The beast tore through the first wave by force, his claws ripping through flesh and sending shattered bodies tumbling down the mountainside. The cries of the fallen were drowned out by the beast’s ferocious roars, its bulk smashing through shields and armour. But the orks adapted with exemplary speed. What started as the continuation of slaughter, shifted with every subsequent wave. By the fourth wave, their assaults had become methodical. Whenever one side retreated from the beast’s counterattacks, all other warriors surged forward with their spears. The fight was brutal but effective, each movement calculated to overwhelm and exhaust the creature. The beast, unable to land a decisive blow against the relentless ork tide, found himself flooded by rage — each strike born more of rage than precision.
As the voltera lurched and thrashed beneath him, the wizard atop the beast swayed precariously, his frail form bending and trembling with each violent movement. His grip faltered with every sharp jolt, fingers clutching desperately at the voltera’s fur to steady himself. His face was gaunt, a sheen of sickness and exhaustion coating his pallid skin. Still, his lips moved in a feverish whisper, murmuring incantations under his breath.
Rothar ebbed from his body and into a broad stone artefact strapped to his back. To the inexperienced eye, it seemed a cumbersome, oversised piece of armour, ill-suited for the wizard’s thin frame. The stone plates were bulky, covering his back in a strange, disjointed manner without offering protection to his vital organs. But to those with senses attuned to the ethereal, the flow of Rothar now revealed its magical properties, the way it siphoned energy and stored it within its intricately carved runes. Those who could see even further, beyond the wizard’s exterior, might also recognise that the many interconnected stone plates were a part of the wizard, fused directly into his skin as though they were an extension of his body.
Pages:
Pages:
Pages: