Stormfall (Worm/Warhammer: Age of Sigmar)

[Tontis]

Expedition 1.1​

Steel sang in the Garden of the Moon. In the grand palace-city of Sigmaron, the garden was a quiet place of contemplation, mediation, and a haven of solitude for most. To the guardians of the free people of the Mortal Realms, it was an excellent ground to practice their dueling skills.

Scattered through fields of pale grass, the armored warriors of the God-King Sigmar sparred in near-lethal duels beneath silvered trees that glimmered with starlight. The sound of blessed sigmarite arms crashing against one another was a near constant in all but the latest hours of the day in the Garden of the Moon. To the Stormcast Eternals, this was its own form of meditation. Battle where the only consequence was a bruised ego or shattered bone was an excellent place to perfect a personal form or develop new strategic or tactical lines of thought

For Vanquisher Andraste, the gardens were one of the few places she felt at home. Sigmaron was a strange and alien place to the fresh-forged Stormcast; majestic and beautiful yet primitive and backwards at the same time. It was a beautiful picture, a marvel for certain, one she didn't feel like she belonged to. These feelings of the unfamiliar and alien ate at her soul, even if she held no memories of home with which to compare. Her forging had been far from a kind one, leaving many gaping holes in her memory, filled now with only a swirling fog. In quieter moments, it felt as if this fog threatened to consume her in body and soul until all that remained was an autonomous husk bound by duty and order.

But here, in the Gardens of the Moon, she could put all that aside and focus her mind on a singular task. To fell her foe before her as quickly and efficiently as possible.

A task easier said than done though.

Andraste circled her opponent, armored boots flying silent over shimmering grass. Callus Bladefall, a renowned Vanquisher and swordsman of the Hallowed Knights Stormhost, matched her steps. The silver and gold of his armor's livery seemed to practically glow under the silvered light of the garden, a far cry to her uncolored warplate. Unlike Andraste, he had forgone his helm for this spar, and his face betrayed no emotion but a cool confidence.

His celestial greatsword was held in both hands at his side while the point rested near the ground. A calm stance that would easily let him attack fast and strong. Andraste matched it by holding her greatsword in both hands before her, the point facing his chest. A beginners stance, but reliable and not easily countered, or so she had thought.

They had been circling each other for what felt like an eternity now. While some of her brothers and sisters preferred quick and brutal combat, Vanquishers like herself and Callus preferred quick and brutal ends. A celestial greatsword was a powerful tool, but unlike the brutal power of a lightning hammer or elegant simplicity of a Realmhunter's bow, they required finesse and skill to see their full potential. A careless vanquisher would quickly find themselves tired and useless in short order.

But as it would turn out, to maintain her blade so far in front of her for long enough had its own flaws. While Andraste's physique stood well and true above any mortals now, to maintain a position like that for any real length of time without adjusting inevitably caused strain that made her arms and grip begin to twitch and adjust. She could change her stance to something that would require less strain, but to do so would create an opening for Callus. So she stubbornly clung to it, despite the possible disadvantages.

Instead, Andraste slowly ceded ground, taking one slow step back at a time until her back was against the tree. Let Callus think he had outmaneuvered her, tricked her into backing herself into a corner. Like she hoped, he adjusted his grip, pushing his blade farther behind him; gripping the handle tightly with one hand while the other rested loosely on the pommel.

Then, he lunged forward and swung his blade for her neck. Andraste pushed off the tree, swinging his sword against his. There was a shatter of sparks and the screaming of sigmarite as the two passed, blades bouncing off one another. Andraste whirled, twisting her blade in an overhand swing that Callus caught on his hilt. Her blade slid against the crossguard of his until the point slid into the empty air between his head and pauldron.

Callus surged forward, and slammed his bulk into Andraste hard enough to knock her off balance. Their blades broke apart, and Callus pulled it back before thrusting the tip of his sword into Andraste's stomach. She fell to the ground, arms splayed seeing the sky of Azyr framed by the trees of the garden.

Then, she saw Callus's blade at her throat. A warm smile rested on his face, "I claim victory, Andraste. Again." Despite the gloating, there was no real malice in his tone, only a faint amusement in his voice.

He lowered his sword and offered her his hand instead. Andraste took it and let him haul her back to her feet. "It's only proper. What would the rest of your host think if you'd lost to a Stormcast only two years off her first forging?"

Callus clapped her shoulder, "They would say you were a prodigy beyond your years, blessed by Sigmar himself and a terror against his enemies. And they'd be right."

He paused and added, "Almost right."

