A Path Obscured
A mighty fortress stood amidst utter desolation, warriors crowding its battlements. A warlord donned his armor and rested his hands upon his draconic steed, his form taut with dread. An abomination of hunger and shadow reached out to its oldest companion for comfort, devouring its fear and polishing its words. A gunsmith, brash and defiant, calmly assembled her greatest and most terrible work yet. A living fortress poured its might into the walls, newfound power straining, even as his oldest comrade gave deeply of his own might. A desolate warrior, a single charge away, looked up from a lonely campfire and felt doom call to him.
Qaramar, fifth among the rotting host, fifth-most favored son of Nurgle had come. He of the lost second and last watcher of the last moment, strode towards the final fortress of the vermin gods. He came alone, clad in might and contempt. Before him, the gods took up arms in defiance.
The pact was old, the pact was new, the pact was false, the pact was true. Round and round and round again, the Changer twisted and schemed and reached. Before it the Dark Prince smiled and seduced and whispered and tittered. A bargain between minds, an interaction between clashing powers, an alignment of fates, a secrete beyond mortal ken. When next the Dark Prince struck at stagnation, ambition would see rage distracted allowing excess to strike deep. Sworn with a whisper beneath hearing, at a volume to shatter mountains in a place where none could see. Yet, beneath the whirling gods, a single figure slipped away, its mind burning and shattered, its flesh soiled and twisting. Yet it carried away unseen a secret to make puppets of the gods themselves, however briefly.
The greatest flaws of the heretics in war was initiative. The foolish belief that a man on the ground could possibly know better than his superior. The warden of stagnation was not nearly so foolish. It possessed no will, no thought, only infinite obedience and an endless list of perfect plans, crafted by the hand of its god. The
strange figure behind it was not in any of the plans, therefore it should be ignored. For to do otherwise was to suggest that he, a lowly marshal, knew better than his god. If he was supposed to act when it read his plan book, he would have been instructed to do so. He stood vigilant at the border, ever vigilant to attack or defend as the plans demanded. The shreds of torn paper at the figure's feet were of no consequence, for no plan before him mentioned them.
A vast empire of rot, a hundred hundred worlds, the putrid jewel in a foul collection, writhed in bloody battle. A sea of vital living chitin warred with a sea of twisted and putrid flesh. Pitted and corrupted vessels picked clean of corrupt gristle, vast behemoths of meat and bone writhed and rotted under unclean guns. The Great Devourer had come to the domain of Nurgle. The exalted
Meslaria, the king beneath the manor, forsook the vile comfort his lord's hearth. Entire worlds offered up their putrid flesh and souls so their lord may once more sally forth in this time of greatest need.
It was to be the party of the millennium, the grand unveiling of Slaanesh's new exalted champion, the grand parade of Vect's ascension. A grandiose march across six hundred and sixty six sectors, a people truly unchained and blessed taking the galaxy for all it was worth for the first time. RUINED! WRECKED! WASTED! Brutish, boorish beasts! Slaanesh raged as its grand crusade was frantically wheeled around to deal with
mere orks! Its attendees fled and hid, the newest among them whispering that they had seen the height of their prince's fury. When the well hidden stench of rot was found wafting from the strands of fate that had brought forth the Waaaagh, they learned the depth of their naivety.
The visions ceased, and Eldrad collapsed shaking to the floor. There was a path. It was slim and treacherous and full of risk, but it was
there. A way to set the 5 to warring, to see Nurgle pressed and distracted. The window was short, there was much to do and little time to do it, but he would see Isha free, no matter the cost.
Far beyond the games of the gods, and the scheming of desperate mortals, The Warp was broken. It had been shaped into a mountain range as hard as diamonds, and as vast as stars. It stood a shattered remnant broken by the passage of vast blows and melted by poorly aimed shots. Amidst the scene of utter devastation, two vast green giants sat battered bruised and bleeding as they laughed uproariously at the burning galaxy before them. One whose eyes shone with cunning brutality, and one who smiled with brutal cunning. As their wounds healed, the landscape reset itself, and the rare pause began to come to an end, one looked into the distance and spoke.
"Oy, dem spiky gits seem to be havin a rite proppa fight."
His twin reared back in afront.
"An dey didn't invite us? Dats downright offensive dat is."
The giants looked at each other, then at the spinning chaos and ephemeral plots and plans of the desperate, and smiled.
@Durin a thing. I might try and do more about the bits.