That stunned silence shattered by Balthagar’s roar, a guttoral cry that ripped through the storm and reverberated through the bones of those still standing, his raw force a violent jolt to their senses. He stood defiant, his breath coming in heaving gasps but his stance unyielding. The avalanche had swallowed half his warband, but Balthagar remained, a towering figure among the survivors. He was a mountain of muscle clad in crude armour, by far the tallest among them. His dark eyes scanned the storm, searching for any sign of movement, of his brother, of the scorchborn, or the other warriors scattered amidst the chaos. His warhammer, caked with ice and blood, gleamed as he raised it high, roaring commands to those still able to move.
“Warriors, get up!” his voice boomed once more, “Get up, or die! Pull your brothers free — now!” They needed to rise before the cold became comfort.
Amidst the orks, something else stirred beneath the snow.
The ground trembled. The orks, still clawing their way free from the snow and ice, froze as they felt it — a deep, throbbing pulse that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of the earth. It crawled up their legs, sank into their bones, and filled their hearts with a feeling of dread that was more ancient than reason. The snow in front of them shifted, pushed and parted by something enormous that was ploughing its way through the frost-flooded trail towards them.
The monolith moved.
From where the avian beast had perched, a weathered, towering mass of stone jutted forward with violent, grinding shifts. The orks stared. Emerging from the frozen depths was something grotesque, its movements slow but deliberate. As it forced its path through the aftermath of the avalanche, the layered fragments of rock and frost cracked and heaved upward, contorting and ever growing.
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