Andraste gathered her greatsword off the ground and cradled it in the crook of her arm before turning back to Callus, "You did not need to add that last part; but you did anyway. I suppose Sigmars name for you was apt."

Callus stared at the heavens and sighed, "I speak only truths, Andraste. You are a prodigy; where most may take years to reach your level, you can match blades with those fifty times your senior. But there is a flaw in how you fight, and it is that flaw that has kept you off the field of battle. More than even the rest of your kin."

As he spoke, Andraste removed her helm, feeling the cool wind on her sweat stained face. She grit her teeth at Callus in an approximation of a smile, "Oh? Pray tell then, what is my fatal flaw? I grow tired of being marooned on Sigmaron."

Callus tapped the edge of his blade with an armored finger, and it hummed pure and true. "You lack a killing instinct. I have watched your technique, and though you have had opportunities to take a blow that would end your enemy, you pull at the last second. It is this hesitation that could make the difference between victory, or a return to the Anvil for a reforging."

Andraste frowned and held her sword in front of her, admiring its finely honed edge. "Were I not careful, I could have easily sent you to the Anvil, Callus."

Callus waved a hand, "Here in the Garden, that is an impossibility. Sigmar long since had them enchanted to prevent us Stormcast from accidentally killing each other, when bans did not work. No, your flaw, Andraste, is that you are too empathetic. You are a warrior forged by Sigmar, and there is a great fury within you. But it is bound by a deep love and sorrow that prevents you from using it to your advantage. It is a great thing to have, but when at war you must be able to harden your heart for what must be done."

Her reflection stared back at her bitterly from the blade, the faint celestial energy within making her eyes flicker. She closed them and buried the tip of the blade in the ground. "You make it sound so easy."

Callus wrapped an arm around her shoulders, "I wish it were so. It is a skill we all have had to learn. You will in time of course. Just remember, to harden your heart does not mean to abandon your humanity."

"So I am to set it aside, except when I shouldn't?"

"The paradox of our existence." Callus sighed. When he saw the unsure expression on his face, he shook her, "Take heart, sister. Sigmar chooses us as much for our humanity as he does our prowess as warriors. It is what makes us Stormcast. Never forget that, and in time you shall descend to the Mortal Realms with the rest of us and bring your fury to those deserving of it."

Andraste managed a smile, "Thank you for your wisdom, Callus. It is a beacon in these uncertain times I find myself in."

She wrapped her hand around the hilt of her blade and raised a brow at him, "Perhaps you have time for one more bout?"

That made the Vanquisher-Prime laugh, "I always have time for another opportunity to best you sister."

His eyes flicked to the side and his face grew more serious, "But I fear that I no longer have the time."

Andraste followed his gaze and saw another Hallowed Knight approaching them, another Vanquisher. Callus gathered his plumed helm off the ground and swung his greatsword around to rest it on his shoulder.

"Remember my words sister." He grunted, "Sigmar willing, when next we meet, it shall be together on the field of battle against the Ruinous Powers."

Andraste brought her fist to her chest in a salute, "Sigmar guide your blade, Vanquisher-Prime."

Callus returned the gesture, then marched to his fellow knight. The two clasped forearms, and then left the garden, leaving Andraste to herself. Steel still sang through the forested fields, and the starry night of Azyr flashed on the sigmarite plate of the many stormcast still embroiled in their own duels. For a brief moment Andraste considered staying and watching, but dismissed the idea. There had been plenty of sparring today, and while Callus was willing to spar with any, not all Stormcast were as open-minded about her Host. She gathered her own equipment and set off from the garden, leaving it and her sour thoughts behind.

The city of Sigmaron shone in its splendor as she left the garden behind. Its many towers and domes of ivory and gold clustered the slopes of Mount Celestian like clouds of stone. Walkways and ramparts spilled from the center of the city across storm-worn crags to neighboring peaks to form a ring of sigmarite and steel. Even from the higher levels of the city, Andraste could see the fires of industry and magic ceaselessly at work.

Overhead, eternal storms vented their fury into the greatest of the city's aetherdomes. The strange magical devices were beyond Andraste's understanding, but she knew that they harnessed the power of the storms for the sake of the city. That immense power was poured into its many industries and amenities while siphoning the stormwater for the farms and gardens that fed the populace. Deeper within the cities depths, the clamor of grand forges at work was near constant, a rumbling, ceaseless clamor like the beating of a heart.

Great masses of humanity bustled about the grand walkways, the blood that kept the city alive. At the busiest times of day, miles of mortal kin could be seen stretching between clusters of the city and could take hours to traverse. But, one perk of being a stormcast was that the crowds partedfor Andraste as she walked. Most in Sigmaron were servants of Sigmar himself or the many Stormhosts and showed greater deference to the stormcast. A privileged few even worked within the inner chambers where Sigmar held his court, an honor even Andraste had not earned.

