Izobella watched the putrid smoke from the most recent fracas drift solemnly to the sky like a coiling serpent, catch a wind, and disperse into gray, tattered wisps.
Like Tzeentch, she told herself, like Tzeentch. It is no-thing, yet an all-thing, a whirling pandemonium of form encroaching upon emptiness, a storm eternal, a full harvest without having planted the first seed.
“Here she comes,” grunted the Chosen, his mind torn between the sounds of pillaging that yet welled from beyond the valley, and a glimpse of the dark elf casually treading their way with wary step. He could tell from the woman’s face that she was only in a lightly sour mood, for its embittered alter-ego, anger, was now a thing of the past.
“You are right, magus,” Raavana said, staring into Izobella’s glazed yellow eyes. She dropped a collection of severed heads to the magus’ feet, presenting due…
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