The village was in flames, but most of the fires were already dimming. The smoke drifted upward from across the flat plain, a mountain of twisting blackness shifting and coaling into the sky. There were no more screams, and an eerie silence wisped through the villages as the mighty warrior walked through the husk of the ruined settlement.
He looked around him through his golden helmet, weathered and covered in many scars and wounds, examining the burnt roofs and meager houses, smashed down to shattered timbers and piles of ruin. His face hidden behind his aging helm, the warrior betrayed no visible emotion as he gazed over dozens of dead bodies. Men, women, all human, scattered around in a terrible fashion. They had not been granted clean deaths, blood spilled apart and splattering the ground in horrible quantities, terrible gashes and horrific cuts marking their bodies. Some looked like resurrected corpses, burnt by fire and stuck with crude arrows and pointy sticks. The warrior even came upon a horrible old man, his body struck into the ground by a mighty pole, his limbs pulled apart and his body riddled with arrows as target practice. This was the work of true monsters, destruction unleashed upon the simple villagers, with no survivors.
It was not the warriors first time he had seen a ruined village, and he was sure it would not be his last.
The aged warrior continued his walk, carefully stepping over the corpses of two young boys with ugly-looking axes stuck into their faces pinning them to the ground. Then suddenly, he heard a cry. It was not that of a weeping child, or a wounded human. No, it was something far younger. A baby.
He moved quickly, not uttering a sound, but the clanking of his armor too heavy for normal mortal crunched loudly against the bloodied ground. He quickly found the source of cry. A large ruined hut had been completely toppled over, wooden beams stretched out across the ground, a crude hut toppled by even cruder forces in the massacre. Underneath it lay a woman, covered in mud and blood. Her lower abdomen was pinned under numerous wooden beams, and a terrible gash covered her face. Perhaps she was beautiful, but it was marred by dirt and gore caking her ruined face that was horrible disfigured by the strike of some weapon. She looked up at the warrior, with only one good eye full of tears and coated with a look of true horror and fear.
“Storm…cast?” she said with a heavy voice, barely audible.
Then slowly, she began to move her left arm as best as she could, her back speared by a long shaft, she reached for something underneath the pile of grass that was once the hut’s roof. Something loud. With straining breath, she slowly pulled out a little baby wrapped in a little blanket. The child was crying, and the mother tried to coo it gently, whispering to it with a dry and cracked voice.
The stormcast reached down and moved away the grass hiding the child to examine it better. The babe was covered in dirt and grime, with pieces of grass clinging to its body. But it was unharmed, and still moaning for its mother.
The mother pulled the child forward, and the stormcast reached down carefully. Tenderly, he wrapped his huge, armored fingers around the baby. The mother looked up as her child was raised up from the ground, and heaved heavily. She coughed softly, spitting out blood, and wheezed. The stormcast held the child, which had begun to quiet, close to his chest. He looked down at the mother, who stared back at him with her one good eye, pleading silently as she wasted slowly away.
He examined the condition of the woman, and glanced around. The fires of the village continued to burn, and it became quiet once more, except for the heavy breathing of the mother. The stormcast reached down and grabbed his sword, and stared at the face of mother. She did not even bother to look at him, her eyes downcast but her body relaxed as it slowly died.
He placed the edge of the sword at the back of the woman’s neck. No word was said, no funeral rites given or blessings to be had, for there were none to hear and not to listen. He raised the sword up, and brought it down.
The child began to cry once more.
The smoke of the village became a distant thing as the stormcast and his precious cargo walked away from it. Clad in his armor the imposing demigod made for a striking figure, grim-faced with his golden mask and a baby held tightly by his heavy left hand, close to his armored chest. He said nothing as he trudge along, step by step moving away from the child’s ruined home.
He did not utter a word as he marched forward. The child began to wail after a while, but there was nothing he could do to offer it comfort as he held it tight to his chest. The village grew smaller and smaller behind them, though he never bothered to look, pressing forward on a straight pathway. Past the destruction of the dead, ahead to something new.
The day continued onward, until at last night began to arrive across the realm. Darkness grew thick, but still the stormcast pressed forward. The baby had mercifully fallen asleep, held in place and listening to the rhythmic stomping of the warrior’s heavy boots. He walked onward, never speaking, and never uttering a word. The patter of his movement repeated itself over and over again, the steady thump thump of his feet across the ground a constant heartbeat of activity, connecting him to the primordial earth.
He marched across the long plain, step by step. The child wept and cried for its mother, for its family, but the warrior said nothing. He walked on, silent as the grave he had been denied in death. The plains slowly gave way to small hills, but still he marched on, eyes weary over the landscape. A flurry of animals fled from his path, and he paid them little heed.
He marched on.
The hills gave way to field of large rocks, jutting and jeering out of the grassy earth like jagged unfiled teeth. They were ugly and sharp, and the slope began to increase. The warrior did not stop, but his pace declined slowly.
He marched on.
