The Uxmaegr Saga – The Rage of Ulha'up
Commissioned by Eva-Saiyajin
Magic was the gift of the Gods upon the world.
All in Norsca knew that this was the truth.
While it was utterly true that the great God Tzeentch, known as Tchar, Tz'aknol, Tzerun, and a thousand other names as well as that of the Great Eagle was the great master of magic, so too was it true that the other Gods could wrest forth their own powers and grant them to their followers. Shaman-Sorcerers, Vitki, these blessed ones went by almost as many different titles as the Gods they worshipped. But all agreed on one thing, save for those who served the Skull Throne above all others, and that was the fact that magic was granted by the Gods. Stolen and improperly used by the lesser creatures and enemies that inhabited the world, yes, but that was simply one more challenge offered up by the Gods to prove oneself worthy. Whether the offensively sterile castings of the Asur, the idiotically primitive work of the greenskins, the gaseous belches of the ogres, the false powers of the Druchii, the feeble efforts of the Arabyans, the pathetic mumbling now of the Empire, or all others in the world, it was known that there were no truer masters of the gifts of the Gods than those who worshipped them. Because the magic that came to them was
theirs, a blessing forever billowing out into the world from the Realm of Chaos. To deny this was blasphemy, almost on par to the repugnant workings of the stunted dwarfs who sought to ground out and silence it.
A blasphemy that, when combined
with said stunted workings?
Demanded nothing less than total and complete annihilation.
For all of that, the High King of Norsca, did not look pleased as the skulking sorcerers and shamans from across the land gathered in his hall. Lashed together from twelve separate dragonships, the greatest of the vessels throughout the whole of the myriad clans that made up the vaster Aesling tribe, and overturned and transported across the land by mutated beasts of burden, it was not nearly the equal to the great castles and bastions that he had witnessed within the Chaos Wastes nor even of some of the greater edifices in the weakling lands of the south. For all of that, the fires burned high, the mead flowed freely, and fresh red meat from a number of sources was at the ready – normally, at least. On this day, such accommodations for his greatest warriors and the champions of the clans and tribes following him were stripped away. Leaving only low burning braziers and himself upon his throne, cast and brutally forged in the fires of Chaos out of the broken suits of armor of those warlords and chieftains who had refuted his ascension to dominance over all their peoples.
The Aeslings, the Bjornlings, the Sarls, the Graelings, the Vargs, the Skaelings, and the Baersonlings all served him now.
Oh, some had resisted, especially the Baersonlings as befitting their long-time rivalries with the Aeslings, but in the end, they too knelt to the High King. Which, in turn, meant that the whole of all those sorcerers and shamans and warlocks throughout Norsca regardless of tribe were meant to serve him. Some went so far as to call themselves sorcerer lords, those blessed enough to plumb the deeper secrets and strong enough to wield the greater powers that magic could grant them. To melt flesh, manipulate steel, transform the land, enliven and invigorate the men, bring down great fires and lightning and storms, summon forth plague, summon daemons, and more. These were what they offered up to him, he who was Valmir Aesling. Enough concentrated magical might to surely sweep all before them, he had heard the whispers. Many had to return to their ancestral lands, to keep the peace, to perform their services and duties to the Gods and their people, but others had remained. It should have been enough.
It wasn't.
Clad in the holy black iron grafted to his body, a Chaos Lord in truth, the High King of Norsca glowered down at all of those before him, so supposedly blessed were they. The power of the Gods was with him, the runic script of Chaos itself bright upon his blade, in the emblems across his molded plate armor.
"
You have failed," he growled as he looked upon them all, watching for the contrition, the flinches, and sneered as he saw it. "
The blasphemers' with their stolen gifts live still, to continue their heretical instruction of others."
One made to speak, arrogant and foolishly proud, stepping forward with chin raised high as he looked up at Valmir upon his throne, yet wavered and fell silent as a gaze of one of far greater power fell fully upon him.
"
I see no sign of Lord Ulgulmak. The Shadow's Talon is dead. His great plan an abject failure."
