Toegnasha was in his element. All around him shootas and big shootas sang their song of death, and a great “Waaagh!” erupted from thousands of bass throats. The air stank of cordite, fyceline, death and fear. Toegnasha inhaled the sweet scent of war through his wide nostrils, before grinning with his crooked fangs and unleashing another withering hail of fire from his kustom shoota. All around him, men of the Imperial Guard fled and died, and he guffawed at their feeble attempt to stop him. No one could stop him!
Leading his boys forward, he waded into another group of reinforcements, shouting their feeble cries to that other useless human they all worshipped. One actually had the nerve to charge the great warboss himself, with a pitiful excuse for a chainsword purring in his grasp. Without breaking his gait, Toegnasha grabbed the man in his massive claw and squeezed just hard enough to hear his ribs popping. His doomed foe screamed in pain, dropping the sword and beating his hands against the claw in futility. Raising his shoota, Toegnasha vaporized the man’s head with a single shot before hurling the broken body at the rest of the enemy unit. The sight was clearly too much, as the men turned on their heels, firing a few shots as they fled.
To both sides of him, Toegnasha’s warriors were in command of the Imperial position. The few guardsmen left alive would not be so for long. Just as Toegnasha was about to order his mob forward to chase the fleeing enemy, he got another one of his headaches. Ever since he had been sucked into the Tears of the Saint, these powerful headaches overtook Toegnasha from time to time. The pain was so tremendous, it could debilitate even the mighty warboss. But each time, it was accompanied by a vision from Gork, or sometimes Mork. It was all the proof Toegnasha needed that he was the chosen of Gork and Mork, and the two looked out for him, both by giving him cunning plans and warning him of danger. This time, it was the latter. In his mind’s eye, Toegnasha could see a line of rumbling tanks, those large human ones that the mekboys just loved to get their hands on. They were close, and heading this way.
The pain subsided as suddenly as it had come on, and Toegnasha shook his head to clear it. His elite cadre of mega-armored nobs stood close by, standing as reverently as orks can manage, as they knew their boss had just received another vision from the gods. Toegnasha grinned, “Da ‘umies are movin’ up wit dere big wagonz. Get da rokkit ladz ta give ‘em a surprise!” He emphasized his order by pumping his massive claw into the air. The nobs aped the gesture, and one hustled off to relay the order. Toegnasha smiled his crooked smile; no one would beat him, not so long as he had Gork and Mork on his side.
In orbit of Jotunfjell, in the center of the Cult fleet, a massive battleship slowly rotated around the planet. Its metal hull seemed to writhe and shift unless you looked directly at it, and waves of color rippled back and forth along its flanks. Millennia ago, before the Heresy, it had once been a proud flagship of the Saturnine Fleet. Now it was a twisted instrument of Chaos.
Deep within the vessel, in a chamber of seemingly molten metal, two figures, adorned in blue and gold, knelt before a massive throne. Ammon Hotep, Lord of Tzeentch, kept his gaze fixed upon the ground as he addressed his master, “Blessed One, our armies progress with acceptable progress. Your pawn is acting admirably, and his value is incalculable. What would you have of us?”
The answer was not spoken aloud, but came rather as a whisper directly into the mind. The voice was one like sand scraping stone in the wind, Go to the planet. There is yet one who may foil my plans. If we can expose him for what he truly is, we may cause a rift between the followers of the Corpse God that will make our victory all the easier. What we seek is here. You must not fail.
Keeping his head low, Ammon stood, “Your will be done, my Lord. In the name of the Changer of Ways.” His companion followed suit, and together the pair turned and exited the chamber, “Brother, we have much work to do. Send your agents into the city itself. We must find this threat and eliminate him before he can do more harm.”
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- Master of the Administratum
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"Every man is a spark in the darkness. By the time he is noticed, he is gone forever; a retinal after image that soon fades and is obscured by newer, brighter lights."
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