The winds in the ruined city carried an aroma of ash and burnt flesh. Gathered by a bombed out plaza was a platoon of Grey Knights, the Imperium's finest Daemon Hunters, every incorruptible warrior anathema to the denizens of the warp. A Razorback rumbled alongside the towering strides of a Nemesis Dreadknight through the war-torn streets.
The Razorback pulled to a halt. The Grey Knight Grandmaster in the Dreadknight pulled ahead, and turned around. Something was amiss. The howling winds carried a stench of rot now. Child-like chitterings whispered from the shadows of the ruins. A bell toiled in the misty horizon.
The Grey Knight Grandmaster twisted his torso, cycling through the weapons systems in a routine check. The Razorback driver did the same, relaying scan results to higher command in orbit.
"We're clear," came the reply.
Suddenly, the ground around the Razorback and the Dreadknight erupted in torrents of gravel and dirt. Diminuitive figures poured forth from every nook and cranny around the Grey Knights, flooding the streets with their crazed squeaks.
"Contact! Nurglings!"
The Razorback swung its weapons around, but before it could open fire, a blob of pestilent smoke dropped from the skies and blinded all sensor systems on the vehicle. There was a moment of utter confusion as the nurglings swarmed the vehicle, their tiny claws ping and scratching at the thick armour, doing nothing more than cosmetic damage.
The Dreadknight took a step back and readied its weapons, but stopped when its sensors picked up a far greater threat. The Grey Knight Grandmaster turned torwards the horizon, and felt a chill run down his spine. There, creeping out from the mists, were a sea of Plaguebearers: dour daemons of the pestilent god, marching slowly but surely towards the warriors. A humanoid with the body of a bloat fly led the march, and he recognised the foul being: a Daemon Prince by the name Ichorius the Despoiler. Behind the lines walked a tall plaguebearer with a scroll, its elongated snout ending in a large, trumpet like mouth that barked commands in a guttural, hoarsh language incomprehensible to humans.
The Grandmaster drew the powers of the warp and called upon a spell: the Gates of Infinity. With that, the Razorback disappeared, and reappeared by the flanks of the advancing Nurgle horde. Without hesistation, the iron discipline kicked in, and the Razorback's formidable array of weapons poured forth a torrent of deadly firepower into the plaguebearer hordes. Chaos ensued in the ranks of the daemons as the harbringers of pestilence were obliterated by the dozens.
In reaction to the devastation, Ichorius roared. A bell toiled in the far distance, and the plaguebearer lines surged forth. The first plaguebearer reached the Razorback in no time, silencing its weapons as its bretheren swarmed the vehicle. The Dreadknight's weapons roared in support of the encircled Razorback, but did little to stem the tide of green.
If these were mortal guards of the Imperium, they would have been routed that very day. But they were Grey Knights, and they were far from helpless against the endless hordes of daemons. They were trained for this exact scenario: mowing down the foul denizens of the warp in the name of the Emperor.
The Grandmaster chanted a spell, its incantation barely audible admist the roar of its cannons. The Razorback disappeared once again, and reappeared beside the knight, freeing up its weapons once again. Then, far on the left flanks of the daemons came the venerable Grey Knight terminators, teleported to the battlefield to support their besieged brethren.
Now the daemons were in trouble: they had to split their forces or risk a total rout on their left flank. They had the Grey Knights heavily outnumbered, but the silvered zealots' firepower more than made up for their lack of numbers. Fortunately for the children of Nurgle, Ichorius was as capable a tactician as it was a despoiler of realspace. With a sharp bark in the forgotten language of daemons, it commanded the Scrievner to lead a contingent of plaguebearers to deal with the terminators, while the rest of the army crashed into the Razorback and the Dreadknight.
The terminators opened up with their stormbolters, sending a volley of explosive rounds into the plaguebearer host charging their way. A few were torn apart but the rest closed the final few feet before the terminators could let loose a second volley. Driven by the Scrievner, they swarmed the holy warriors, forcing them to fight with their backs to each other. Eviscerated bodies formed a circle around the terminators before dissipating back into the warp, but the plaguebearers were relentless. One terminator was cut down by a sword dripping with foul ichor, his armour sizzling and warping from the unnatural rot upon the rusty blade. Another fell to the gaping maw of the Scrievner. The terminators soon were annihilated entirely, but not before dealing terrible losses to their quarry. With but a handful of survivors, the Scrievner grunted and wrote down the tally of the battle, before turning around to rejoin the other flank.
