One moment Izobella was staring at her memories as they danced above the dust of the Chaos Wastes, shimmering with the perpetual winds, and the next she was following a crowd, her disc skipping quickly after. It was easy to understand the Chaos teachings in crowds. Every bristling weapon, every hand was an extension of the will of Tzeentch. Yes, she raged on in her head, the encroaching tentacles of the Raven god implicitly symbolized that every being in this crowd, and every being who yet drew breath, lived in Tzeentch. The average being, at every moment, was nothing but an instrument of the Raven god himself: Some knew the truth, and others were ignorant of it. Izobella smiled at her conceit, her eyes wild with understanding. Sweet was it to dance in the secrets of the Great Conspirator.
“Move,” a dark elf said, shoving Izobella aside. “Arms before chaos…
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