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.