Upon the dunes, the two opponents stood, the wind blowing reddened sand around them.
Right now, the sounds of battle were far away. Right now, it did not matter. All that mattered was the two of them.
Templar Chosen Esiavash the Stalwart readied his blade, feeling the familiar weight in his clawed hands. His gaze was locked upon his opponent.
He knew him. Bhelelon the Bloodfist. A “Tuskman”, as the Desraki called him, one of their chieftains. A warrior of repute, proud of his barbarian bloodline. The Khornate wielded a crude, yet vicious blade, and shared in the strange custom of the Khornates of only wearing armoured boots, legguards and gauntlets, leaving his muscular chest bare. His long black hair flowed freely over his shoulders, and a wild beard covered his face below his grim, determined eyes.
“Bhelelon the Bloodfist.” The Templar acknowledged his opponent. Bhelelon had proven his martial prowess in many battles in the hellscorn war. This would not be an easy fight, No – this would be an interesting one. The Khornate could not be more different from him, even from appearance alone.
Esiavash himself wore a suit of golden full plate armour, its elaborate carvings and insignia denoting his status as Exalted Champion; he attracted attention even amindst the Templars. While Bhelelon wore his battle scars on his body, the Tzaangor wore his on his armour.
“Bhelelon the Bloodfist.” The Templar repeated as he came closer, each step deliberately placed. “You are one that has sacrificed much. For this I salute you.” He opened his golden visor in the form of a beak, revealing his own, and his flamescarred face. “Still, you are nothing but a wild beast, and you have to be cut down, to Our Saviour’s Glory.” He drew his sword, with a fluid, elegant movement from beneath his deep red cape. Sacrifice. The Holy Blade lit up with sorcerous Fire, as the Tzaangor Crusader pointed it towards his foe. The heat reached the Khornate warrior’s face, even from a distance, but the bearded man with the bloodshot eyes was unfazed.
Bhelelon didn’t bother with a response, but threw himself at the Templar with a roar – a powerful strike with his sword was parried, but barely, and the force made the Tzaangor take several steps back.
Their swords met, again and again.
Both had known war, and were masters of the blade, but they used vastly different styles – Bhelelon attacked fast and wild, not caring much about defence, using his unpredicability to his advantage, while the Tzaangor’s movements were clear, precise and deliberate, never exerting more energy than needed.
Their swords and bodies danced a strange, asymmetric dance, with Bhelelon screaming in pain and anger whenever Esiavash managed to cut him and burn his muscled flesh – all that was heard from the Chosen, though, was a gruff grunt, whenever he was hit.
With time, and due to his wounds, Bhelelon’s hands and body grew heavy, his strikes sloppy and less powerful, and in the end, it was pure exhaustion that brought the Khornate down. He was defiant to the end, spitting out curses even as the Templar finally hacked off his left arm with a mighty strike, leaving him defenseless and causing the Khornate warrior to collapse onto the blood-splattered battlefield, where the Stalwart finally sliced off his head. Bhelelon was a strong, ferocious warrior, but in the end, wildness couldn’t beat discipline, just as it was written in the Saviour’s teachings.
He stood, looking down at the Khornate chieftains body, and listened to the signal horns around him in silence.
The Tzaangor Crusaders had been victorious once again, the cursed machine captured. Excellent. He thought of the priesthood, deep in the halls of the Citadel of Coalescence. Soon, they would turn them against the Desraki, and their vile rot spreading over the dunes.