A powerful if lesser Sorcerer Lord of Chaos, venturing from the Wastes to attend to Valmir, who had thought to use his absolute mastery of Ulgu to cloak a force in ambush and flank as the battle commenced against the blasphemers and their disgusting dwarf allies. Years of fighting now, and there was little to lose in letting this warband join them and prove themselves worthy of continued service and life. To muddle the mind and all the senses of the body to allow them to break the steadfast enemy lines, to finally properly pierce through to the eastern heartlands of the cankerous blights that were the so-called Norse Dwarfs. Them, and their foul allies, the blinded blasphemers that dared to call themselves Norscan, those who named themselves Uxmaegr.
"
I have had enough of your petty mortal failings," he declared as he descended from his throne, and after a second's thought slew the one who had dared step forward with a single skull-shattering fist. "
It is clear now that your weaknesses are too great, and we must call upon the Gods for their aid."
==========================================================================
Ulha'up awoke swiftly, not that any warmblood would have noticed it. His scant remaining Temple Guard, those who were now each of them so well-worn by their pilgrimage through the tainted world that all survivors qualified as Scar-Veterans at this point, did however. The ancient Mage-Priest's mind, whether awake or in meditation or slumbering, shifted and calculated in cold repose, it was merely that it was upon waking up that all the more could be done. Something that was growing harder and harder to manage, unfortunately, the longer that the Slann spent in these accursed lands so far from the warm jungles of Lustria. The Geomantic Web stretched across the whole of the world, but accessing it was a risky prospect in a place so dominated by the Great Enemy. Most of the ancient reservoirs in the place that the warmbloods called 'Norsca' were barred from even the faintest touch through ancient warding and active watching by the foul aetheric entity composed of particularly disruptive aspects known as 'Tzeentch'. That fourth of the greater opposing force from the Great Enemy was particularly prideful about such matters, and distressingly well-informed, and to reach out and try to grasp for that which was freely available in other lands was to light up a beacon that the so-called God could not possibly fail to see.
So Ulha'up did not.
Furthermore, he allowed himself a spike of anger to further disrupt the pall of exhaustion that dared try and swaddle his being into utter slumber like so many of his kind had been reduced to. The Dark Gods this, he had heard and ripped from the minds of so many. The Dark Gods that, he had heard pronounced upon the lips of so many. Across his ventures after leaving Lustria behind, he had heard them, whispered upon the winds and into dreams and into souls, bellowed on distant shores and in caves and open fields. There were lesser Aethyric assemblies, certainly, constructs of emotion and intent and dominion granted over certain metaphysical aspects when possible, who could prove of use, but in the end, none could compare to the Old Ones who had shaped the world. Not the invaders who had shattered the Great Work before it could be complete, who did everything in their power to actively interfere with the Great Plan set down afterwards, nor those unknowing warmbloods who had not yet comprehended that which they sometimes accidentally maligned – or aided.
With a wordless growl Chip'I'chapa, leader of his Temple-Guard and a saurus Oldblood in his own right, knelt before him as the Slaan performed one of the most prodigious acts of wakefulness that could be seen:
He shifted his weight slightly and blinked both eyes in unison.
In an instant, the Temple-Guard roused themselves, obsinite halberds and blades at the ready as well as their shields. One left and swiftly woke up the kroxigor who served as platform bearers for the Mage-Priest, the enormous combat and construction utilities that they could provide set aside for now. Instead, they were the only ones trusted to ensure that Ulha'up could be hefted higher away from the tainted world upon his platform of woven together branches and vines from Lustria. It was not enough, not truly, he knew so, for they were of the world no matter how pure that their kind worked to keep the jungles. His original stone palanquin was long since destroyed, and he had not been granted the chance to rest in a proper Star Chamber in many centuries. But the cause, his cause, his part in the Great Plan that he had gleaned forth – that which the other Slann disputed, that others dared call him
mad for – required sacrifices. If that meant touching upon the corrupting elements of the world, ever so slightly for his bulbous frame, so be it. Let the others of the Sublime Communion decry and deny him, just as he had shown the truth to the warmbloods, so too would they in time.
Of course that would only matter so long as those who had heard his words and understood, even if only slightly, continued to live.