He came the corpse of a large beast, three times his size. Its tusks rippled out from its corpse, numerous gashes and tears ripped into its skin as it decomposed. Large tufts of pale fur shifted in the wind, thick like grass, while birds and worms crawled around its dead flesh. The stormcast eyed the creature for a brief moment, noticing the wounds displayed on its body.
He marched on.
The thick grass and plains gave way, and he soon found himself deep within a thick wooded area. The forest was far-reaching, bright, and flourishing. Its canopy was dominated by various trees that swayed in the wind, who allowed adequate light to pass down for a collection of mushrooms to control the soft, rich soils below.
Quiet tree limbs grasped every tree, and a diverse collection of flowers, which desperately tried to claim the last remnants of light, added colorful variety to the otherwise amber view. A hodgepodge of noises, belonging mostly to rummaging critters, reverberated through the air, and drowned out the barrage of noise coming from a waterfall in the distance.
He marched on.
He marched on as Hysh covered Ulgu, the light dimming and day coming to an end, and he marched on. The child cried frequently but would soon fall asleep again by the steady up and down motion caused by the warriors heavy bootsteps. Up and down the child went, as the stormcast marched on, and darkness fell on the world.
The stormcast stopped. The glow of his sword illuminated the path around him, but he paused his tireless march. The child had finally fallen asleep under the cover of darkness, and the long march at night had kept it quiet and rested.
The stormcast looked around him, and could begin to see the start of a new sunrise, but the night was still long and clinging to the land like a parasite, darkness surrounding the stormcast like an army of vicious soldiers.
He waved his sword, which glowed with aelven runes, around, but could see nothing but the long craggy rocks he had been marching through for hours. He listened carefully, eyes and ears sharp for the sound of any approaching threat.
The wind blew and kicked some dust up from the patchy ground. He heard somewhere the sound of a great beast as it roared, awaking the morning and letting loose its own battlecry for the day.
He clutched the child tighter, and began to slowly walk ahead, step by step. He gingerly, as well as a large demigod could, walked forward, eyeing his back as he moved gently forward. The light of Hysh began to awaken even more, the dawn approaching.
The first monster jumped out of the darkness, long and gangly like a stretch pole, hissing horribly like a rabid snake! The stormcast moved his body over, and knocked it to the side, the monster slamming into a large stone jutting out of the ground. The creature growled, but the warrior marched forward and with a quick motion crushed it with his massive boot while driving the sword between it neck, before acting quickly to remove its head.
The monster gurgled, twitching underneath the weight of the heavy boot and glowing sword, and for a brief moment the stormcast could examine his attacker. It appeared human, but most certainly was not one, skin pale as chalk or a full moon, a long but muscular body. Most notable from the creature’s hanging mouth were two long canines, ripe for ripping and tearing into flesh and drinking fresh blood.
The warrior removed his sword and a powerful blow from his right hand swung the blade down and severed the vampire’s head clean off. It stopped twitching, and grew limp. The warrior had barely finished this task, however, when he heard movement from his side, as a scream reverberated around him! Something lunged at his right side, and so the immortal champion shifted his body and brought his sword up with a vertical cut, slicing right into the blood-thirsty creature.
It screeched and fell back into the darkness, but the attack had begun.
The hissing and growling grew louder, and the pack swarmed him on all sides. Covering the baby with his left gauntlet, he used his right hand as freely as he could, swinging left to counter a vampire’s outstretched claws, while another one jumped onto his back and began biting and scratching against his armor. He shook the vampire off, and grabbed its leg before it could retreat. He lifted the undead up and over his head, slamming it down onto the ground with a thunderous crack and then moving over the monster to smash the creature’s skull in until it was a pulp.
By now the baby was crying very loudly, as more and more undead creatures burst out of the darkness. The stormcast’s reflexes were sharp, and he stayed mobilize, spinning around to cut at any creature that jumped out at the darkness. The dwindling night was full of the hisses of wounded monsters, the wail of a baby, and the heavy crunch of metal against stone.
Despite his efforts, however, the stormcast could not cover every part of his body, and several attackers managed to strike some blows against his old and weathered armor. A crafty one snuck up from behind while he faced anther immediate attacker, striking at the back of his leg and knocking him to the ground. The stormcast grunted, and threw his arm back, knocking the vampire in the face with his elbow.
Turning around he took his sword slammed it onto the ground, straight through the monster’s chest and pinned into the rocky land. The moment he did so, however, a couple other vampires charged him, knocking him to the side, and the baby fell from his from his hand!
He heard a sharp cry, but could not see what was happening, the pack of monsters showing no mercy now. They pushed him back further and further, jumping up and hammering their firsts against his helm or clawing like rabid beasts against his armor. Blow after blow knocked him down, a mob of crazed monsters pummeling their victim to death.
The stormcast raised his fists tried to strike down his opponents, his strength far greater than that of any mortal man, but with every blow he gave he received twice as many in return. Just briefly he managed to look beyond his attackers, and saw the child on the ground, still crying out. But worse, a hideous vampire slowly approached it, eye’s glistening with the sight of fresh blood and long twisted claws outstretched.
