The Tide of Charging Change
Chamon. The Realm of Metals. The Realm of Alchemy. The Element of Change. The Realm claimed by the Aether of Fate, He Shaped of Raven’s Greedy Glee and the cackle rolled even now in the winds.
Surtha Ek stood in his vehicle, reins in armoured hands as he overlooked the battle shifting and pushing like the sea-tides of shields and blades on a multi-coloured beach of elements and spilt blood. His warband watched wantonly to join the rebellious militia of the Sapphire Fist, a careful effort made from four generations of malcontent and ruined trust between the Storm Eternals’ stagnant tyranny and the people that guarded against the daemons and beasts of Tzeentch and factions for generations more.
All it took was a poisoned arrow of sigmarite point into the neck of one beloved champion.
Wordlessly, the Chaos Lord lifted his ruinous axe and the warcry of the Varg’s Ravagers rolled onto the battlefield like a distant thunderstorm. Like a black flood, knights abroad their steeds of fell birth rolled down the stiff cliffs with not a hesitation as if a mere sloop to overcome. The standards of the Broken Realmgate sundered by the Ruinous Star fluttering on their rot-green field snapping and cracking to their threatening speed.
Even far back in the ranks, Surtha Ek needed only snap his reins before his stallions took flight. Speed unmatched by all but the steeds blessed of Slaanesh and the warping inconsistency of Tzeentch had a hope under his airborne chariot riding the very winds of magic. The Stormcast forced themselves to make a splitting reformation to meet the instigators of this evil and like the precious storms that they embodied, the two forces of Order and Chaos met with a force greater than lightning.
With strength unparalleled, Gyllr and Sinir crushed warriors under hoof. The wild stallions, daemons casted in equine flesh snapped and tore at throats and limbs with terrible teeth and fire-lapping tongues. Weapons bounced off their muscles and monstrous hide. What strike that could beat or punch was met with ichor of purest hate. Their master was no less baneful, his axe coming in wide arcs that claimed for heads and limbs for the smallest opening that the clever, war-sound soldiery of Sigmar the Arrogant crafted.
Even a spiked fist crashed a Liberator’s face, collapsing helm into a bloody crater that sent its wearer screaming back to their master as ear-ringing wisp of aether!
Chariot pushing into the ranks like a pickaxe into a chink of armour, widening it with the lanced plunge of the Varg Knights’ first ranks prying even more with the weight of Chaotic warhorses and daemonic beasts wanting the same glory as their riders. As they roared, whinned, died and killed for the glory of the Ruinous Powers, Surtha Ek had no weariness for all are tribute to the Gods; the enemy or themselves!
“Push! Push these worthless curs into the jaws of Tzeentch! Dash their hopes! Crush their chains! Rise up! Rise and know the Freedoms that we give!” He roared out to his warband and the Sapphire Fist, words that spurred ever more with his wild-warriors joining the fray. Whether they were the purists of Khorne’s bloody fury or the flamboyant war-seekers of Slaanesh, even the opportunistic raiders of Tzeentch were fighting more intense for the truths of Chaos.
