Tcimmera Skybrow and Ahvria soar over Civilia, keeping a Stardrake’s eye of the wrecked city below them. They make no attempt to hide their presence; any foes that would try to attack them are already preoccupied by more immediate threats.
Even from up above, the naval battle not too far from Civilia is plainly evident to Tcimmera. Barges of Da Choppas and warships of Blackmaw’s fleet exchange volleys of missiles that cut down sailors or tear hole into the ships, before the most daring of them close the gap to ram or engage in brutal boarding actions. Several ships are already sinking or captured, but with her elevated position Tcimmera can’t tell who has the upper hand yet.
Neither would call it a victory if I could help it. she privately thinks to herself. In her mind’s eye she can already see the two fleets burning in the waters, incinerated by Ahvria’s starfall. Any survivors would have to flee the exposed waters for the cover of Civilia’s flooded buildings, and there they’d be met by her Dracothian Guard. Tempestors would lay down withering suppresive fire as they disembarked, keeping the survivors from forming up against the charge of the Fulminators. Any serious resistance would be struck from the front by the Thunderwave Echelons and from the rear by Tcimmera herself and her Drakesworn Templars.
Tcimmera knows that the image she has is more of a hope than a plan. But it’s still a battle that she could fight, and maybe even win. Sigmar’s enemies were right before her, practically begging to be crushed.
All she’d have to do is reach out and squeeze.
Ahvria swerves away from the sea and swoops back over Civilia, denying Tcimmera her opportunity. The Stardrake must have felt her frustration, as he inclined his head to give her a draconic grin.
“Do you remember when we last did this? Just you and I, flying through the sky, unburdened by a care in the Realms?”
“Azyr. And I remember that time differently.”
“Yes!” Ahvria barks with laughter. “You were so nervous! But then again, what Stormcast wasn’t when they’d heard that they were about to liberate the Realms in a few days’ time?”
“Be quiet.” Tcimmera grumbles, already knowing that Ahvria won’t be. The Stardrake’s grin widens, though he lowers his voice to a mirthful, conspiratorial whisper.
“What, in case someone finds out that a Lord-Celestant of an Extremis Chamber, who wages war against the greatest monsters Chaos can conjure and deals with the children of Dracothion every day, can be nervous?”
Tcimmera scowls at him, but she can feel Ahvria’s chuckle shake his chest and back.
“You weren’t for long, though.” the Stardrake adds when he’s finished laughing. “I also remember how quickly you shook off your worries.”
“Azyr’s stars were beautiful that night.” Tcimmera begrudgingly admits, though she can’t fully keep the awe out of her voice. Even after she had treaded the heavens as one of the God-King’s chosen, riding Ahvria through Azyr never ceased to amaze the mortal within her, whose concept of divinity was encompassed by the sunrise-pinked horizon and the impossibly distant light-pricked black canvas above.
“They’re beautiful every night.” The Stardrake sighs with heavy nostalgia.
Ahvria swings his head back forwards. With a slight shifting of his wings, they start gliding idly through the air.
“So why not enjoy the moment? It’s not quite Azyr, but we still have a clear sky…”
“And a duty.” Tcimmera sternly reminds him. “We have to keep watch, remember? Our Dracothian Guard are spread out and vulnerable while they help the civili-”
“I know, Tcimmera.” Ahvria answers, then sighs heavily. “But I’m not so sure you remembered that when you were thinking about attacking the fleets.”
For a few moments the only sound Ahvria hears is the distant sounds of battle, calls below him from Civilia, and the whistling of the wind as his wings part it. From the Stormcast atop of him, nothing.
He swings his head back to her, smile gone.
“You were thinking about that, weren’t you?”
“…Yes.” She forces out, feeling strangely ashamed about the admission. “But I was making a strategy. I wasn’t about to charge them unsupported like a fool.” She adds, the distinction sounding weak to her spoken aloud. Ahvria seems similarly unconvinced.
“Remember what Bartheliman told us?”
Tcimmera grunts in annoyance, but Ahvria keeps his eye fixed on her until she obediently recites;
“Our objective in Civilia is to save the people. Engaging the enemy should be done to further pursue that objective, not pile up corpses.”
Ahvria nods, then looks down towards the ruined city.
“And look at what we have achieved.”
