Blink.

Scurrying from one alley to another, Skinny peers around a corner. Skulls line the streets ahead, as deamon-forged metal hooves march through them. Hunting. 

The taste of iron. The sharp smell of gore. And a knife between shoulder blades.

Blink.

Brazen hooves resound across the blackened earth. As he leads his army forward, Carnelborn screams out to all that will hear; ‘For the Empty Throne! Skulls, blood, and fire!’ His arms aflame with the effort of the thousandth swing of his weapons, and lighting runs high as the Stormcast’s head falls to his might. As his line finally comes to a halt, they stand victorious, in this battle at least, in front of giant stone walls.

Calling those immediately under him, he assess the forces he has left. Plenty of the Varanguard still stand, bloodied, but victorious. He knows that the day will belong to him. He will make his master proud, and he will bring glory to the Empty Throne. All that is left for him that day is to take those walls. Whistling, he calls on the great war machines from the back of the line. Soon. Soon they will crumble, and he will descend on the city ahead like a wolf on sheep.

Blink.

Death swirls around. Screaming faces stretched and contorted as ebony knives strike across his armour. As Skeinhast lifts his banner, the banner of his god, viridescent hand crawl to his throat and blood runs down his scarlet chest. 

Blink. 

Hills made of skulls swept by beneath their brazen feet. His legions, measured in the thousands, swarmed over them as they made their march to war. Blood ran as rivers, with and around the army, powered by the death and warfare of the Mortal Realms. Black mountains stabbed into the air in the far distance to their right, dark smoke rising from a hundred fissures, fires raging across the lands.

And on the air, the smell of perfume.