Ulha'up did not speak, he did not need to, not with a throat of flesh. Instead, his desires and intent were communicated with the slightest of movements and the absolute control of his own thoughts. Thoughts which he could speak into the very minds of his attendants, their physiology and design ensuring that they did not need to withstand his will but simply carried it out. A problem that he had spent centuries and thousands of warmblood lives attempting to solve, a solution that he had only finally managed to come to after far too many mistakes. Even then, the experiment would be rendered an absolute failure if it ended too early by non-natural factors, and therefore he had to intercede. It would cost him, of course, to do what he did now, as his train of attendants flooded forth from their places in the caverns that he had carefully transformed during their stay over the course of decades. Every moment that he did not spend shielding himself and his kind, that he did not expend effort and energy upon shrouding the misty valleys that the Uxmaegr's main stronghold and population base were now located in, that he did not actively disrupt scrying and observation attempts, were a terrible risk.
But it was one he could not avoid taking.
To use a terribly reductive and insufficiently complex yet oddly fitting warmblood term – his flock was in danger.
They constantly were, to know the truth of the Old Ones and to preach it for him amongst those who threw themselves upon the will of the Great Enemy, and often had to face it alone save for their allies in the dwarf-spawn. It was a good thing they did so, testing their faith and bodies and finding themselves not wanting was a beneficial stress testing result for Ulha'up, strengthening his own resolve. Furthermore, psychologically, it would continue to build the communal bonds between themselves and the dwarf-spawn while wearing away at the regard and treatment of the Uxmaegr as just another of the Norscan-spawn tribes. Grudges, a curious system installed into the dwarf-spawn at a fundamental level, could be applied to one group but could not be spent upon the latter, for the Uxmaegr were
not of the latter. A simple concept that Ulha'up had already foreseen would take much bloodshed and many years to resolve into acceptance. Another component of the proselyting experiment that could not afford to be lost.
So.
He would go.
Already, he could see the transformation of the Winds in the air, the layers of reality peeling back and twisting as the warmbloods called upon the Great Enemy in great strength. Significant sacrifice had been utilized, whole piles of dead both willing and unwilling that Ulha'up could perceive even at a vast distance away across the valleys and plains and cliffs. A powerful storm which had been passing through, a purely natural atmospheric event, had been absconded with and absorbed by unnatural forces, becoming a living thing of malice and hate. That alone would not have been enough to summon the Slann forth from his enclave, for such a thing could be guttered out by the curious anti-magical workings of the dwarf-spawn or perhaps even contested by the haphazard spell weaving of the Uxmaegr. Rather, his great mind and focus, split in so many directions in the cause of defense and obscurement, had caught upon something exactly as it was meant to.
The warmblood acolyte known as Freya Blazeheart, one of those first true converts to the worship of the Old Ones, had purposefully reached out and broken the talisman he had granted to her in times of emergency. Had he the fullness of the retinue he had departed Lustria with, it might not have been given, certainly, but Ulha'up was capable of recognizing the providence of the Old Ones, and especially Tepok, in forcing him to adjust parameters and requirements in the course of his mission. He had no skink priests to interpret his will any longer, nor any skinks at all, for they had not survived the centuries like their saurus and kroxigor brethren. Yet the Uxmaegr, in serving him, and the Old Ones, could be regarded as more useful components of the Great Plan. With his focus drawn to defense, he therefore relied upon these new faithful, lesser as they might have been compared to the products of the spawning pools, to act as according to their best knowledge and judgement. Just as any Saurus Oldblood or so on would do.
Which meant that if the warmblood leader deigned it proper to call upon him, taking the solid tablet of enchanted gold and shattering it, it meant that she perceived something in her smaller mind in fullness that the splinters of his own had not.
From here, all these leagues away, he heard the fervent faith in her prayers as she lay upon her back, bleeding and dying, around her the Uxmaegr and dwarf-spawn in retreat. From here, through the talisman, his rapidly reallocating attentions and solidifying focus fell more fully upon the battlefield that they fought in. The judgement in calling him was sound, he decided, in the seconds between raising his hand and clenching it. All of the lizardmen within the caverns that had assembled did not blink or even shift with this grand act of magic, such that it might well have sent many with the sight to see it to their knees as the magnificence of its complexity and power. Ulha'up did not wish for a grand pronouncement, of thunderous booms and flashing light, for these were expenditures that he did not desire at the moment. Better then to simply move from one place to another as swiftly as possible.
Space and time declared the distance.
Ulha'up declared that distance
nil.