Beyond servants, representatives flowed into the city from the many great cities of Azyr, coming for Sigmar's blessing and council in their ventures.. Then there were the ambassadors from beyond Azyr; from across the Mortal Realms, came heroes and leaders of races to secure diplomatic ties with Sigmars free cities. Thin and graceful aelves tread alongside the gold-scarred fyreslayers who in turn marched under the shadows of lumbering ogors or even the occasional gargant or sylvaneth.

Andraste had to sidestep a towering tree lord thrice her height, whose face was carved into an expression of pure disgust; it clearly wished to be anywhere else but in Sigmaron. A sentiment that Andraste sometimes felt herself.

The thought almost seemed… not sacrilegious, but petty to Andraste. Sigmaron was a beautiful and wonderful place, a city forged by a literal god and filled with wonders beyond counting. It was for this very reason that it felt so alien to her, it was too grand too beautiful. A living portrait that was astounding to observe, but baffling to comprehend. A city was as much ugly as it was beautiful in her mind, and Sigmaron stood at odds with that mental image she held.

Andraste put her helm back on and frowned deeply. It was best not to let the common people see a Stormcast prowling the street with murder on her face. That was at least how her brothers and sisters described her face when such sour thoughts danced through her mind.

She found her way to one of the city's many cable-cars, powered by great kharadron endrines to carry many people over great distances that would be impractical to walk. This one was one of many bound to the great Warrior Temple on a neighboring peak. Many such temples were scattered about Azyr, places of training and respite for the Stormcast. It was here that Stormcasts were molded to fit the roles Sigmar had chosen for them. While some were more specialized for the many lords and knights of the countless stormhosts, the Warrior Temple existed for the sole purpose of training the bulk of their forces. Liberators, Vindictors and of course, Vanquishers.

More than a few Stormcasts of other hosts joined her in the car, along with many mortal servants. The doors trundled shut and the cart jerked forward as it began its descent. Andraste stared out the openings, watching the vista as it passed. She made a point to ignore the curious stares of the mortal servants, and the judging eyes of her kin.

Judging might have been too harsh a word, in truth. Most Stormcast wore livery as varied and colored as the realms themselves. But Andraste and her host were different. The Storm Envoys bore no livery, no heraldry of their own. Their sigmarite warplate gleamed like unpainted armor and their tabards were simple and lacking in decoration. They were untested, unproven in the eyes of their brothers, for Sigmar had yet to loose them for their true purpose. Thus, their kin always bore some curiosity and suspicion towards them.

An ache grabbed Andraste's heart and she shook her head. On more than one occasion, the thought of Sigmar finally releasing the Storm Envoys to their true purpose had dominated her musings above all other things. And when Andraste's mind wandered, she had a habit of simply halting in place until it had found a destination. So she sealed away her frustration and turned her gaze to the Temple instead.

It was not built onto the mountain, but was in fact the mountain itself. A keep large enough to hold the tens if not hundreds of thousands of Sigmars chosen that came to and fro to keep their skills sharp and recover from the rigors of war. The light of thousands of torches glimmered upon its edifice, accompanied by pillars carved into statues of stormcast heroes or monuments to Sigmar, Grungni, and the Six Smiths. The many walkways of Sigmaron connected to the Warrior Temple as well, and even from her vantage she could see the constant stream of mortals that maintained the warrior temple.

Atop the mountain stood a truly massive domed structure, the Gladitorium. A gift to Sigmar from the shadow god Malerion in the Age of Myth, the structure of ebony was a miracle of magic that allowed anyone inside to fight to the bloody death without any true harm occurring to any. Its sheer size meant that entire wars and battles had been waged within its walls. Andraste herself had taken part in more than her fair share of shadow campaigns as part of her training; she did not envy her brothers who's barracks and quarters were directly beneath the Gladitorium.

The cable-car jerked to a halt and the doors were hauled open by a pair of waiting servants. Those inside spilled out, Andraste included, and made their way deeper into the temple. The inner halls were high enough that a troggoth could have lumbered through them unimpeded, and just as wide. For the uninitiated they were a maze of winding corridors, stairs and lifts that were easy to get lost in. Andraste had long since memorized the most important routes however, and made her way to the upper peaks of the temple.

A perk of her status as a Vanquisher was that, unlike her cousins in the Liberator or Vindictor retinues, Andraste was granted a private room. Her cousins had to share a barracks, but Vanquishers were afforded this rare luxury due to the nature of their weapon and role.

