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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
I accidentally put this in Introduction:(, so here it is in Fluff instead:grin: (with corrections and alterations):

Sorcerous energies spiralled lazily around him as he strode to the edge of the plateau, his force staff crackling as its ancient workings slowly thrummed into life. His bodyguards marched in stiff formation behind him, bolters slung, meltagun inactive - at least for now. Their very presence pleased the Sorcerer, as a bodyguard of the Plague Marines showed that Mortarion himself favoured his endeavour. If he was correct (and he had never been wrong once in a millennia of battle) then this could truly swing the balance of (dare he think it?) the Long War itself!
They had come to the edge of the plateau. Looking down, a sheer drop, and nothing but barren, cratered ground for miles and miles. The Sorcerer allowed himself a tight half-smile. This was it! This was the place! This was an ancient battleground, from the Heresy itself, where thousands of warriors had fallen, brother had fought brother and the Gods themselves had laughed as the tiny insignificant had sent each other to hell, their bodies being covered over time by the thick mud that characterised this world. He smiled again. That same mud would have perfectly preserved their corpses, ready for his purposes.
His bodyguard stamped to attention behind him, their blessings from the Plague God having a distinct scent of their own, drifting via the breeze into his nostrils and arousing his senses. "Now..." a voice seemed to whisper, "Now is the time! Act now and bring the Grandfather ever living servants with which to spread his Gifts!"
The Sorcerer straightened, spread his arms wide, and began to recite the Chant of Awakening. Storm clouds suddenly appeared in the sky, and a keen wind whipped up as the Sorcerer's chanting became more and more frenzied. His staff started glowing with a strange green light, tendrils of ethereal energy curling round it, the glow growing stronger all the time. As the Sorcerer neared the end of the chant, the voice inside him hissed:
He raised his Staff high, and suddenly the green gem flared bright, bright as any sun.
The lightning bolts began to fall.
The first came almost sporadically, striking the ground in seemingly random places. Wherever the tendrils of Warp energy struck, all life withered and died, the surface of the earth itself cracking under the power. More and more came now, lashing down out of the storm clouds with speed almost to fast for the eye to follow, destroying all in their wake.
But the Sorcerer wasn't finished yet. Chanting yet more cantrips, he stabbed deep into the ground with his staff. Again the gem flared with burning power, and a lightning bolt fell from the sky and hit the staff with a thunderous crash, sending a shockwave emanating from the staff, tearing the ground apart for miles.
And, in the wake of the shockwave, the Reborn arose.
Clad in corroded bronze power armour, clutching ancient boltguns and other, more arcane, weaponry, they straightened from the long torpor of death, soil and mud showering off them in cascades. There were hundreds, nay, thousands of them! A ghostly green glow surrounded them, the power of pestilence warping and mutating their once proud forms as Nurgle bestowed his blessings on them. As one, they snapped to attention, ready to serve the Grandfather of Disease.
The Sorcerer attempted to control the adrenaline running through his body at the sight of such majestic warriors. The power to control them was his! He screeched his triumph to the sky, screaming the last few incantations of binding and service to the heavens.
The same ghostly green light appeared in their eyes.
The Sorcerer sighed in relief. He had control; they would do his bidding and, he thought with growing excitement, at his behest they would destroy worlds conquer systems and reduce the power of the False Emperor's servants to rubble! In his, and the Grandfathers, name!
As his newly resurrected subjects formed into marching columns, and their mutated tanks and Dreadnoughts formed up beside them, the Sorcerer realised the delicious irony of using what were literally corpses against the servants of the Corpse God. He chuckled at this...

The Reborn
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