Small stones crunched underfoot as a figure enveloped in armor the color of brass with black accents and a red crested helm and five beastmen travelled north, towards some a destination unknown to all assembled. Flint had long ago stopped counting the number of days he’d been walking; the only sense of time that mattered to the dwarf now was the amount of time between battles. He hungered for conflict now as a beggar in the streets hungers for even the tiniest morsel to sustain himself until the next morsel.
The icon of Khorne took a deep breath as a breeze blew up from the south, and worked his tongue around as if tasting the air. There was…something different on the winds, and, for no discernible reason Flint turned southwards with his warband and waited. At first the dwarf was troubled by the way events unfolded as if planned; it felt like he had no say in his fate, that he was merely following a path laid out for him. Sure enough, after the passing of minutes, or possibly hours, not that it mattered which, two figures came into view.
“Split evenly. We will overwhelm them with our numbers and strength.” The beastmen brayed or nodded their acknowledgement of the order, but as the pair got close enough to distinguish features all semblance of order dissolved. The Dwarf’s minions launched an attack at the human with a ferocity Flint hadn’t yet seen. When the opposing Dwarf began casting spells, Flint Ironstag lost his composure as well. The sorcery filled Flint with a sense of indignity that could only be sated with an offering of blood and skulls. If something was said to Flint, he certainly couldn’t hear it over the thrum of blood in his head as he launched into a furious offensive. Magics arced outwards from the Servant of Slaanesh, but Flint’s second skin absorbed and redirected the attacks.
The Sorcerer and his minion were in dire straits as Flint and his pack pressed their advantage. Seconds more, and their lifeblood would be soaking into the ground at their feet as an offering to the most benevolent Khorne. Before Flint could make his offering, though, a flash of magic left Flint and the beastmen confused as to the whereabouts of their prey. Ironstag tilted his head back and let forth a bellowing warcry to announce his disappointment to whomever was close enough to hear it. His weapon was placed on the ground while his horde tended to their wounds and he sat down, waiting for the next challenge to approach from the South.