Andraste's eye went to her blade's ricasso, the guard built into the blade itself so she could safely grip it in battle without fear of cutting herself. The golden sigmarite was delicately molded into a replica of the twelve pointed star Sigendil. Within the engraving was a single shard of celestium, the realmstone of Azyr that was the pure concentrated essence of the wind of magic. With that single shard, all Vanquishers could feel the future and at times see what was to come in the heat of battle and counter their opponents appropriately. But it required constant training and meditation to maintain, which in turn was why Vanquishers were granted private quarters, even when on the march. It was, after all, quite difficult to meditate in the general chaos of a crowded barracks.

The halls of the Warrior Temple changed as Andraste climbed its levels. The higher one climbed, the more ornate the temple grew. Censers of incense became common, torches replaced with aether-lights, and walls decorated with frescoes depicting the rise, rule, and ruin of Sigmars Pantheon in the Age of Myth. In turn these were followed by depictions of Sigmar and the duardin god Grungni creating the first Stormcast, and returning to the Mortal Realms, ending the Age of Chaos that had followed the end of that first golden age. There were of course many more depictions of battles and defeats that decorated the halls, but these were the most popular among artisans and were a firm reminder of where the Stormcasts had come from and what they one day hoped to achieve again.

Monsters, daemons, and gods, such a strange thing, Andraste thought idly. These were all things of story and myth to her, or felt like they should be. Yet here she strode, a demigoddess herself among the city of a god, trained to fight all those that would bring ruin to mortal kind. As uncertain as she felt at times about Sigmaron and her role in the cosmos, that last purpose was one that set a fire in her chest. If only she could be unleashed to fulfill that purpose.

Her chamber door was open when she arrived. Andraste arched her brow and slowed her approach. She paused at the doorway, peered inside, and smiled.

"Adelheid, I was not expecting a cleaning today." Andraste said.

Her chamber serf was a young woman with dark, wavy hair and sharp eyes that glimmered with starlight like most natives of Azyr. Her rounded face broke into a smile as she straightened up from her work.

"Lady Andraste!" she chirped, "No one was certain when you would return, and when I heard you were meeting with Lord Callus for sparring again, I thought you would appreciate it if your chambers were tidied up for your return."

Andraste glanced around her sparse quarters as Adelheid talked. There was little in the way of decoration on the marble walls. A simple shrine to Sigmar in one corner, a simple if large cot, a space to eat, and a rack for her arms and armor. Adelheid had cleaned it all and laid out fresh robes on the cot, and a small pile of tomes on the table.

After removing her helmet, Andraste smiled at the serf, "You are too kind to me, Adelheid. Thank you."

"Anything for Sigmars chosen!" she bowed sharply at the waist then looked up with nervous excitement, "Is there anything else you need, my lady?"

Andraste shook her head as she stepped inside, "No, you've done enough for me today, Adelheid."

The Stormcast reached into the pouch at her belt and produced a sphere of aqua ghyranis that shimmered in the glassy orb that contained it. Andraste set it on the table in front of Adelheid. "You're free for the rest of the day. Take this and enjoy yourself; my treat."

The serfs' eyes sparkled as she picked up the sphere with reverent care. Stormcasts had their needs and wants tended to without cost as a necessity of their purpose. Thus they weren't actually paid for their service. Andraste had earned this sphere as part of a (not technically legal) bet with a fellow stormcast in her last shadow game. Adelheid would see far more use from the sphere than Andraste would.

"My lady, you are too kind, my thanks!"

Andraste smiled, "Go, go! Life is too short to waste it on thanking me."

"Of course! Thank you!" Adelheid chirped and ran out of the chambers, humming a hymn as she practically skipped down the hall.

Watching her leave stirred a feeling of nostalgia in Andraste. The vaguest collection of a memory from her mortal life struggled and failed to take shape in her mind, dissolving before her like sand through a sieve. Nostalgia threatened to give way to frustration before she forced herself into her chambers and shut the door behind her. The constant surge of half-forgotten memories and feelings was one Andraste had grown used to, and she had developed her own ways of controlling them. But that made it no less painful to feel them at the edge of her mind's eye, always just out of reach.

The best way to deal with it she had found was to focus not on the past, but the future instead. Andraste set her greatsword in its rack with careful reverence and then removed her warplate so she was standing in her padded garments. Later she would head to the baths then return to dress in the robes Adelheid had laid out for her. A night of studying the many myths and legends of the Mortal Realms would be an excellent way to end the day. But first…

Andraste set a bowl of incense on the stand beneath her sword and lit it with a match. While the warm aroma filled her quarters, she rolled out a wool mat and kneeled before the blade. Then, she shut her eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and began her meditation.

