Firestorm - The Dawnclad II - Eternal (part 2)
As she lay on the the ground, the shifting environment around her flickering between momentary sensations, and as her lifeblood drained away, Ania recalled the final moments of her failed assault. It was as if fate itself had fought against her - and, of course, it had, for such was the will of the Raven God. Her tribeswomen scattered and butchered by the Orruk’s living idol. Her chimeras flailing uselessly, wild and unruly. Her dragon gunned down before the same warmachines that would later claim her. Her own Chosen, waylaid and by the treacherous magics unleashed by this hellscape, helpless to fight back as they were cut down. And her faithful warriors, fighting ot the last as their plans crumbled around them.
Their allies had not fared much better, of course, but she could tell that the eye of Tzeentch had turned its gaze on her at such a pivotal moment, and fate had aligned against her struggle.
At the last moment, she had seen an opportunity, a last lifeline amongst the massacre. The guard around the Nexus had been drawn away by a horde of undead wolves, leaving only the Orruk sorcerer commanding its power to guard it. Ania had drawn all her defensive magics around herself, and willed her disc forward like a bolt. She had flown straight through the greatest of the Orruk brutes, their weapons bouncing off magic and pure will, weathering the onslaught as though it weren’t there. She could have done it. The Nexus lay before her, and she could turn the tide of battle.
And then it happened, again. The sight of that loathsome Stormcast armour. The shining light of judgement unearned. The thunder of his warmachines. Her magics failed her, useless against the Sigmarite-cursed shells. Her disc fell from beneath her, shredded. And then the shots found her, and she was undone.
And now, she was dying. Finally. Maybe in oblivion she could find freedom.
--
As her consciousness faded away, she found herself in a great expanse, devoid of anything but hundreds of barren, leafless trees. On each of those trees perched hundreds of jet black ravens, each gazing directly upon her. As she gathered herself, they opened their beaks in unison, and they spoke to her in one voice.
“Do you see now, the futility of your efforts? I have written your fate for you. It was never yours to mould.”
Ania found herself standing, and even now, she rippled with defiance. She could not accept this. The architect of fate itself presented itself to her, and yet, she still believed that her fate was her own. She would surrender it to no-one.
“There is no futility in my actions, so long as they serve myself. I will never be a puppet, no matter how many strings you tie to me. I will die free.”
The ravens laughed, a thousand mocking voices echoing throughout Ania’s mind. “You still think in terms of death? You died, along with an entire world, an aeon ago. And yet here you stand, because I saw fit to pluck your soul from the void and reforge it. You live because I will it, and you will not die until I permit it. How many times have you fallen on the field now? How many blades have found their way past the magicks that I granted you, and sunk into your flesh? How many times have you been torn apart by claw, by steel, by magic? And yet each time, you have lived. Because you are my plaything, Ania Straka. A toy to do with as I will. Death is a release I will not grant you, not until you realise the truth - you were never a player, only a pawn. Only when you are broken, only when you have seen how useless you are, only when you have truly, finally given up, will I allow you to die.”
Ania stared her patron in each of its thousands of eyes. She spoke with fury, with defiance, with spite.
“Then I shall be eternal.”
She felt herself being taken away, the scene before her growing more distant as her consciousness returned elsehwere. The laughter continued as the vision faded away. “Awaken, then, Ania Straka. Your struggle begins anew, and a thousand more failures await.”
--
When Ania came to, she was a long distance from the battlefield, somewhere else in the Flamescar Plateau. Her wounds pulsed fresh agony - the Raven God was right. She had not been permitted death.
A handful of her sisters surrounded her, suffering from varying degrees of injury. Adhaid, her second in command, was even now tending to a gaping hole in Ania’s side. It was not Tzeentchian magic that Adhaid was wielding, but something else, ancient and primal. Ania could see it flowing along the edges of her wounds, reknitting them, her flesh growing back in gory tendrils.
“I saved who I could,” Adhaid began, “but we are but a fraction of our former strength. The daemon’s forces are gone to the winds, and the undead are lost to the dull earth. We have lost.”
Ania felt the crushing weight of her defeat all the more keenly to hear it from the Magister. Her sisters had entrusted their lives to her. It was one thing to fail herself, and another entirely to fail them. She could not bring herself to look them in the eye.
“And we will again. Our cause is nigh impossible. We fight against the will of fate itself. Will you follow me, still?” Ania asked, unsure of herself, of anything beyond her frustration.
The response was, to her surprise, instant and firm. Each and every one of her remaining warriors bellowed in the affirmative, with not even a moment to question. Adhaid finished her work, and offered a hand to Ania to lift her to her feet.