In an instant, he and his retinue appeared amongst the snows. The chilling cold was a far cry from the warmth of Lustria, but he and his followers had adapted well. They did not even require warming enchantments or the like. So much the better then, that all of the lizardmen immediately turned and responded to the Slann's will and started quickly and quietly gathering up the Uxmaegr fallen upon the field that were too wounded to escape otherwise. An errant parting of Ulha'up's mouth was enough to exhale a cleansing wave of Ghyran to fly out and infuse each and every one of those who still lived, and enough to restore some of those who had just passed on back to the mortal coil they'd just departed. In that same moment, the far greater majority of Ulha'up's attention was on the reason for the battle's loss and retreat of both acolytes and dwarf-spawn alike.
At an incredibly short distance away lay the architect of the victory that the worshippers of the Great Enemy were just on the cusp of achieving.
"
THERE YOU ARE!" It boomed with glee. "
JUST. AS. FORETOLD!"
A curious and distressing foe for the Uxmaegr and dwarf-spawn indeed. The very landscape of the battlefield was altered by its presence and energies. Great burnt scars existed where intense fires had incinerated their enemies, vaporizing snow, soil, and more down to the bedrock. Elsewhere some boulders that had been too close now walked about on arms and legs like birds with mouths that opened to new and unnatural organs. Several of the worshippers of the Great Enemy were wracked with rapid mutations to the point of degeneration into untenable organic amalgamations – chaos spawn as the warmbloods called them. One of the tainted Aethyric entities divided out under the reckoning of Tzeentch, a so-called Lord of Change. But more than that, as well. Such significant amounts of magic were being brought to the fore by its presence that it towered above the battlefield including even the tainted and corrupted descendants of the Sky-Titans that the Old Ones had approached in friendship long, long ago. A great rent in the world had been cut open in its summoned passage out of the Realm of Chaos, from which a continual flowing tide of daemons swarmed.
In comparison to its great height and the ongoing storm of magic that had come forth heralding its arrival into the material realm, the Mage-Priest was very small.
Only physically, of course.
Aethyrically it was another matter altogether. Less than a second had passed since the Exalted Lord of Change had spoken, this one not particularly recognized by Ulha'up who had fought during the Great Catastrophe. Then again, the malign courts of the Great Enemy shifted, waxing and waning in time as different entities sought superiority over their brethren. But in that time, Ulha'up had raised a vast magical shield to ward off the first few exploratory columns of lightning, spinning wheels of fire, sacrificed daemon-machines lobbed forth telekinetically, and pure telepathic assault that was levied upon him and the rest of the acolytes and dwarf-spawn as they retreated and regrouped. It was an assault beyond the grounding efforts of the Runesmiths assigned to the battlefield, beyond perhaps all but the singular dwarf-spawn who's role and title were Runelord located within the dwarf-spawn settlement Kraka Drak. Another illogical existence, who's knowledge and expertise was not passed on to as many as possible, but rather kept tightly secret. It was utterly unlike the Slann and skink priests, born with much of what they needed to know and openly instructed by Old Ones and fellow lizardmen peers as required, and terribly inefficient. But that was a matter for another time.
"
I SHALL WREST ALL THAT YOU KNOW FROM YOUR MIND, WRINGING YOUR MIND AND SOUL DRY IN THE NAME OF TZEENTCH! YOU SHALL BEG FOR MERCY FOR A THOUSAND YEARS BEFORE I GRANT IT, MAGE-PRIEST! HHHAAHAHAHAHAH! YOU FACE PRELAX'NALGURFURAN, EXALTED OF THE CRYSTALLINE MAZE!"
Ulha'up, Voyager in the Rain Drops of Eternity, Slann of the 2
nd Generation, let his lidded eyes fall that much more to closing entirely.
Though it could also be accurately described as a narrowed glare.
He inhaled deeply, throat and chest bulging outwards slightly before he let out a single croak.
A croak that carried with it a thunderous boom of pure sonic force that deafened and pulped rank upon rank of charging daemons and Norscans alike, and forced the Exalted Lord of Change to step backwards and rapidly craft a shield for itself. It's multi-hued form shifted rapidly as it did so, colors and limbs altering in number and variety. Spiraling spikes of pure invisible Ulgu carrying conceptual death and murderous intent were summoned in their hundreds, only to crash into a spiraling and expanding web of Hysh that flickered into existence for a single instant yet was bright enough to burn away every single shadow upon the battlefield. The Greater Daemon's many eyes, sprouting into existence upon their body and then fading away randomly whilst always leaving nine larger ones behind, narrowed or widened at different moments. But the sorcerous contest was not yet done.
