Spilled Blood and Broken Bones
It had been hard to say what was the most foolish thing Areatha had done in her long life of risk-taking… now that was most certainly no longer the case, exemplified by the reasonable silence from the council when she announced her intent.
But here she was, the only one who could be risked speaking to Khorne. In theory it was doable… very much in theory, but better to try and risk it all than to do nothing.
The warp was Chaos, the warp was cloying, the warp was light and blood and
rage!
The warp was
WAR!
She stood on the precipice of Defiance, fear lancing her heart as her mind screamed recriminations for every moment of hesitation and doubt as she gazed upon the God of Combat in its deepest element.
A trillion Angyls flew through the air, mightiest of hosts, vanguards of the true Faith and Father of All… and then they were gone as a contemptuous axe cut them from existence such that even the memory of their passage was replaced with a red haze, as Khorne charged into the fray at the head of his brazen host, pushing with single-minded focus towards the foe that had roused its wroth so.
The eldest and mightiest of the Chaos Gods had set its objective: its army of the self was marshaled and there was nothing that would even begin to dissuade it from its path, as it set itself to a
WAR with only one ending. Utter obliteration.
All that Khorne was would be cast into this furnace to avenge this insult and against any other foe, she would have deemed its victory certain. At this moment her inner thoughts rebelled against the idea that it could lose, but it was not a traditional loss that was a risk here.
No enemy on the battlefield could hope to contest it in a direct contest, but slow it down?
Delay it…
Until the chains the Lord of Shadows wrap tight around its neck and all that fury, all that power could be turned upon
his enemies, bound and suborned to his whims and will.
That was a threat, one Khorne may not even fully understand.
It was a god of Chaos, but under it all, it was a Primal God born of its domains, the sort of warp divinity that most closely embodied aspects of the materium, but were also the most divorced from them and the beings that lived within it.
So to act as intermediaries primal gods created mouth pieces, Deva in imitation of the beings of the materium to speak on their behalf and for the Chaos Gods that were their Exalted.
Themself which could speak on behalf of itself. To turn action into word and then reverse it. To think for beings which know only instincts and know for beings that know only what they are and can barely conceive of anything else but them.
And though Be'lakor had failed to deceive Khorne, he had stripped it of its Exalted, its voice had been stolen, its mind reduced again to the mere implication of sentience, as opposed to its reality.
That gave her a chance… but it presented the risk as well.
Fear chilled her heart, but she would surpass it. She would go to
War, and meet it on its level as she felt anger kindle in her heart.
Rage against Be'lakor the fool who would destroy the galaxy for his petty arrogance and ego.
Yes, she would…
To forge a compact from spilled blood and broken bones.
She leapt through the warp a glowing comet crashing through the ranks of Angyls as they responded in perfect
precise unison, their unilateral contempt as flensing knives as she swept them aside, her arrows piercing their eyes and hearts as she soared towards Khorne itself.
It paid her no heed, but still acted nonetheless, as another trillion Angyls fell to its axe it swung towards her, feeling her entering its Domain as she felt the elation of combat, adrenaline and blood pounding in her ears as embodied Violence acted to end her.
A desperate dodge saved much of her body, the power of the Abyss reduced the impact to the barest fraction of what it should have been, the armour of the Heart, one of Vaul's greatest works before his rebirth received it with stoic determination.
She died almost instantly.
Blood flowed freely in a never ending stream from the wound that cleaved through her flesh, yet her body moved, her mind was clear, the pain of the mortal wound ignored as unimportant in the face of her own attack, her statement, her intent.
It could kill her now - she knew that. It did not.
It knew only that
This was How it Had to Be.
Her own axe was nothing, but it was hers, born from a memory of her Father, bathed in the blood of daemons, charged with power that was an accident unto reality itself as she directed her flight toward the sole chink in Khorne's armour, that she knew would be there, because it would have to be, a clarion call for the defiant, for the brave, the suicidal weaklings challenging the god of Combat, following in the footsteps of the once Conqueror!
With all the strength in her arms she bellowed with exaltation as she slammed her axe home into the sometimes gap, all the
fury of her soul, the skill in her arms, the power of her techniques, her
honour as a warrior burning through her soul, demonstrating her intent for all the galaxy to see as she fought this small
war between her living flesh and undying God!
A technique that would have maimed the entire being of an Exalted was almost
naught before Khorne, an existence simply too large for its effect to be harmful, something barely even registered… but it was enough.
For a brief instant Khorne felt the wound, felt a brief instance of pain as she drew back her axe, mind whirling as she smelt, felt,
was consumed by, Blood!
An injury, honourably given by a fellow warrior, who used their own strength, whose blood it had spilled in turn, which had killed its enemies and sought war against a foe, a mutual enemy, it could understand.
It knew not what she was as Khorne could not understand such things. It knew what she had done. It could not hear her, but she had entered into its domains before it and existed within them even now as her blood spilled and mixed with its own, their axes gleaming the same crimson shade, such that at times it seemed as if she held its axe and it held hers.
No words were spoken, no thoughts exchanged. As one they turned to their common foe and continued the butchery.
As her life blood continued to drain, she knew her time was limited, but in this
war of concept and imagery she knew that victory would come from action not words, just as she knew that
war would keep her alive until she had a use elsewhere.
So she struck.
Angyls preparing a monumental ritual, she slew before the Blood God could reach them, an ambush she exposed so Khorne could cut them down, an assault by a Legion of Archangyls and doom for her specifically, led to its blade, the enemies flanks now exposed and crushed by Khorne as a legion of its own Host.
A message, an intent. Forced into clarity by action within the mind of the God through the cloying rage, demonstration, leading to action leading to purpose.
She willingly followed its commands, trusting in the instinctual abilities of
WAR incarnate, to direct her, as it used her capabilities to the greatest extent possible, while they fought against the endless legions of Tjapa, pushing ever onwards towards the objective.
This was a war with purpose, directed by hatred but a war prosecuted in the same way all the same. One in which the directives of both sides were known and could make their own mark upon the field. So it was that at the first signs of the Exalted, of Khorne bound and thrown against itself to deny itself, she knew Be'lakor's action was more meaningful than any she could make to communicate the same.
A true Warrior uses all advantages they have to achieve victory.
Be'lakor knew this, he had gambled
everything upon this. His influence, his power, his very life.
Dishonorable it maybe, offensive as it was, but it might work, could and had. Yet had Khorne not sworn to do the same? To avenge itself utterly upon its hated foe!
How could it say it was doing the same when it would not work with all its warriors? For now only Itself and her marched to
WAR against Be'lakor so strong was their fervour against their common foe.
That could change.
Should change.
The warp was a field of spilled blood and broken bones, friend and foe mixed in the same gore-soaked funeral pyre. No words were spoken, and no agreement struck. She knew not what could even be offered and Khorne could not care if she had.
But through action, it was shaped for now.
To delve deeper into war, to open its arsenal, use all its weapons, enact its goal,
KILL HIM!
This was the only way it could
END!
=================================================================================================================================================================
Time to sup with friend and foe.
Thanks to
@Robinton
@Durin risk is what it is.
