Shadows of the Void
[[Seeker Mark Mirrors]]
A starship burns in the void. Dying, but not yet dead, she trades fire of incomprehensible power with the planet it orbits. Another vessel – far smaller, only half a mile long – tears from a writhing hellscape and moves towards the warship. Onboard, an ancient man kept alive long beyond his years by technological magic, prepares to serve his Inquisiton and his Emperor. He rallies his warriors to the otherwise empty, automated bridge.
On the planet, armies of millions strive in vain to hold back the onslaught of hellish entities of rage and lust. Hundreds die each second, and hundreds more turn against their comrades each minute. This is normal.
The Inquisitor looks over his warriors, proud in their service. One of them – long trusted, a psyker of power in his own right – steps forward, warplight shining in his eyes as he raises his eyes, tearing his ancient father-mentor’s body apart with the power hell has granted him. As the rest of the warband rush him, he turns, scattering kine bolts through them. Void glitters around him as whatever is puppeteering him delights in the carnage._
This will be the Day*
Happy teenaged girls talk excitedly amongst themselves. Their schools are holding a tournament. Eating candyfloss, their leader skips while her friends debate strategy. Beyond the borders of their shrinking country, black creatures gather, creatures that the void would be glad to call its own. But that isn’t the girls’ concern, not for now. They celebrate their lives, greeting friends and joking.
A black haired, flame wreathed woman watches them. She embraces the darkness, uses it. She smiles wryly down at the girls, mocking their innocence.
A well dressed, silver haired man stands in his office, looking out over the city he protects. Every instinct tells him something is collapsing, but try as he might, he cannot find an answer. Friends – powerful, capable friends – are searching. Another, an old comrade now estranged has sensed it as well, but his response is overwhelmingly military.
The world darkens. A world so steeped in Darkness, wtih so little brightness, a world that has lost its creator, cannot help but call to the Voidborn.
High atop a mountain, amidst gusts of enraged wind, stood a monastry, established when the world was different. No longer. Winged reptilian creatures besiege it, their breath fire and ice and wrath. Muscular, armoured men and women defend the walls with arrow and spell, but to no avail. Their defence is heroic, but they are clearly outmatched.
As the walls shatter, two grey robed ancients step out into the freezing air and Shout towards the dragons. For a brief time, their voices send the besiegers reeling. Until the clouds part, and a black scaled creature, far larger and far more powerful than its kin descends.
A woman looks up the path to the monastry. She shakes her head and begins to run. A dragon lands, rage clouding its eyes. She Shouts at it, and time blurs as she beheads it, apparently without breaking stride. Its soul is dragged from its corpse, following the woman forlornly as it is consumed.
Behind the monastry, a small group – a dark skinned elven mage, ten warriors and their leader, a third grey robed elder – flee down a secret path, only to be met by other elves – these ones with golden skin and armour – smirking and drawing weapons. The Dark Elf draws on the magic within him, and sighs, realising he needs to go further. Drawing on forbidden power, he rises from the ground, lightning playing around him.
The woman stands in the monastry courtyard. The dragons flee from her presence, all but one. This one, she glares at, forcing her will upon it until it has no choice but to bear her from the massacre._
Legion (Torhel, AL 15)
A small town, fortified as all towns must be this day wakes in the sunlight. Built around a fissure in the ground, its smithry is famed for the properties of metal worked there. The town is rich, with the disparities and problems wealth causes. It has well equipped and well paid warriors and mages defending it from any threats.
A day’s march to the north, a threat it cannot stand against moves. Moving in lockstep, an army of short, powerful bearded folk march. Their armour is thick, and their shields strong. Their god has commanded that they remove the town and its corrupt smithcraft, and they obey. Anything that even bears the chance of serving the Sin of Chains must be eradicated.
As if in validation, demons manifest in their path, ivory skinned and replete with power stolen from the Tower. The Chained are not without their own discipline, and they form into ranks and formation almost as perfect as the Legion. The two armies clash.
The Legion barely slows. They leave behind uncounted numbers of their own death, but they barely even break stride as they march forward, grinding the Chained from the world. Much diminished, the Legion reforms and continues its march on the town._