Hallowed Knights - The Eagles of Sigmar Chamber

Carnelian let out a roar of pure feral frustration as Ahalyon disappeared into the light, a cloud of billowing smoke before him.

He had led his Stormcast in the hunt for Ahalyon the Infidel for seven long waxes and wanes of the moons of Ghyran. He had given his word to Sigmar himself that he would bring Ahalyon to Azyr to face his reckoning and so return the Golden Wreath of Panchakankya to its rightful glory.

His warriors had given everything; many had been lost during the hard journey through this cursed landscape. He had steered his exhausted dracoth, Garuda, for many hundreds of miles through blasted forests, fighting off disease, beasts and the forest itself. He had fought off bandits and faced war-bands of all types, many of them far from human. He had climbed the peaks of Zlatka Gora and waded through the gorges of Dasos Lefkon. He had made it through the venomous jungle, that once had been full of life but was now bloated with decay.

And now, with victory only moments away, he witnessed his defeat.

Moments earlier, Carnelian had led the warriors of his chamber through the black of night into the depths of a ruined temple from ages past. The padded feet of his dracoth pushed softly into the earth that covered the stone floors, revealing disturbing patterns and glyphs on the floors below. The decaying and crumbling walls were wreathed in vines that curled, hissed and snapped at any who went past.

As they worked their way deeper and deeper into the temple, each Stormcast felt a ferocious chant pounding into their skulls, getting louder, wilder and more beast like. When they reached the central hall of this relic of a temple, the chanting began to mix with wild laughter, strange and unfamiliar animal sounds as if from a different time and whispers promising great power.

Not to be perturbed, the Stormcast strode forwards, Carnelian himself at their front astride Garuda, eager to lead the way and bring Sigmar’s divine light to anyone who dared stand against him. As the central hall unfolded, he struggled to understand the scene before him but recognized well enough the outline of Ahalyon standing in the middle before him, cloaks of mist and shrouds of blood whipping around him like ghosts of the past.

Not for the first time, Carnelian looked up directly into Ahalyon’s eyes. He raised one eyebrow above his remaining eye and smiled, causing his lips to stretch tightly across his scarred face. Ahalyon looked down at sand running through his fingers and then closed his eye. As he closed his fist, Darahma heard a sound as loud as the earth itself splitting and felt a wind so strong it tore at Ahalyon’s skin and wreath before a light emerged as brilliant and as bright as the glittering towers of Azyr.

Ahalyon took one step towards the light and disappeared.

Carnelian let out a roar of pure feral frustration as Ahalyon disappeared into the light, a cloud of billowing smoke before him.

In a split second, Carnelian had made his decision. He would not return to Sigmar empty handed. He would not let down his Warrior-God. He strode forwards, gaining speed until he was running at full momentum towards the fading light. He had one last moment to turn his head, his voice catching on the whipping wind, and bellow to his command:

“Have faith, brothers”. And then he too was gone…

An age earlier, Carnelian stepped out into a bright clearing in an otherwise dark forest...

He instantly recognised that something was different, that something was wrong with the world. That divine attachment to Sigmar that Carnelian had known ever since becoming a Stormcast - he could no longer feel it.

Where was he, alone without his god?


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