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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