Act 1: An Angel Comes to Vasaria

               

                Renn Nivierna struck a match before his ailing eyes and watched the tiny flame ignite. The small, orange orb was enough to light the confines of his face, the wrinkles atop his brow. He was tempted to bask in it forever, breathe in its glow, but he had a duty. He forced himself to where the brazier must’ve been (he could not know for sure—his world was composed only of the dark) and placed the match inside.

                Flame caught straw and firewood, slowly flickering until the original ember had multiplied. A minute later, and the entire, dank alley was illuminated in a pale, amber glow.

                He looked up above, tracing the moons and stars through the spires that crowded much of Renn’s world; he followed those stars back to the tiny, yellow dots that made up the windows of the tallest towers, and then further down, past stacked slums, churches, dried-up canals and arches until he found himself again in the grimy, stone street, his bruised feet trampling those holy books; in his head, he cursed the heavens, cursed so-called Sigmar for never lifting him from this hell. But in the streets, he knew to keep that voice inside his head.

                From his muddied coat, he produced a wet paper bag and unloaded its contents into a pan above the fire, watching as the meat began to blacken. He couldn’t take long; this wasn’t exactly a public spot, and this wasn’t technically his own food—he’d been gifted it by a witch. A kindly witch, but a witch no doubt—Olivia had served his family for many years with her tricks and spells, but the high lords didn’t see it that way. He couldn’t be seen with such dangerous, un-practiced sorcery.

                Once satisfied the food was cooked, he speared it from the pan, placed it back into his bag and hurried home, beneath crumbling pillars and muddy sumps. By the time he arrived, the food was almost cold, but it was cooked, and that was all that mattered as he passed it to his granddaughter, Poppy, as she beamed as he watched her swallow it down. He studied her further, tracing the scars up and down her face, the emptiness in her belly. He assumed it would be days before she had proper food again.

                With that thought, rain began to spit against the wooden, shanty ceiling. And then it hammered. A cool wind blew through the chambers, and the candlelight faded before disappearing entirely.

                He assumed it could be another day before they saw light again.

                His assumption was wrong. That night, there was a storm; as Renn held the girl, desperately trying to string together a lullaby to soothe her to sleep, lightning began flashing across Vasaria. Even with the tortured branches of towers blocking out much of the sky, for brief moments, there was illumination in their hovel. As the night wore on, the rain grew in intensity, and the flashes of lightning more frequent. Neither of them had slept. So, defeated, they stood and watched the storm from the remains of their windows.

                They noticed, not long before sunrise, that a small gathering had begun to assemble in the streets. There were no more than a dozen, but they were undeniably citizens outside out of curfew.

                As the minutes drew on and the pair watched them, they began recognising them as worshippers, clanging bells, holding holy books aloft and flagellating themselves with relics, small statues and pottery. A parent from another city might’ve forced Poppy’s gaze elsewhere. But this, unfortunately, was not another city.

                They watched as worshippers faces were lit dimly by a golden glow. Not a fire, but something purer, like a miniature star had fallen into the depths of Vasaria.

                Renn felt a fervour overcome him. He dressed Poppy and encouraged her out into the streets. To hell with curfew.

                Once he stepped out his door, though, spears of golden light struck at his eyes. Renn instinctively went to shield Poppy’s face, but he could tell neither of them were inclined to turn their gazes away.

                Lighting up the street, there stood an angel. There was no better way to put it. It was armoured in dirtied gold, but beneath it all, there was an undeniable shimmer glowing through. Tassels and seals shivered in the wind from its flanks, symbols of Sigmar adorning them. They had a sword, as long as a man was tall, but it was sheathed, and their hand was stretched out towards the crowd in some kind of symbol of friendship.

                The commoners were falling to their knees. Renn felt his tremble too, but from the corner of his eye, there was Poppy reaching out the angel.

                ‘No…!’ he tried to call. But his plea trailed off, as the angel knelt to meet his granddaughter’s eyes.

                ‘Little girl,’ a voice appeared from its helm, both feminine and masculine, but neither too. It gripped her hand, not hard, but warmly. Renn didn’t feel afraid; instead, a tingle went up his spine and to his scalp. ‘Sigmar has sent me to save your city.’ It looked longingly to the towers above. ‘Will you let me?’

                There was a pause as Poppy looked around, bathed in his golden light. And then back to Renn, all kinds of longing. But at last, she turned back to Sigmar’s child, gripped his hand tight, and nodded.

               

Haloed in golden light, the Stormcast Eternal travels to liberate Vasaria. On this blog, I will be documenting, in prose and general write-up, the conflicts in the city and the continuing storyline as the army is built.

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