He banks and lets himself lower towards Civilia, until the people there become visible as more than just specks amidst the flooded streets. They vastly outnumber the Stormcast amongst them, but there’s no mistaking her Wardens of Burden as they ride through the crowds. Some carry supplies to be distributed where they’re needed, others ferry those too wounded, young or infirm to walk by themselves upon their Dracoths. Still more venture outside of their makeshift camp to search for survivors. She sees the Stormcast guiding them to the camp as they meet them on the roads, or entering the ruined buildings to go looking for them.
She recognises Bartheliman’s black armour flit all over the city, directing her Stormcast and giving comfort to those they rescued with words or healing light. A part of Tcimmera takes umbrage at his comandeering of her Chamber, but she finds that she doesn’t care enough to interfer. This is just a rescue operation, and the Knight-Azyros seems to know what he’s doing.
A ragged cheer near one collapsed church catches her attention; there she sees Dracoths and Concussors clearing debris out of the entrance, freeing the trapped inhabitants within. Iufilius, a brute of a Concussor, is the first one to enter the temple, and quickly reappears holding an emaciated, elder mortal in each arm, handling them with a care that almost seems exagerrated were it not for their expression of concentration. As Tcimmera watches Bartheliman sets down in front of them and opens his lantern, bathing them both in a soft light that restores colour and strength to the two mortals. More Stormcast enter the temple, each leaving with more survivors. Another cheer is sounded, stronger and with greater passion, by the watching crowd as they watch friends and family be rescued from a slow death.
“When was the last time you have heard the Wardens of Burden be hailed like this?” Ahvria asks, a slight smile touching his scaley lips.
“When we invaded the Windless Plains.” Tcimmera replies. “We broke the Desraki Dominion’s chains and were lauded for it…”
She scowls at the memory, forcing herself to still her longing.
“Before we were condemned for breaking the slavemasters.”
She looks away from the rescue playing out below her, back up towards the sea.
“It won’t last. We’re here to win a war, not to chase popularity.”
The millennia-old Stardrake sighs, and Tcimmera is subjected to the feeling that she has failed some unknown test.
“Why do you think we’re fighting the war in the first place?” he murmurs softly, almost to the point that Tcimmera didn’t register that he’d spoke.
“To rid the Realms of evil.” comes her blunt reply.
“That is certainly a part of it.” he sighs again. Tcimmera almost questions him on his cryptic answer, but movement at sea catches her eyes.
One of Blackmaw’s ships had managed to break through Da Choppas’ blockade and is making a break for Civilia. She imagines that it must be trying to make a rapid raid of the city before withdrawing, or drop off some important cargo, but the reason why it approaches doesn’t matter.
Only that she finally has an opportunity to destroy Sigmar’s enemies.
“Ahvria, a ship is approaching. Near the docks, three miles away.”
The Stardrake turns his head as he homes in on the intruding warship, his mood turning from pensive to aggressive instantly. His growl is palpable in Tcimmera’s chest when he sights the symbols of Blackmaw’s allegiance to Chaos; for all his joviality, Tcimmera knows that he hates the Ruinous Powers almost as much as she does.
“I see it.”
He beats his wings and climbs into the air, briefly hovering as he prepares himself to dive through the air. Tcimmera tightens her grip on her hammer, preparing herself for the assault. She briefly scans the skies to see what her Drakesworn Templars are doing, and is heartened to see them patrolling other sections of the city.
This kill would be theirs.
In a manoeuvre that they have practiced together many times, Ahvria folds his wings and lets himself plummet towards the ship, a living missile bearing vengeance and fire. The ship grows larger with every passing, furious heartbeat within Tcimmera’s chest. She’s dimly aware of alarm spreading through the ship as the crew spot Ahvria’s descent, but it’s already too late.
Without any need for a signal, Ahvria opens his wings just at the last second, arresting his fall just metres over the boat. But that doesn’t relieve the crew from his starbreath that obliterates body and hardened wood like parchment, or from his tail expertly swinging to clear space on the deck. The destruction inflicted upon the foe is a glorious sight to the Lord-Celestant, but it is not enough.
Blood rushing with the adrenaline, soul singing with righteous anger unleashed, Tcimmera leaps from Ahvria and onto the deck, sending up splinters as she lands boots-first. She’s already swinging her celestine hammer at a stumbling warrior’s head, destroying it utterly as the sigmarite connects with the bare flesh and bone.
Would that all the evils of the Realms had one head. she thinks, before she launches herself forward right into the midst of her enemies, shouting a fearless warcry twinned to Ahvria’s ferocious roar;
“For the Glory of Sigmar!”