Meanwhile, the Dreadknight found itself face to face with Ichorius. The Daemon Prince swooped down upon the walker, and ripped it apart in a few blows. The Grandmaster barely had time to retaliate before his body was torn asunder, cast into the ruins like a ragdoll.
The loss of the Grandmaster shook the Grey Knights, though they kept fighting. No help would come for them. The high command had pulled out from orbit as Mortarion's ships arrived in the sector. They knew they were left behind, but they would not go out without a fight.
They would make the daemons pay.
The winds blew through the ruins, carrying a thick stench of blood, gore and rot. The plaguebearer host were all but decimated, though Ichorious remained unwounded. It growled in annoyance as it contemplated returning to the spawning pits to reinforce its host. The grandfather's plans were foiled, even though they managed to kill the Grey Knights to the very last man. The day had been won, but Papa Nurgle would not be pleased to know just how much they had lost in a single battle...
Battle 2.1 = against the Alatoic - WIN
"Pit 6 is under siege," came the telepathic report, a raspy crackle of plague-infested gurgle in the daemonic tongue blared in the chambers of Ichorius. "Pit 6 is-"
"Silence!" Ichorius roared, his wings trembling in wrath. He stood up upon his four spindly legs, each ending in toxic encrusted serrated blades that clanked on the marbled floor. He flexed his arms and the muscles on his limbs and humanoid torso rippled with potent malice, while acidic ichor dripped from the many pores and festering wounds on his bloated insectoid bottom that ended with a wicked poison-coated stinger.
With a powerful beat of his four wings, he rose into the air, the beating of the wings splattering the chamber with droplets of plague-infused liquids. "Summon the host, we shall march to meet these foolish Aeldari."
And march they did, two full hosts of plaguebearers led the way ushered by a scrivener's ear-splitting barks. Amongst the crowd was Esimondus, the Poxbringer lieutenant of Ichorius that carried with it a censor that bled blue smoke, driving the plaguebearers into a frenzy of bloodthirst that would have made Khornate worshippers envious.
There, in the ruins surrounding the pit of filth that Papa Nurgle had constructed, were patrols of Alaitoc guardians, their weapons trained upon the marching host, waiting for them to come into range. Ichorius smiled, it knew that the Aeldari were at their worst when tasked to hold ground.
"Show the progenitors of Slaneesh their folly, my children. Show them the gifts of Papa Nurgle that they have been denied all this while! Bathe them in the wonders of our great father's love!" roared Ichorius, sending both hosts of plaguebearers crashing down the lines.
The Aeldari were few, but they had the advantage of aeons of martial training. Despite being mere citizens and mostly hailed from non-martial backgrounds, their aim and firing discipline were nevertheless impressive: the first volley cut down nearly a quarter of the advancing plaguebearers, and the next volley wiped another quarter out.
A fire prism aided in the bombardment, its weapons obliterating plagueberares by the dozens every time it fired. In the chaos of battle a wave serpent soared across the skies, flying with impossible finesse, its guns wrecking havoc amongst the nurglites.
"March! March! March!" came the merciless commands of the Scrivener. The plaguebearers trudged on, heedless of their kin slain by the dozens.
The aeldari guardians smiled at their fortune. Perhaps they could hold the line indeed. Then as the dust cleared, despair set in. The slain foes dissipated back into the warp, but at the same time many more appeared in the blink of an eye. At first they thought it was a mere optical illusion that the enemy ranks seemed to have swollen in size after the vicious bombardment, but soon they realise that it was foul sorcery that brought even more daemons into the field.
They were legion. They were endless.
The plaguebearers surrounded the wave serpent and Ichorius nearby tore the wraithbone craft apart. It managed to swerve away at the last moment, but not before releasing its deadly payload: a full squad of Wraithblades accompanied by a Far Seer.
A bloody melee ensued. One of the plaguebearer host tore away and rushed down the right flank, while the other crashed into the wraith constructs, only to be shredded to pieces in mere seconds. Ichorius swooped into the melee when the Wraithblades were occupied by the plaguebearers, and proceeded to methodically tear each one apart, singing melodies of bubonic joy as it did so.
A squad of swooping hawks joined the fray, their guns having little effect upon the daemon host. The children of nurgle pressed on, and eventually overran the Aeldari positions. The route was as bloody as the Aeldari's opening salvo.
Then, it was over. The Alaitoc vanguard were routed, though the daemon host had lost more than half of its strength. As they reached pit 6, Ichorius noticed a strange disturbance in the warp...