Time and space
blinked.
Suddenly Ulha'up was a hundred feet in the air, while the Lord of Change was split in two different forms, each of them perfect copies of the other by the reckoning of most senses. It wasn't even an illusion as most could know it. Rather, they had shifted themselves ever so slightly out of phase with the timestream to give the appearance of copying themselves, with one in the past and one in the future by a handful of seconds. All the while, channeling enough magic to move rapidly and compensate for what one did for the other. It was an impossibility to consider, much less process, for a mortal mind. Yet for a daemon such as this, it was child's play, for
they were able to perceive both, unlike another one of their peers within the court of Tzeentch. Yet, so too could Ulha'up, for the Slann was more than capable of perceiving such, and well. Two fleshy hands raised up as the Slann levitated, a perfect orb of magic surrounding him, before those two hands clapped together.
In an instant, magic throughout the entire battlefield was drained away.
With a surprised squawk, the Greater Daemon in the past looked back to see that the huge portal to the Realm of Chaos was zipped shut and sealed so well as to leave not even a marred section of reality left behind. The hideous mutated landscape that had come to literal unnatural life stilled and fell to the ground as purely mundane rocks and trees and more. Those unfortunates that had become chaos spawn stilled and died as well, the energies sustaining their existence ripped from them with cold calculation. An army of daemons brought forth from Tzeentch's claimed metaphysical territories within the Realm of Chaos were utterly banished before more than a handful of them even reached the lines of the Uxmaegr and dwarf-spawn. The Greater Daemon projected moments into the future rasped out angrily as it was snuffed as well, the phase of the world reformed to a more orderly state by the absolute will of Ulha'up. The Slann's fingers twitched, and suddenly the earth exploded beneath the army of now confused and fearful Norscans, the souls of the sorcerer-shamans extinguishing themselves as they tried with all that they were to contest the will of a Slann, whilst their great champions and leaders were incinerated with purest flames of Qhaysh that the Greater Daemon could not stop before the work was done.
In response, it tore open reality all the quicker, to even darker quadrants of the realms beyond, where hideous and nameless entities writhed in their own tortured existences. Tentacles the size of the dying chaos giants in the now sundered Norscan army stretched outwards hungrily towards Ulha'up, whilst the storm above started to direct dozens upon dozens of lightning bolts downwards coated in purest Dhar and mixed with the tainted but undeniably powerful Flames of Tzeentch. Blue and pink fireballs fell as plentifully as rain would in Lustria, while smaller portals back to the Realm of Chaos opened up once more so that flying screamers and flamers could once more emerge. Ulha'up's gaze narrowed further, his upraised arms wavering slightly and fingers twitching a bit more. A pair of firestorms descended from the sides, all the while a telepathic assault slammed down upon the Slann's mind. A single crack in his mental defenses, a single stumble in his soul, and it would be enough for a flood to pour through and see him ended utterly. He knew it, and the daemon knew it.
Ulha'up recognized the danger, and so slumped where he levitated in the air, thankfully too far up and surrounded by too many dazzling and blinding spells and workings of magic that it could not be seen and therefore dishearten the acolytes and dwarf-spawn. In truth, of course, he had simply surrendered all appearances and requirements of the flesh, eyelids falling fully, arms going limp, and entire body looking by all appearances lifeless – save for the vast amount of magical power that billowed forth. That much more of his attention and focus turned to the mental and the magical, and so a bright tiara of purest High Magic crystallized out of nothing but purest intent to scour away that which sought to invade and tear apart his mind. Winds, fire, lightning, and more, were targeted and reversed, transmuted, or contested in control outright. The air around him hardened, Chamon-led workings literally replacing it with suddenly created shields of obsinite would protect from the firestorms entirely, not allowing any of the tainted fires to reach him. Meanwhile barbed winds of Qhaysh fell upon the newly summoned lesser daemons and cut them apart before reaching the newer wounds in reality and sealing them up like an aggressive poultice.
"
YOU…YOU ARE…NO!" The Lord of Change's pride transformed as it realized that its foe was not what it thought.
