Khurgan
30-08-2005, 03:16
The Changer of the Ways smiled upon this world.
Armies marched upon each other. Great ships fell burning from the sky, crushing hundreds beneath their weight. Millions upon millions fell upon each other, each yearning to become the Chosen of their Master, the Lord of the Fourth Wind. His fires burned across the land, bringing His divine gifts to his loyal subjects, burning away their impurities, bringing them closer to His holy form.
Of all these fanatical devotees to the Changer of the Ways, none was more fanatical than Helion Orrimar, Warmaster of the Khurgans, High Priest of the Fourth Wind. His devotion to the Lord of Change was unquestionable, his features bearing testament to his piety. His flesh flowed and wept, forming into globules, orbiting his body. His hands were talons for a moment, then bear-like paws the next. His face morphed at the whims of his God, bearing a beak, then was mouthless and studded with eyes. No man was more gifted by his Master than Helion. And no man commanded such an army.
Standing atop a daemonic disk of his master, Helion looked out across the vast fields of war, watching his minions ebb and flow across the landscape. In his name, they fought his rivals, and thus in the name of Tzeentch and his greater glory. He watched as his enemies fell to the blades and flame-casters of his men, glorifying in the apparent unpredictabilty, the bedlam, the Chaos. But he knew. He knew all that was happening on this battlefield, he could feel the web of fate squirming and writhing beneath his grasp. A squeeze here, a twist here, and skirmishes were won and lost. And now, he could feel a tremor building, a breaking point to this endless battle. He smiled, knowing that his Lord, his dark Master, would favor him with his presence this day.
Stretching his grasp across the battlefield, Helion could feel the presence of his nemesis, the Sorcerer Maa'kal, a psyker of power comparable to Helion's own. Reaching out, Helion grinned. Maa'kal was distracted, entwined in the fates of dozens of warriors, replacing them in his claws as each was snuffed out. Helion reached out and caressed his rival's fate, subtly altering it. Like a rocket, Maa'kal flew above the seething morass, staring lovingly at his minions as their lives were ended in the glorious name of Tzeentch. Helion smiled: Maa'kal was right where he wanted him.
Soaring high into the air, the Warmaster hovered silently above the sorcerer, gathering his will, and struck.
Somehow, at the last moment, Maa'kal realized the presence of the Warmaster, and juked to the side, barely escaping the blast of hellish black fire that closed like a fist around the space that until moments ago the sorcerer had occupied. Snarling his fury, the sorcerer turned, flinging fire at the Warmaster, raging at his opponent. The Warmaster cackled evilly, seeing the opening he had been seeking. Pulling the threads of fate tightly around Maa'kal, Helion tightened his will, slamming thread after thread of destiny into place around the sorcerer.
For a moment, Maa'kal was confused. Then, as realization dawned, he screamed, his voice warbling across the spectrum, causing mortals on the fields below to fall and clutch their ears, only to be cut down by the minions of Helion. Maa'kal's body began to swell grotesquely, flesh pulsating, bones morbidly twisting. And then, he exploded.
From the ashes of the sorcerer, a terrible voice shrieked in triumph. Great wings extended, taloned limbs grasping at the air in a dark parody of birth as a greater daemon, a Lord of Change, entered the material world.
Swooping towards Helion, the creature smiled. Quite a trick with a beak, mused the Warmaster. The daemon hovered there before him, its warbling voice booming.
"Warmaster Helion, you have done well. You shall have your choice of rewards, for our great master, the Changer of Ways himself, has seen fit to make you his Chosen, his agent upon this plane. What do you ask of him, son of Man and Tzeentch?"
"What do I want? Change."
The daemon smiled again, its beak twisting eerily.
"Then you shall have your wish, my new master. This planet has grown too small for you. You shall bring the fire of Change to this galaxy, and it shall quake in fear."
Armies marched upon each other. Great ships fell burning from the sky, crushing hundreds beneath their weight. Millions upon millions fell upon each other, each yearning to become the Chosen of their Master, the Lord of the Fourth Wind. His fires burned across the land, bringing His divine gifts to his loyal subjects, burning away their impurities, bringing them closer to His holy form.
Of all these fanatical devotees to the Changer of the Ways, none was more fanatical than Helion Orrimar, Warmaster of the Khurgans, High Priest of the Fourth Wind. His devotion to the Lord of Change was unquestionable, his features bearing testament to his piety. His flesh flowed and wept, forming into globules, orbiting his body. His hands were talons for a moment, then bear-like paws the next. His face morphed at the whims of his God, bearing a beak, then was mouthless and studded with eyes. No man was more gifted by his Master than Helion. And no man commanded such an army.
Standing atop a daemonic disk of his master, Helion looked out across the vast fields of war, watching his minions ebb and flow across the landscape. In his name, they fought his rivals, and thus in the name of Tzeentch and his greater glory. He watched as his enemies fell to the blades and flame-casters of his men, glorifying in the apparent unpredictabilty, the bedlam, the Chaos. But he knew. He knew all that was happening on this battlefield, he could feel the web of fate squirming and writhing beneath his grasp. A squeeze here, a twist here, and skirmishes were won and lost. And now, he could feel a tremor building, a breaking point to this endless battle. He smiled, knowing that his Lord, his dark Master, would favor him with his presence this day.
Stretching his grasp across the battlefield, Helion could feel the presence of his nemesis, the Sorcerer Maa'kal, a psyker of power comparable to Helion's own. Reaching out, Helion grinned. Maa'kal was distracted, entwined in the fates of dozens of warriors, replacing them in his claws as each was snuffed out. Helion reached out and caressed his rival's fate, subtly altering it. Like a rocket, Maa'kal flew above the seething morass, staring lovingly at his minions as their lives were ended in the glorious name of Tzeentch. Helion smiled: Maa'kal was right where he wanted him.
Soaring high into the air, the Warmaster hovered silently above the sorcerer, gathering his will, and struck.
Somehow, at the last moment, Maa'kal realized the presence of the Warmaster, and juked to the side, barely escaping the blast of hellish black fire that closed like a fist around the space that until moments ago the sorcerer had occupied. Snarling his fury, the sorcerer turned, flinging fire at the Warmaster, raging at his opponent. The Warmaster cackled evilly, seeing the opening he had been seeking. Pulling the threads of fate tightly around Maa'kal, Helion tightened his will, slamming thread after thread of destiny into place around the sorcerer.
For a moment, Maa'kal was confused. Then, as realization dawned, he screamed, his voice warbling across the spectrum, causing mortals on the fields below to fall and clutch their ears, only to be cut down by the minions of Helion. Maa'kal's body began to swell grotesquely, flesh pulsating, bones morbidly twisting. And then, he exploded.
From the ashes of the sorcerer, a terrible voice shrieked in triumph. Great wings extended, taloned limbs grasping at the air in a dark parody of birth as a greater daemon, a Lord of Change, entered the material world.
Swooping towards Helion, the creature smiled. Quite a trick with a beak, mused the Warmaster. The daemon hovered there before him, its warbling voice booming.
"Warmaster Helion, you have done well. You shall have your choice of rewards, for our great master, the Changer of Ways himself, has seen fit to make you his Chosen, his agent upon this plane. What do you ask of him, son of Man and Tzeentch?"
"What do I want? Change."
The daemon smiled again, its beak twisting eerily.
"Then you shall have your wish, my new master. This planet has grown too small for you. You shall bring the fire of Change to this galaxy, and it shall quake in fear."