That was enough. The stormcast grabbed the face of the vampire next to him, as an aura of amber energy began to wrap around him, and slammed it into the ground, crushing its skulls and spewing out bile and matter across the ground! Those surrounding stepped back, but quickly roared in rage at the sight of their dead fellow, and lunged at him again. The stormcast slammed his fists together, sparks of orange lightning filtering away as a sweep of glowing power shimmered around his form.
With incalculable speed, he charged the first one, running and punching it straight onto the ground! The next two he ducked beneath their clawed arms, grabbing the arm of one of them. Holding the monster’s head with his right hand, he pulled, hard, and with his left hand ripped and teared, the arm of the vampire cracking as it was severed from its body! It yelled in agony, but he dropped it like a rag doll, slamming his heavy boot onto its head and keeping it underneath him.
The next vampire jumped onto his back, but he used the arm in his left hand as an improvised weapon, slapping the vampire’s face to knock it back and then tossing it onto his right hand to give a large whack onto another vampire! By this time, he looked and saw that the vampire from had looked away at the baby and snarled at him, seeing its fellow undead sprawled out among them.
The stormcast reached out as one monster lunged at his side, catching it with his left hand, crushing its throat, and tossing it like a catapult. The thrown creature slammed into the other vampire, knocking both onto a rock nearby!
Wasting no breath or time, the stormcast crushed the head of the vampire still under his boot and charged like a roaring boar. The two monsters were still dazed, and could do little when he grabbed both of their pale heads with his heavy firsts. He slammed them together, again and again, smashing their faces into bloody and unrecognizable pieces of pulp, over and over again until even the undead stopped moving!
He finally stopped, his hands bloodied, and his armor bruised, and the orange glow that has shone around him like a candle began to dissipate. It was just as well, for dawn had finally arrived, and the light of Hysh began to flow across the land.
Warily, he reached down and picked up the swaddled baby, which was still crying, but thankfully alive. He inspected the damage. The baby was dirty, little pieces of rock and dirt easily brushed away, and numerous tiny bruises across its face. A large cut lay over one of the child’s eyes, but thankfully the wound was minor, despite the wails of the infant.
The stormcast carefully picked up the crying child, and set it close to him again. He sat down on a large rock, resting for the first time in a while, babe in hand, as the sun arose across the land.
Slowly, as the light ushered away the terrors of the night, the baby began to quiet.
“By Sigmar!” Came a cry, and suddenly a rush of activity took place.
The crowd parted as the warrior of the god-king marched his way towards the open gate, and soon a commotion arose among the populace. He stopped before the front gate, as a group of guards marched out towards the stormcast, but paused before him, unsure of what to do. They whispered quickly among themselves as to the identity of the warrior, with the words “Broken Angel” quickly echoing across their lips.
He was not like any stormcast they had seen before, his armor mismatched, as if it had been collected from a garbage heap of stormcast armor. Much of it looked worn and well-used, scratches and dents across it, a stark contrast to the shining angels that guarded the city. At his side he carried a long sword that appeared aelven in design, runes beautifully carved into its edge. It was perhaps the cleanest thing the stormcast had.
The stormcast pulled his sword out, and the guards stepped back, before he brought it up and slammed it down onto the ground, sticking it straight up. He then extended his hand out, carrying a small bag of cloth, and the soldiers gasped. It was a baby, covered with dirt and with a nasty cut lay over its eye, jagged and still red with scabs.
The stormcast held out the child, who moved underneath its covers, and overall appeared healthy. One of the guards stepped forward tentatively, and carefully grabbed the baby, staring down into its lovely blue eyes. The warrior did not say a word, but nodded approvingly. Then, with a heavy clank of his armor, he began to walk away, back into the wilds, while the bewildered guards watched, before turning their attention to the child which began to cry out once more.
Jezarra Stormtouched looked out towards the vast plains as the sun dimmed. She idled her sword at her side, nervous but not unsure, not when she had her companions at her side. She moved to brush her hair out of the way, and grazed along the long scar above her left eye. She paused, momentarily lost in thought as she pondered her life.
They had called her Stormtouched, the miraculous child saved by a wandering warrior, said to have been touched by Sigmar himself, carried by his angels to safety. She knew very well the various legends about how she appeared one day, cut and wrapped in simple blankets, carried by one of the chosen vessels of Sigmar’s will. It was like a strange dream she could never remembered, but was always reminded of every time she looked in the mirror.
“Vampires! Blood Clan approaching!” came a shout, and the men quickly scrambled to attention. Jezarra stood up, and she pulled out her sword. It was long and elegant, aelven make, with numerous runes carved across its face. She smiled softly, staring down at her old friend.
Stepping forward in front of her soldiers, Jezarra stared down the darkness and the howls that emerged from within. With her shining blade in hand, she gazed into the abyss, blade held tight.
“For Sigmar!” she yelled, her soldiers following suit, and together they charged.
