Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

If the breaking of the wall was a dam bursting, the coming of Alarielle was an ocean rising to engulf the Vale of Winternight. With her came the Wyldwoods, limbs and leaves angrily swaying, creepers and thorn bushes advancing beneath their shadowed canopies. Ahead of her life magic streamed. The gale of her approach washed away the thick fog, revealing the parched lands of the Vale of Winternight.

All had been drained of vitality, the cracked earth like the dry skin of an ancient mortal. Scrubby bushes with blood-red thorns grew out of split heartseeds, and fungal fronds played in colourful profusion from the corpses of animals. Such trees as had survived were twisted, stunted things with flies as big as birds buzzing in their limbs. More insects fluttered in thick swarms, fighting against the rush of air that heralded the Everqueen’s arrival.

At the heart of the valley, where once had stood the lifetree of Clan Faech, a tower now rose at the centre of a soulpod-studded grove that had become a thick mire of bubbling mud. Threefold were its bastions, winding about each other like vines, becoming one at the pinnacle. It seemed to have grown of tumorous bone, split and blistered, cracked and flaking. No windows broke its surface, but a single fracture formed a jagged door at its root.

The warriors of Nurgle were arrayed about this fortress, grotesque and bloated, cadaverous and vile. In ranks of rusted mail and blood-spattered plate they awaited the attack of the sylvaneth.

They did not have to wait long.

The earth erupted with choking, snaring vines, and the spirits of the worldwood descended upon the Nurgle army. Branch and root vied against hammer and spear, talon versus blade. Whipping leaf-limbs crashed against shields marked with the fly rune of the Plague God. Ensorcelled iron bit deep into spirit-folk flesh. Blood and phlegm, bark and sap flew.

The trembling ground beneath the stride of the wardroth beetle set the beat of the battle-song that rose from Alarielle. From her heart poured out a rhythm of defiance and death. It drove the sylvaneth, enriching their hatred as mulch fertilises soil, filling their limbs with vigour and growth. Where Alarielle fought, the followers of Chaos died.

A dozen armoured warriors set themselves against her advance, their axes flaking rust and dried blood. Alarielle did not hesitate, but met them head-on. Their blades broke on the carapace of her wardroth beetle, and other blows went astray in the blinding light of her presence. The beetle charged without pause, trampling foes and spearing another on its antlers. The Spear of Kurnoth whirled and plunged, lancing through the bodies of the survivors, foetid blood streaming from the mortal wounds left by its touch.

The Wyldwoods enveloped the fighting, dragging tribesmen and beasts into the foliage where birds and spites plucked at eyes and clawing twigs lacerated flesh. The screams of the dying were accompanied by the patter of blood falling like rain form the canopy. Roots quested for the pools of life fluid, drinking deep of the Chaos followers’ suffering.

The Outcasts were a nightmare to behold, led by the ancients of the Dreadwood glade. Though fire and axe were set against them, the bitter forest spirits would not be stayed by the shield walls and warped spawn of the Chaos army. Armoured plate was no obstacle to piercing talons powered by magical sinew. With banshee howls of glee, dryads tore the limbs from their foes, glorying in the sprays of blood. Flesh and bone parted under the razor-strikes of the branchwyches, strips of gory flesh flung into the air. So vengeful was their aspect that even as lumbering beasts crushed them underfoot the Outcasts bit and clawed with their last strength. Spite-revenants leapt into their foes without regard, happy to tear down an armoured warrior even if in turn they were battered and slashed by the corroded weapons of their enemies.

As a root prises apart a rock, the sylvaneth drove through the corrupting host to within striking distance of the tower. Alarielle’s magic washed up to the perimeter of the fortress, unable to penetrate it but still gathering strength. The spirits of Clan Faech murmured beyond her reach, trapped. Alarielle urged them to rise up, to tear down their captors from within. She was greeted with a quiet echo of spite and dread.

The gate of the tower widened with a terrible tearing of wood, and from the dark interior emerged a trio of bloated figures. The three sorcerers let free swarms of biting flies and choking mists, stalling the sylvaneth attack. Whirring, buzzing things beset Alarielle, flying into her eyes, trying to crawl into her mouth. She choked and spat, fighting back the memory of the cloying power of Chaos that had nearly taken her.

Out of the swarm lumbered an immense gargant, its skin falling away in strips to reveal bloody fat and muscle. Its shadow fell over Alarielle, bathing her in a sudden chill.