Long, long ago, in the distant past, this now ascendant Lord of Change had born witness to the old workings of the Lizardmen during the First Incursion onto the planet of Mallus by the Gods against the Old Ones who opposed them. In the times since, it had even managed to slay one before, and was eager to contest a second and gain all the more knowledge from it that it had stolen from the first. It knew of the five generations, and knew that it had been one of the fifth that had failed in repelling the daemon's assault upon the obelisk in the Southlands. Another Slann was too great a target, especially given its efforts at destabilizing the preferred spiritual state of the Norscan slaves to the Gods. But the Lord of Change knew far greater than any dim-witted Bloodthirster, bewildered Keeper of Secrets, or sluggish Great Unclean One, and so truly perceived the Aethyric signature that was welling to the fore, stronger and stronger still as its multi-faced focus elsewhere was centralizing more and more into a single location.
Against a single foe.
"
YOU WOULD COME HERE? SO VULNERABLE! NO…YOU MUST BE STOPPED!" Prelax'nalgurfuran declared, raging all the more at the foolish mortal that had dared call it to this place.
By now, of the army that had nearly crushed the Uxmaegr and dwarf-spawn, there were no survivors left. None to report back to their High King of Norsca. Only daemons, lesser ones, ignorant and foolish. Only the Exalted Lord of Change remained. But the acolytes and dwarf-spawn would remember, yes, as this great and terrifying entity which had nearly been their end gazed upon Ulha'up with fear and hatred before with a beating of nine sprouting wings turned away. The Lord of Change stepped back, turning, trying to discorporate itself outright so that it could bring news to its master and rivals both, for here was one of the greatest agents of the Old Ones remaining in the world, vulnerable! That was what the daemon told itself, at least, and daemons were ever willing to lie, especially those of Tzeentch. Especially to themselves.
But much to the Greater Daemon's surprise, anger, and horror, the portal would not open.
It tried to strike at itself instead, but it found that its immense and potent grasp of magic failing.
Nine great eyes blinked, and finally saw the deep hooks of Qhaysh previously hidden from its gaze that had latched across its body both physical and astral. It could not screech, could not scream into the Realm of Chaos and draw the gaze of Tzeentch, for the battlefield no longer belonged to the Changer of Ways. Nor to Slaanesh, Nurgle, or Khorne. Another being had taken the whole of the place, to the skies above and the deep earth below, and the immaterial realm beyond perception layered atop reality and beneath it in all aspects. Hooks that dug deeper, and burned, and ripped and tore, something that had begun occurring since the Slann had come to the battlefield. Pain and injury foreign to the daemon that had survived so many eternities by the unfathomable reckoning of the Realm of Chaos grew worse as it tried to release itself from the hooks, to pull one free, to dispel them or otherwise, yet it could not. Attempting to change in shape brought only worse pain, worse damage, a total refutation of the immutability and endless change that was fundamental to its kind and beings.
"
No…NOOOO!" It screamed.
What came next was recorded in the annals of the Uxmaegr and the Norse Dwarfs:
The daemon wept.
The daemon pleaded.
The daemon tried to bargain.
Ulha'up clenched his fists.
The skies of Norsca were filled with the most brilliant lights seen in generations, so bright and varied that they would be seen all the way to the south in the lands of Kislev and the Empire, accompanied by nightmares and visions of great variety. Fear featured greatly in all of them, as did pain, but no one could properly make sense of it. This was a good thing, for otherwise it would mean comprehending the stretched-out eternities and multiple dimensions of pain suffered by an Exalted Lord of Change as they were destroyed wholly at a fundamental level. The Court of Tzeentch would lose one of their number entirely, never to return again, not even in fragments to interrogate and learn from, and neither would their rivals in the Great Game played by the Dark Gods.
A good thing, as well, for greatly wearied by the effort of this was Ulha'up, and the prophet would have to retire for many years back to his sanctum to recover while his attentions returned to maintaining the defenses keeping his existence obscured. The Uxmaegr and Norse Dwarfs remained terribly outnumbered by the rest of the Norscans opposing them, wishing to scour them all from existence now for blaspheming against the Gods so completely and allying with those that would respectively, but for now they had time to recover and rebuild their defenses. The absolute obliteration of an entire army would also put pause to more aggressive plans and assaults for some time, but not forever, as the steadily building insult of their continued existence grew ever more the longer the fighting went on.
But never again would a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch respond to the call of Valmir Aesling, forever enraging the one who wished to claim the title of Emperor of Chaos.
