Templar Oron raced towards the elaborately engraved warshrine below the Monolith, his eyes feverishly darting to the foreboding stillness of the cold, blue crystal and back towards his immediate destination.
He stormed inside, brutally pushing a chained slave to the ground when they could not dodge the Tzaangor knight in time.
The Templar rounded the corner – there she was. The Archprophetess, sat on her throne, her body convulsing, her skin a sickly grey and covered with beads of sweat.
Oron sank to one knee.
“Archprophetess! Forgive me, I have failed you!”
The ornate dagger hit him unexpectedly, without any chance to react. It went through the eyeslit of his helm, but did not reach deep enough to draw blood.
He saw it burning in her eyes, then, deep rage, hatred, despair and regret, just for a moment, before it was extinguished, replaced with a strange, detached serenity; a stark contrast to her obviously strained body.
The dagger clattered on the floor. He watched as Sytarith’s arm went limp and hung by her side, before it seemed to be forced back as if by an outside force as Sytharith sat back upright, raising her trembling beak to the shrine’s ceiling, with great effort bringing herself back into a position of Sacred Meditation.
“I can feel the Fae.” Sytarith’s breathing was heavy and laboured –
“I. Am still. In control.”
She spit the words out in defiance. With a sudden movement, her eyes focused back on the commander of her personal guard, cold and determined.
“Templar Oron. You must not allow the news of the Fae’s intrusion to spread to the Procession. An intruder was stopped and transformed. Go!”
Oron hesitated, but just for the blink of an eye. Then he left the shrine.
“I will not. Let them take away my Fate.” she whispered as he left. How could she allow this to happen? It could not end like this.
The feeling of abject dread and despair only deepened as she sank back into true meditation. The Fae’s presence – it was undeniable. Like an infection, like poison running through her veins. Sytharith felt it, although she could never quite catch it. The Fae resembled… a corporeal void. On this metaphysical level, maybe there was no catching to be done.
This void, the Fae, it danced around light-footed, cutting and snipping at the mental bounds Archprophetess Sytarith had so intricately formed between her and the Monolith, laughing while the Archprophetess desperately grasped, struggled and spun new mental chains to retain control of the Monolith.
A cruel child toying with a clumsy spider, pulling at her net…
No.
With grim determination, she braced herself against the despair rushing over her, threatening to wash her away.
It was not true. It did not know the Monolith as well as she did. This here… this was Sytharith’s domain. The Monolith was a being of Chaos, and despite the Fae’s incredible power, she was much more attuned to its very being. There was more to it than vague promises.
‘Crush their Hopes and dreams?’ If Sytharith’s beak had had the capacity to grin, she would have done so.
Why should the Monolith seek to destroy Hope? She knew exactly why the Fae had gained entry and whose favour it had won.
The Fae had not gazed upon the true Essence of Chaos. It did not understand. No, Hope was not anathema to Chaos. Hope was the Holy Domain of Our Burning Saviour, for it brought forth Ambition and Change. The Fae might have won over the Nurglite aspect’s desire for dreadful despair, but the Hope of Tzeentch would resist it even stronger for that.
The Archprophetess’ mind continued to struggle with the Fae’s influence. The strain was almost unbearable. But Sytharith had been chosen by the Great Strategist for a reason.
She would endure.
___________________________
Archprophetess Sytarith had seen it even before Oron arrived to bring the news.
This had been well-planned by the Fae. A massive host had gathered before them, ready to strike the Procession as it was at it’s weakest – or so the Fae had thought.
The Procession’s scouts had reported movement of a large body of forces on their path, but for their number to cover the distance in this short amount of time came as a surprise.
Sytharith could see a good score of the Knights of the chalice, surrounded by their puppets, brainwashed daughters of Khaine and Ogors, with minor groups of other origins.
It did not matter.
“Go forth in the Name of Hope!” The Monolith boomed, the words like vile laughter, the vibrations of its voice shaking each body of the Followers of the Procession to their core. “Hope for Glorious Battle, Hope for Bloodshed, Hope for Ecstasy, Hope for Change, Hope for our enemies’ Utter Destruction!”
Bloodletters and Bloodcrushers began snarling and roaring in unison, while behind them the Procession’s Chaos warbands marched into position. The Tzaangor began to sing a cacophonous Hymn of Glory, with many joining in or screaming their own challenges and warcries.
“Cleansed with Fire! Anointed in Blood!” The Monolith once more screamed into the very soul of those present.
“Charge!”
The Procession attacked. The Bloodletters’ trot transformed into a charge. Tzaangor on Discs of Tzeentch flew over the battlefield, aiming to shred those who came too close into pieces. Bloodcrushers diverged in both sides of the battlefield, to later charge into the enemy’s flanks.
The whole Procession moved to attack the enemy as one, each part knowing exactly where it was needed.
Still, the enemies’ host was vast, and Sytharith knew she had to set an example, now more then ever. For the Procession’s sake, for the Fae’s sake, and for her sake.
The Archprophetess, with her intimate knowledge of the Lore of Fate, drew upon the magical energies of the Monolith.
Once more, the echoes of Ancient Power thundered across the Battlefield, now resounding deep in the bodies of their enemies, the wretched puppets of the Fae, forcefully grasping their every limb, taking possession of them.
“KNEEL!”
And they knelt.
Collectively, all of the Fae’s army knelt. Khainites, Ogors, proud Knights of the Chalice and their monstrous mounts, all fell upon their knees –
just as the Khornate Demons, then the united Procession of Blood, descended upon them, reaping a bloody harvest, carving paths of Death and Dismemberment through them.
The followers of Chaos reveled in the bloodshed, while streams of Dark Magick shot out from the Monolith, transforming Aelves, Ogors, or even Knights into bizarre monstrosities, who in their horror and agony struck blindly at their former comrades.
Under the brutal and efficient onslaught, the Fae’s lines dissolved into chaos, and this day, among the destruction and bloodshed, Hope reigned supreme.
