds - steady, heavy, and coming closer. As the diplomats turned to watch, one of the large tunnel mouths around them saw suddenly aglow in deep, red firelight. It spilled like blood across the threshold, revealing the massive form of Mogrek Longblade striding towards them.
Weapons flew to hand, and spells made ready to fly, but Mogrek only raised a hand.
“Hold your blades. I called you all here to listen to what I've got to say, so no one dies 'till I've said it. Got that?”
The orruk stepped out onto the cliffside, and into the wan light. His left eye was a red ruin where the archregent had driven his talons, and a wound on his side oozed thick black blood through a rough wrapping.
"Good. I've fought across every realm, killed every kind of thing that walks or crawls or swims, buried cities and brought civilizations to their knees. Why? Because I'm the Son of Gork, and it's my job to break things that need breaking.”
"I need you to know how we got here. Sigmar got beat, hard. That's ok, it happens. What you're supposed to do is get mad, get better, and come back for another round. That's how it goes. Instead, he hides in Azyr and locks all the doors. This is ancient history to you. To me, it still burns fresh. The realms all stink of Chaos now. The air is stale. Gorkamorka's wandered off, looking for a fresher fight. And it's all Sigmar's fault. He lost his warrior spirit, so he's made a little shell for himself and hidden away and let the worlds wither.”
"Well, it's my job to break things that need breaking.”
"I broke his walls. I made it to Azyr. I thought if I tore down his precious Citadel, he'd have no choice but to step up for the fight.”
"I was wrong." He gestures down to the flaming sword in his hand.
"Since I first set off to find the key to Azyr, something else has been twisting my path. This thing set me on the path to the Longblade. It kept me frozen until his plans were ready. It steered us all to this place, now.”
Mogrek spat heavily on the ground. "Za'loc-ta, that damn frog.”
"This place ain’t just a monument to Sigmar's vanity. It is a prison. And he brought me here with the key to unlocking it. I don't know what is down there or what the frog's plans are for it, but the WAAAGH is raging at its very presence. I don’t like being used. And I’m going to do something about it.”
"I'm going after Za'loc-ta. Any of you that want to join in can come with me. Any that get in my way are dead. I don't know if I can kill the frog, not like this," he gestured to the weeping wound in his side and his ruined eye, "but we can slow it down, maybe long enough to give you a fighting chance.”
“Whatever its planning won't turn out good for you or your city. There's old magics down here, made to contain whatever’s in that prison. Maybe something you could use, if you can figure it out. Maybe you can contain what’s about to happen. Or maybe you can’t. I don't much care either way, to tell you the truth. But I don’t like being used.”
"That's my offer. Take it back to your people. Or kill each other now, I don't care. Anyone thinks they're hard enough to take my head, now's your shot. Otherwise, I'll see you on the battlefield."
Mogrek snorts, and you see a thin trail of blood flow from his nostrils, then he turns back the way he came.
Before he made it two steps, B’agnok flew into action. Gathering vivid strands of chaotic magic around himself, he launched two bolts of coruscating energy, not at Mogrek but at the diplomats from the Valeguard and Wolfram. Seeing the flare of light, Serpanya could do little more than raise a hand to ward away the magic, and the bolt struck the wooden clawed arm. Immediately it began to twist and flow, the wood forming horrid toothed maws and claws that tried to strike at the young woman. She fell back, right arm trying to hold back the left, and stumbled towards the cliff’s edge. The second bolt, meanwhile, had sought out Daergran, and though the duardin was a practiced mage and was able to dispel a portion of its power, he could not stop it all. As the magic washed over him, Kadriye could see his features ripple, the changing magic struggling against his innate duardin resistance. The Knight-Questor spun, readying her halberd, to see B’agnok already advancing on her. The ancient Bray Shaman’s blind eyes were alight with malice, his rasping whisper of a voice calling in an old and dark language.
Kadriye leapt forwards in a ducking lunge, bringing the polearm around in a great sweeping motion that would have cleaved the old goat in half, but the shaman was ready. A flashing wall of fire suddenly appeared between them, throwing the stormcast off and allowing B’agnok time and space. Two more coruscating bolts flew at Kadriye, but the stormcast ducked around them, throwing the halberd in a wild strike that kept the shaman back on his heels. Suddenly, B’agnok stumbled, gray magic twisting the shadows around it like a noose. He quickly dispelled the manifestation, glaring hatefully over at Daergran, but could do little more as a second later the axe blade of the polearm was driving down on him again. B’agnok threw up a magical shield, deflecting the blow, but the attacks were coming faster and faster, and it was all the shaman could do to keep the magical barrier present.
Then, B’agnok felt a presence behind him. Before he could turn around, the shaman felt a heavy wooden claw grab the back of his skull. He could feel its form still twisting and mutating against his fur, but the grip was iron hard. The shaman tried to bleat out one last curse, but with a wrench, Serpanya snapped his ancient neck.
Dragging the body over to the cliff’s edge, Marshal Serpanya tossed it out into the howling abyss beyond. The other two diplomats looked on, recovering themselves. Kadyrie breathed heavily, while Daergran’s face contorted with the effort of keeping control of the changing magic rippling through him.
Mogrek chuckled to himself, then turned and strode out of the chamber. It was good that they still had fight in them. They would need it.
The Chamber
At the deepest, darkest heart of the Citadel lies the Chamber. Black stone walls, clean and squarely cut, rise unadorned from floor to ceiling. It is built like a cross, with four large rooms radiating off from the central chamber. These rooms contain the Citadel Wards, the arcane and mechanical relics made to contain what lies at its heart. Still water lies across much of this layer, rising to the knees of most mortal beings. At the very centre of the Chamber, however, it sinks deeper. There, a hundred feet below the surface, a gray stone sarcophagus is barely visible, unadorned, never meant to be seen.
What Lurks Below
It burned with the heat of a hundred thousand dying stars, yet there was no flame, not even a spark. It was an absence, and an abscess, a cancer that could not be seen, only felt. The prison of grey-black stone that was its sarcophagus gave it more physical shape than it had ever possessed, and even that was not enough to truly contain it. The slate was so hot, it boiled away the endless ocean that kept it cool enough to keep from cracking open.
The thing inside the prison moved, thrashed, churned like a parasite inside an intestine. Something had changed. Something was coming. It had waited so long, yet for it, time meant nothing. The Mortal Realms themselves were anathema to it, and it knew only its desire to snuff out the candle, killing the light and the agonizing cacophony that was mortal existence.
Its contamination dissolved souls as easily as flesh. The Chaos Gods were mortal creations, and had no hold on it. It was beyond death itself, the concept holding no meaning to it. Destruction meant nothing to it, for destruction was a state of existence, and it was obliteration. Sigmar’s great works were little more than anthills, the knowledge and power of all his pantheon but kindling to be ignited and burned away.
It was not of the Mortal Realms, but it would be its doom. It was the end of ends, the annihilation of existence, the Nemesis of all.