There were many tomes and anecdotes from the Vanquishers of many stormhosts that discussed the best ways of attuning with the celestium bound within their greatswords. Some recommended intense training beyond the limits of even a Stormcasts physiology. Others the slow repetitive practice of the many forms of swordsmanship until they had become instinctual. The more fringe and near-heretical schools of thought did away with subtlety all together and suggested the imbibing of celestium itself. More moderate variations on this saw Vanquisher-Primes adding Celestium to their warplate, but it was generally a fringe belief.

Callus had suggested meditation to Andraste, and she found it the most effective method. While she enjoyed the act of sparring and combat, focused meditation had always felt more effective. It kept her focused and off the void of thought that had been her mortal life. The downside to this method was that it was a slow and not always fruitful process. It could take hours for her to achieve a mental state that let her bind to the celestium shard, if she managed to bind to it at all

She kept her breathing steady, and settled it for however long it would take. In her mind's eye she separated from her perceived self, visualizing her physical form kneeling in meditation. Dissociating and evaluating what had come and what would be. She 'watched' Andraste's day as it had passed, her morning patrol, her lunch with her fellow Envoys, and her sparring with Callus.

The image of Andraste flickered, frustration tinged her mind. It was the same routine, day after day, week after week, month after month. For two years she had done with little variations. And for all her work, all her training and dutifulness, she had nothing to show for it. Her brothers and sisters in the Storm Envoys at least saw deployment across the Realms with other hosts, providing support where it was needed. Even if Sigmar would not deploy them as a whole, at least he did not let their talents waste.

But Andraste, she was bound to Azyr, told she was not ready. Despite her training, despite her purported skill, she was kept confined to Sigmaron. Left adrift with no past to reminisce on and no future to reach towards.

What was the point?!

Anger clouded her mind, her heart beat in a staccato rhythm, and fingers dug into the flesh of her palms. Andraste hissed out a breath through clenched teeth and tried to wrangle her frustrations. To bind them and tie them before they could spiral out of control and she did something stupid and impulsive to relieve them.

But still a small part of her asked again and again. What was the point, what was she made for, why had Sigmar forged her?

Andraste didn't expect a real answer. She had asked it many times before after all, and had received nothing but the vaguest platitudes from her superiors and kin.

At that moment, however, that changed.

Thunder rumbled and her eyes snapped open. The walls of her chamber melted away as a storm surge rolled over her. A vision of carnage unfolded before her. A city of glass and steel towers, ravaged by a storm beyond Sigmar's control but equal to his fury, rose around her. Rain battered its carcass, washing the blood of battle in its wake. The bodies of mortals littered wide and blackened streets, many dressed for war but not all.

Lightning split the sky, and thunder bellowed its fury. A tower tumbled to the earth bellow, dragging many of its fellows with it. Andraste could only watch, unable to move even as the vision shifted. Through the cloud of smoke and debris, she saw a Stormcast go skidding across the street. They used their greatsword to anchor themselves, barely keeping themselves from crashing to the ground. She recognized the lack of livery, a member of the Storm Envoys like her, though their warplate was scarred and scorched by battle, the helm cracked.

Arcs of lighting danced along their armors edge, and the stormcast pulled their blade from the street. They held it at their side, and murder gleamed in their eyes. From the ruins of the tower, their opponent emerged.

An angular monster of claw and scale stalked forward, easily moving between two and four limbs with practiced ease. Three eyes along one side of its face glowed with emerald malice, and its whipcord tail cut ribbons through the rainfall. It towered over the Stormcast, easily five times their size, and cocked its head to the side.

The Stormcast glanced at the fallen in the street, at the storm overhead, and then back at the monster before them. The leather of their gauntlets creaked, the sword shook in their hands. And then they screamed their defiance, and charged the monster.

Andraste's eyes snapped open and she fell on her hands and knees, panting. Sweat dripped from her forehead and ran down her back, and tremors wracked her body. She swallowed a shaky breath and looked around to see herself back in her chambers. The incense had long since burned out and the sunlight from the chamber's sole window had been replaced with moonlight.

The only other light in the chamber was coming from the shard of celestium embedded in her greatsword. Andraste rocked back into a sitting position on the cold floor of her chamber and stared at it. Her prayers had been answered, now she had purpose.

But with purpose came questions.

What did I just witness?

A/N: I will be posting new chapters on a weekly basis until I burn through my stockpile. Please leave comments and criticisms below and I'll see you again next week.

 

[Daddycool101]

So, Annette is Andraste?