Three things happen nearly simultaneously and too fast for the average mortal to follow.
Glog draws both swords, the Artefact and the Life Sword and begins a measured sprint towards Khorne. The swords shimmer with arcane energies – the Life sword a glowing green and the Artefact a deep, bottomless black rimed in purple cascades of power.
“Noooooo!” Ammon-Sul cries, “noooooooooo!”
Ashe and Roland both spring to interpose themselves between Ammon-Sul and Khorne. Roland cradles his left arm around Ammon-Sul and begins to drag the stunned guide back from Khorne. Ashe channels some psychic energy into Bert and the rough tenebrous outlines of a shield can be seen to protect Roland, Ammon-Sul, and Ashe from Khorne.
Perra looks to the five caecilian creatures with a mixture of hope, wonder, and ennui in equal measures, and she begins to carefully make her way closer to the five.
Khorne looks with disdain, and a sneer crosses his infernal visage as he stares at the onrushing Glog. “Puny mortal, you cannot harm me with your trinkets.” Glog springs to the air, raising a sword high in each hand. Khorne continues, “I am immortal …”
Just then Glog arcs down and slams the two blades into Khorne with perfectly aimed blows. The Life sword sparks with a fountain of green colored energy – causing a huge, black crater to appear in Khorne’s flesh where the sword entered. The Artefact gouges a crease in Khorne’s flesh across his massively muscled chest. The Artefact leaves a molten purple flow that appears to be sucking the sides of the wound into the flow.
“Ack! Noooooooooooo!” Khorne shrieks in anger and shock and staggers back while swatting at Glog. Glog is dislodged, but clings to the two swords with all the tenacity of the dwarven race he represents. Glog lands on his feet and begins to circle the now wary Khorne, who conjures a 45’ long blade of bronze wreathed in flames. Glog can feel the intensity of the flame from 30’ feet away. The wounds on Khorne continue to burn even without the swords in them. Glog sees Khorne pumping out a foul, black, viscous fluid onto the ground that pops and bubbles where it strikes the earth.
The lead figure of the caecilian group raises his right hand and thrusts it forcefully towards the melee’.
He says a single WORD that draws itself in the air as he manifests his will. “You shall all STOP!” he says. With that proclamation, a wave of energy washes out across the tableau as fast as thought, freezing all except for the five and Perra.
“I was ancient before the humans’ ancestors crawled from the seas – before Khorne and his brothers were even conceived. Before the Eldar plied the skies and the galaxy. Our people ruled supreme and found that there were universes beyond our own.
“Perra, your highness, your people hunger for your presence. There is so much that we have to share with you, and so much that we would like to hear of your adventures.”
Perra pauses meaningfully, deep in thought. At last she says, “I have three requests. I will come with you, but you need to allow me to return to my home in Zhalindor eventually. You must move my friends to safety.” She glances meaningfully at the now unmoving, towering Khorne.
“Finally,” Perra says, “I am very, very hungry.”
“So said, so done your highness.”
Perra and the five march into the portal that winks away in a flash of a riot of colors all coalescing into a tiny pin prick of white light at the center of the portal. The light reverses and flashes out across the Party and the enraged Khorne.
The Party dissolves with Ammon-Sul, and as time returns to the grassy field, the now solitary Khorne bellows in utter rage and frustration. Holding his chest, the being fades back into the ether, leaving ugly burns in the fertile sward.
For the Party, no time has passed, but this world’s sun lies close to the horizon now. Clearly something has happened.
Of Khorne and Perra, there is no sign save for the burn marks from blood and sword on the ground.
“Looks like Perra is away and safe,” Roland remarks.
“Aye,” Ashe agrees. “What were those creatures?” he asks Ammon-Sul.
Ammon-Sul sinks to his knees and mutters, “what have we done?” “Will Horus even notice that the power is depleted? He must not find out. He must not find out.”
Ammon-Sul emerges from his reverie when Glog firmly shakes him and notes, “we better get moving towards your vessel. It will be dark soon from what I see, and I don’t care to be stumbling around in the dark in a strange land. What’s done is done is done.”
As the Party moves the direction Ammon-Sul begins to shuffle, Thivinen takes up the rear and surreptitiously takes out a vial and scrapes some of the blood and charred plants into the container. Thivinen smiles slightly and says to no one in particular, “this is going to be more interesting than I thought.”
* * *
After approximately ten minutes the Party comes to a strange, metallic box with stubby wings mounted on the sides. Ammon-Sul touches the side of the box, and an entryway appears, or more accurately the wall of the box dissolves to reveal a ramp leading up into a brightly lit interior.
Bert remarks to Ashe +this box is full of sentient spirits. They are communicating to one another in a language I do not understand, but there are clearly status reports and commands being given.+
“Are you hungry?” Ammon-Sul asks.
Roland answers for the group, “yes, we could all use some food, water, and rest.”
Once Thivinen is on-board, Ammon-Sul touches the side of his neck, the wall reconstitutes, and the Party has the briefest sensation of rapid movement.
Ammon-Sul has an array of automatons prepare meals for the Party members and shows them bunk space. Thivinen remarks that it reminds him of the Wizard’s palace at the Academy in Zhalindor where he studied. Glog mentions that these automatons are similar to the ancient beings that served the first Mostali in running the World Machine.
Ammon-Sul says, “it is approximately three hours travel to the translation point. What can I do to clear things up for you before we begin our warp travel?”
* * *
Let the games begin!
In service,
Rich