Vun Cinderreaver

The power-humming glaives of the Stormvermin drumming on the ground in rhythm, a muscle memory of their glory long-taken as the Chaptermaster lumbered through their procession with the chaos of war whirling around them like a tempest of fire and metal. His horns great and imposing, even when capped down to properly fit with his masterfully crafted pattern of Terminator armour. His Hellsword, inert, but growled in daemonic hunger with its sleep. 

Its spirit spoke to him in his sleep. Blood. Skulls. It needed blood and skulls. Its rage was burning in his skull, it was his partner of fate and desire. The Chaptermaster demanded the wine of his enemies’ veins and their skulls to decorate his throne. Their souls to be the next harvest of warpstone. Their bodies to be his feast. The Hunger was unimaginable yet rage kept its sustenance. 

“Blood and Bones.” His voice seethed with baring teeth as he looked to a warlord of the Red Corsairs that have foolishly chosen this world to reap the Chaptermaster’s bounty. He can not allow it. He will not allow it. This world is tribute to only One and He is here to claim it. 

The scream hollered over the chorus of screams. The hatred and envy of man shrieking from a thing that was once a man, now a chattering ravenous thing that could barely concern itself as one. The ambition that stirred to the Terminator-clad warlord-seer pointing his crackling focus axe, commanding the wave of ratmen after ratmen against the fortification of witchcraft with the thunderclap of heavy armor blasting. The scrolling of corrupted High Gothic and Other Tongue adorn his own grey armour to the whipping tatters of robes that once been a noble Librarian, now something far fell and sorcerous. 

“Bring it down!” Seer-Master Krivov commanded with the vivid insane crave in his eyes. “I want those walls smash-crushed! Demolished! Grounded! Dust-dust!” As he screamed his commands to the winds, his axe whipped over his head and gathered the aether of the Warp whilst their enemy were attempting the same. 

Whilst the battle between his thralls and the Thousand Sons’ Tzaangor fought each other by blades, tooth, and blessings, Krivov was engaged in a duel of will to the Shaman leading the bleating knaves. He could see it zipping here and there, aligning the crystals stolen. 

Warpstone. Precious, glittering, screaming Warpstone! 

Arcs of green energies popped and rattled on his armour and grounds, turning into twisting glasses and gibbering, festering flesh. All of it pulled into the bejeweled axe and cycled to the warlord-seer’s mask. His mind twisting and pushing, condensing and expanding for the lore gathered and ambitiously weaving. Around him, his honour guard of storm-vermin turned at the disturbance by a mere sniff. 

In the discolouring air, the avian goatmen seemed to step through the vision of reality and not like water. Their blades shimmering of their trick-god’s touch, eyes gleaming in murderous intent with their grating bleats and chatter. Tails whipped, the Fang-leader licked his metal teeth with a ugly smile under his horned helmet. “Good-good, kill-humble these beast-things!” He ordered with a pointed claw, urging the artificer-armoured to meet the teleporting ambushers with the scream of bloodlust. Their churning chainglaives thrusting and whipping with a violent remembrance to the astartes they once were. At their backs, the bolter-armed fired in restrained discipline between each widened opening that their foremost kindred made while the beastmen charged by the blow of a distant wyrd-horn.

“Quiet! Quiet-silence!” Krivov commanded in another scream that roared beyond his own vocals. His axe swung more and more, creating a great tempest of blackening aether. The putrid pollution of the warband’s own smoke-choking warmachines were siphoning, even rats less weighted yanked and screaming into the black whirlwind. Warp-lightning crackling and popping before the warlord-seer hurled his violence manifested by the swing of his axe! 

...

THERE ARE NO RAT IMPERIUM IN THE SEWER-WARRENS OF OLD TERRA. 

I have waited a long time for this.

Clan Skryre, the former 9th Company turned into an absorbed power of the former astartes and the changed adeptus mechanicus now led by the Master of the Forge (The Lord-Warlock), have many, many weapons that have potential world-ending power.