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post #52 of (permalink) Old 04-19-14, 03:02 PM
Dave T Hobbit
Tzeentch laughs at likely
 
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Myen'Tal - Maw of Granite

I once carried the name Helíxata with great pride. The name belonged to a line of champions in patronage to Tzeentch, yet did not bend knee to him directly. I used to tower over the legion-host as a mighty tower made mobile. Two wicked Sabers, etched with the name of every soul that had previously wielded them into battle, were mine to cleave and rend. My armor was nothing but my scaled and human flesh, save the Sash of Dreams. That lovely sartorial gave my enemies glimpses into my own aspects, which were not me.


I crashed down with the mighty hooves of the Centaur. I danced through the greater champions of the four like a four-limbed genie. I drained away the ages from the mortal races with one cursed bracelet. My masters wished me to turn from warfare, to disgrace myself in order to humble my stoked sense of hubris. Therefore, they desired it, but I never knelt until the centuries had come and gone. Only the tattered banners of the heralds remained to sing the praises of their overlords. The Great Four beckoned me to forsake my allegiance and swear fealty for eternal rewards a demon simply could not shrink at.


I never gave much concern to invading the mortal planes in the universe. Until my Master, Guardian of the Forlorn Towers prepared my host to march into the unknown. I never knew why the sudden change of heart, the Guardian always seemed content to prove himself before the Gods of Chaos. Yet when the portals began to shatter the bonds between our world and theirs, I knew there would be no turning back. Never, so long as mortal souls still defied the whim of the ruinous powers and fought their divine right to rule. What sovereignty isnít given freely may be taken through conquest.


The Necrons of all species were the first to defy our invasion. Our factions joined in battle on the ashen sands of the tomb world Silvan V. I fought tooth and nail on the frontlines, an endless sea of writhing demons against a phalanx of quicksilver and machinery. Their weapons thrashed through our ranks for weeks, their monoliths and fallen Star Gods slaying even the greatest legends among the Guardianís armies. The battle soon turned ill. The Guardian called upon my services to slay the aspect of the Star God: The Cítan.


My sabers carved path after bloodless path through their defensive formations, gauss whips lashing into my flesh, peeling away the skin rather masochistically. Only my finest fought and bled with me, until I was sure we would all be no more until the eve of the next millennia. My powers did not seem to have the desired effect on these soulless machines and they continued to press the advantage against us. Their commanders must have convinced themselves the conflict had been won. The ghastly Cítan emerged from a parting host of undead machines, larger and wielding a scythe with unknown powers.


I knew that I must tread carefully, the Cítan feast on souls like any other possessed with their power. The scythe came down, fluid like water against my Sabers. The explosion of unstable powers erupted across the battlefield, the fallout pulsing through the throngs of our minions like a mental thought. I found vulnerabilities in the Godís guard, cleaving through mist and darkness as if I had struck a black hole. The Star God lurched with a monstrous maw, all ghastly grey teeth and utter blackness.


So I revealed my own fangs. My friends in the Forlorn Towers always noted that the bite of my fangs is the hardest. A spew of incomprehensibly burning flames made the strike incredibly more painful. The darkness lurched away from my person, shadows blazing away while it howled the most terrifying wraith-howl to rattle my ears. I leapt into the encroaching blackness, my fangs snapped deep into whatever looked real. The Cítan dropped the scythe. His explosion nearly eradicated my physical manifest, my own chosen were not so fortunate.


The Guardian named me Champion of the Host. I carved through system after system in no coherent fashion. After the Necrons I landed in the Tau Septs and warred for no longer than a year. The young race proved resistant to the influences of the warp, so their worlds were of little value. The Host invaded the Eastern Fringe inside the Imperium next. I challenged my first Astartes in the invasion of Karlia. All one hundred of them came down to face the chosen and myself. One hundred heads claimed for the Gods.


My campaigns ended on one fateful decision to launch a surprise assault deep into Imperial territory through an isolated sector called the Hellas. Four worlds by the name of Tarmathon writhed in the flames of war over a protracted period. All seemed lost for the miniscule Imperial presence located there, their effort hinging on only one distant planet. Had it not been for the intervention of one certain Eldar Craftworld, I would have succeeded.


The Aspect Warriors of Teyl-Jhen arrived across the four warfronts in lightning blitzes. Wherever they came, they repulsed us. Their actual numbers remain unknown, but I believed they were few enough given the task they were set to. Never enough to commit to open battle with our kindred, but they freely harassed us whenever they saw fit. The true intent to stop us, masked beneath the annoyances of raiding and ambushes, did not come to sight until the Imperials made to stand with them. We met across the four worlds and met our demise with some honor.


Our own demise came through the great Raihan, Tiger of Teyl-Jhen. A Farseer draped in a shimmering sapphire cloak emblazoned with both the Sea Dragon and the Tiger. He did not stand against me alone. All the council of Seers wielded their potent magic against me. I never yielded before them. Instead, I crushed them under heel. Yet the Tigerís resolve only seemed bolstered. Raihan alone conjured an eldritch storm powerful enough to send me down to one knee. He gripped his Singing Spear overhand and cast the weapon from his fingers. The Spear was designed to disrupt the physicality of anything beyond the average warp creatureís proportions. And I, Helíxata, looked disrupted without an eye to gaze through.


Struck blind by a tiny mortal in one eye, I had little choice but to watch him through whatever remained lingering in the physical world. I snapped my jaws at him one last time. One defiance repaid with another.
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