The air trembles as Mephiston exerts his formidable will, blood-red armour blazing against the dust and shadow. Vitarus hums with restrained violence, while the volatile power of the warp is wielded in his outstretched hand. Gone is the mask of cold restraint; here the Lord of Death reveals his wrath, a living weapon of the Emperor’s fury.
When lightning strikes, it heeds not the wind, nor does it skirt the rain; it descends from the heavens in an instant, searing the very air that dared impede its path. So too does Neave disregard all who stand between her and her target, delivering the wrath of Sigmar in a storm of sinew and steel. Those foolish enough to bar her warpath find their flesh strewn as a visceral reminder of her hunt, evidence that none can escape Blacktalon’s strike.
