The sword swings for her head, She gets her scythe up just in time. She is NOT a fighter. Not even a battlemage. The Maggot Lord swings again, a crushing oberhau. Her scythe meets it again, corroded thrice-cursed steel on the not-wood of the weapon’s haft. Cannons roar in the distance. Rockets burst overhead. The siege of Nuln goes poorly. As evidenced by the fact that the archmage of the amethyst order is engaged in a FIGHT. In melee. Like some musclebound idiot. 

Tamurkahn, Maggot Lord, aspirant to the throne of chaos, leader of the greatest warband of ruinous powers the empire has ever seen. Her opponent. He stands tall and grotesquely disfigured, skin marred by a terrible wasting pox, weeping sores, festering wounds. Par for the course, she supposes, when one serves the god of decay. Incidentally a very large part of the reason why she doesn’t. 

Her dragon roars behind her, a pained trumpeting sound, and she knows it’s brawl with Tamurkahn’s… mount… goes poorly. The moment of distraction costs her; the maggot lord’s blade lances out in a lightning-fast jab from Ohs, catches the gap in her armor just so beneath the arm, and ends in Fuchs. Blood wells but it’s slow to come and viscous. Inhuman and dead. The contagions in his blade try to set in her wounded flesh but the magic of her creation seems to stave it off. He pulls back to finish her and inhuman reflexes preserve her unlife. Barely. 

About her, the vast foundries of Nuln burn. Landships and steamtanks lie ruined all about like a giant’s toys cast down in a fit of pique. Daemons caper on the rooftops. This could all have been avoided. So easily. But no, humans are stupid. Humans refuse to listen to warnings when ignoring them is the easier path. 

The dragon bellows again, agony thick in her reptilian voice. And then she’s dead. 

Her beautiful incarmine dragon. Her friend and companion for centuries. More than a mere mount. The dragon’s death throws are titanic, the burst of wild magic tears asunder the winds of Sysh, and then the archmage of the amethyst order is… elsewhere…

The sword swings for her head, She gets her scythe up just in time. She is NOT a fighter. Not even a battlemage. The Maggot Lord swings again, a crushing oberhau. Her scythe meets it again, corroded thrice-cursed steel on the not-wood of the weapon’s haft. Cannons roar in the distance. Rockets burst overhead. The siege of Nuln goes poorly. As evidenced by the fact that the archmage of the amethyst order is engaged in a FIGHT. In melee. Like some musclebound idiot. 

Tamurkahn, Maggot Lord, aspirant to the throne of chaos, leader of the greatest warband of ruinous powers the empire has ever seen. Her opponent. He stands tall and grotesquely disfigured, skin marred by a terrible wasting pox, weeping sores, festering wounds. Par for the course, she supposes, when one serves the god of decay. Incidentally a very large part of the reason why she doesn’t. 

Her dragon roars behind her, a pained trumpeting sound, and she knows it’s brawl with Tamurkahn’s… mount… goes poorly. The moment of distraction costs her; the maggot lord’s blade lances out in a lightning-fast jab from Ohs, catches the gap in her armor just so beneath the arm, and ends in Fuchs. Blood wells but it’s slow to come and viscous. Inhuman and dead. The contagions in his blade try to set in her wounded flesh but the magic of her creation seems to stave it off. He pulls back to finish her and inhuman reflexes preserve her unlife. Barely. 

About her, the vast foundries of Nuln burn. Landships and steamtanks lie ruined all about like a giant’s toys cast down in a fit of pique. Daemons caper on the rooftops. This could all have been avoided. So easily. But no, humans are stupid. Humans refuse to listen to warnings when ignoring them is the easier path. 

The dragon bellows again, agony thick in her reptilian voice. And then she’s dead. 

Her beautiful incarmine dragon. Her friend and companion for centuries. More than a mere mount. The dragon’s death throws are titanic, the burst of wild magic tears asunder the winds of Sysh, and then the archmage of the amethyst order is… elsewhere…

The sword swings for her head, She gets her scythe up just in time. She is NOT a fighter. Not even a battlemage. The Maggot Lord swings again, a crushing oberhau. Her scythe meets it again, corroded thrice-cursed steel on the not-wood of the weapon’s haft. Cannons roar in the distance. Rockets burst overhead. The siege of Nuln goes poorly. As evidenced by the fact that the archmage of the amethyst order is engaged in a FIGHT. In melee. Like some musclebound idiot. 

Tamurkahn, Maggot Lord, aspirant to the throne of chaos, leader of the greatest warband of ruinous powers the empire has ever seen. Her opponent. He stands tall and grotesquely disfigured, skin marred by a terrible wasting pox, weeping sores, festering wounds. Par for the course, she supposes, when one serves the god of decay. Incidentally a very large part of the reason why she doesn’t. 

Her dragon roars behind her, a pained trumpeting sound, and she knows it’s brawl with Tamurkahn’s… mount… goes poorly. The moment of distraction costs her; the maggot lord’s blade lances out in a lightning-fast jab from Ohs, catches the gap in her armor just so beneath the arm, and ends in Fuchs. Blood wells but it’s slow to come and viscous. Inhuman and dead. The contagions in his blade try to set in her wounded flesh but the magic of her creation seems to stave it off. He pulls back to finish her and inhuman reflexes preserve her unlife. Barely. 

About her, the vast foundries of Nuln burn. Landships and steamtanks lie ruined all about like a giant’s toys cast down in a fit of pique. Daemons caper on the rooftops. This could all have been avoided. So easily. But no, humans are stupid. Humans refuse to listen to warnings when ignoring them is the easier path. 

The dragon bellows again, agony thick in her reptilian voice. And then she’s dead. 

Her beautiful incarmine dragon. Her friend and companion for centuries. More than a mere mount. The dragon’s death throws are titanic, the burst of wild magic tears asunder the winds of Sysh, and then the archmage of the amethyst order is… elsewhere…