“Your struggle is our struggle, Ania. Either we are all free, or none of us are. And each and every one of us would sooner die under our own agency than live in servitude.”
Ania nodded, and echoed her words of defiance before the Raven God, her resolve reinforced with that of her comrades. “Our actions are defiance. Our souls are rebellion. We live and die for a cause that echoes on long after we perish. We are eternal.”
Their allies had not fared much better, of course, but she could tell that the eye of Tzeentch had turned its gaze on her at such a pivotal moment, and fate had aligned against her struggle.
At the last moment, she had seen an opportunity, a last lifeline amongst the massacre. The guard around the Nexus had been drawn away by a horde of undead wolves, leaving only the Orruk sorcerer commanding its power to guard it. Ania had drawn all her defensive magics around herself, and willed her disc forward like a bolt. She had flown straight through the greatest of the Orruk brutes, their weapons bouncing off magic and pure will, weathering the onslaught as though it weren’t there. She could have done it. The Nexus lay before her, and she could turn the tide of battle.
And then it happened, again. The sight of that loathsome Stormcast armour. The shining light of judgement unearned. The thunder of his warmachines. Her magics failed her, useless against the Sigmarite-cursed shells. Her disc fell from beneath her, shredded. And then the shots found her, and she was undone.
And now, she was dying. Finally. Maybe in oblivion she could find freedom.
--
As her consciousness faded away, she found herself in a great expanse, devoid of anything but hundreds of barren, leafless trees. On each of those trees perched hundreds of jet black ravens, each gazing directly upon her. As she gathered herself, they opened their beaks in unison, and they spoke to her in one voice.
“Do you see now, the futility of your efforts? I have written your fate for you. It was never yours to mould.”
Ania found herself standing, and even now, she rippled with defiance. She could not accept this. The architect of fate itself presented itself to her, and yet, she still believed that her fate was her own. She would surrender it to no-one.
“There is no futility in my actions, so long as they serve myself. I will never be a puppet, no matter how many strings you tie to me. I will die free.”
The ravens laughed, a thousand mocking voices echoing throughout Ania’s mind. “You still think in terms of death? You died, along with an entire world, an aeon ago. And yet here you stand, because I saw fit to pluck your soul from the void and reforge it. You live because I will it, and you will not die until I permit it. How many times have you fallen on the field now? How many blades have found their way past the magicks that I granted you, and sunk into your flesh? How many times have you been torn apart by claw, by steel, by magic? And yet each time, you have lived. Because you are my plaything, Ania Straka. A toy to do with as I will. Death is a release I will not grant you, not until you realise the truth - you were never a player, only a pawn. Only when you are broken, only when you have seen how useless you are, only when you have truly, finally given up, will I allow you to die.”
Ania stared her patron in each of its thousands of eyes. She spoke with fury, with defiance, with spite.
“Then I shall be eternal.”
She felt herself being taken away, the scene before her growing more distant as her consciousness returned elsehwere. The laughter continued as the vision faded away. “Awaken, then, Ania Straka. Your struggle begins anew, and a thousand more failures await.”
--
When Ania came to, she was a long distance from the battlefield, somewhere else in the Flamescar Plateau. Her wounds pulsed fresh agony - the Raven God was right. She had not been permitted death.
A handful of her sisters surrounded her, suffering from varying degrees of injury. Adhaid, her second in command, was even now tending to a gaping hole in Ania’s side. It was not Tzeentchian magic that Adhaid was wielding, but something else, ancient and primal. Ania could see it flowing along the edges of her wounds, reknitting them, her flesh growing back in gory tendrils.
“I saved who I could,” Adhaid began, “but we are but a fraction of our former strength. The daemon’s forces are gone to the winds, and the undead are lost to the dull earth. We have lost.”
Ania felt the crushing weight of her defeat all the more keenly to hear it from the Magister. Her sisters had entrusted their lives to her. It was one thing to fail herself, and another entirely to fail them. She could not bring herself to look them in the eye.
“And we will again. Our cause is nigh impossible. We fight against the will of fate itself. Will you follow me, still?” Ania asked, unsure of herself, of anything beyond her frustration.
The response was, to her surprise, instant and firm. Each and every one of her remaining warriors bellowed in the affirmative, with not even a moment to question. Adhaid finished her work, and offered a hand to Ania to lift her to her feet.
“Your struggle is our struggle, Ania. Either we are all free, or none of us are. And each and every one of us would sooner die under our own agency than live in servitude.”
Ania nodded, and echoed her words of defiance before the Raven God, her resolve reinforced with that of her comrades. “Our actions are defiance. Our souls are rebellion. We live and die for a cause that echoes on long after we perish. We are eternal.”
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