Stolen Memories--Age of Sigmar Flash Fiction

 As the land beneath them stirred, so too did Xarlia’s memories. She recognised these ruins—she recalled them as a younger city, a stronghold of sandstone and granite. The Great Hall in particular struck her as distinctly familiar. Once surrounded by a series of watchtowers, it had been a hub of axebeak feasts and dances for Behemat. Now, its hallowed frescos and stained-glass walls were obscured by wild foliage and drapes of spider webbing. Ruinous cracks ran through the long, amber table which severed the room in two. A terrible dread fell over Xarlia, and she looked to Ralsk for an answer.

‘Alright. Let’s return to the others,’ the priest said decisively, and for the first time, it struck her how aged his voice sounded. As she had been reforged again and again with renewed fervour, her accompanying Dawnbringers had withered with time and conflict. She could just about remember Ralsk as an impetuous youth, a smug bannerman marching by her through glass deserts and ichor-laced jungles. The lines across his face were beginning to serve as one of few reminders of their time together.

How long until those memories became lost to her? She shook the thought away. The company would be waiting for them outside. Remember your family. Remember who you are.

But as she turned, she stumbled back in surprise. The roof was giving way, and from the spiderwebs, a jagged shadow descended, and eight, cantankerous limbs extended from its form. Xarlia straightened herself and readied her Stormspear. Ralsk retreated behind her. The Stormcast Eternals were the shield of civilisation, even when that civilisation had become ruin. She would defend it to her last breath.

She studied the shadow as it skittered forward, quicker than she expected, before finally, it leapt and fell upon her. Eight baleful eyes filled her vision, black opals gleaming in the moonlight. Skitterstrand Arachnarok, she realised. Xarlia parried its taloned limbs as it lunged at her, spindly legs hammering into the ground, launching dust into the air, and opening new seams in the marble floor.

The Arachnarok closed in and gave a wretched screech. It was a terrible, rasping sound, and though Xarlia was met only with cold spittle, Ralsk collapsed to the ground, shielding his ears. The sight of her friend in such a state drove her onward. She parried again the beast’s next blows, before lunging with her Stormspear, piercing its chitinous hide. It reeled in agony as pink mist filled the air, and its screech tightened into a pained scream.

Outside the hall, she could make out cries for help and the steady echo of Handgunners firing. It seemed that across the city, her company were too under siege. A muffled call of defiance sounded: ‘For Thondia! For Sigmar!’ Hearing her God-King’s name was enough to fill Xarlia with resolve. As the Arachnarok retreated, nursing its wounds, she closed the gap between them, the ancient murals haloing her crown.

 

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