- 32,359
- 20,298
Also, just for fun. Remember when we mentioned trading blows on multiple planes of existence simultaneously. This is an example of it:
The very spire of the Pyramid of Photep burst asunder, a peal of thunder that shook the world, rippling out in the wake of its demise, and Magnus descended to the battlefield borne by a crackling pillar of black lightning, there to confront his brother. As the two Primarchs confronted one another, the tempest that surrounded the centre of Tizca intensified - many accounts speak of sibilant whispers heard by all present, urging them to deeds they would not later speak of - and the thunderous wind tore through many of the tottering buildings and monuments that surrounded the battlefield. Some accounts, including that of Vigil Commander Krole, speak of quiet words exchanged by the two Primarchs, but all agree that the battle began with the roar of the Wolf King. Of the first blow dealt, none can be sure whose it was, for such was the skill of the combatants that of those present perhaps only Valdor could follow the interplay of golden axe and silver blade. Russ' raw fury and patient cruelty met the psychic might and subtle skill of Magnus, and all in their path was torn apart, be it the sturdy architecture of Tizca or the ceramite plated battle tanks of the Astartes. Those Legion warriors who sought to intervene in aid of their lord were annihilated before the Primarchs were even aware of their presence, and even the Custodes dared not interfere in such a battle. All about them was chaos, the frantic madness of battle and the unnatural reality-warping effect of the tempest - for as the Primarch Magnus unleashed his full power, it ripped apart the veil between dimensions and set loose those creatures that dwelt within the aether.
The two Primarchs tore at each other with blade and will, never giving an inch, both made for war in the gene-forges of Terra to be unconquerable. Yet the Emperor had not created all His sons equal - to each He had granted primacy of some aspect of war He had deemed worthy of inclusion in His Legions. Magnus was a supreme general, crafted to lead, to inspire and to divine the weakness of his foes - a master of that detached and emotionless state of war long practised by Strategoi and tacticians since ancient times. Though no less the general, Russ was a far different beast - forged upon a harsher anvil for a more brutal and personal degree of war. His was the blood-red fury of necessity and dark ages lost to savagery, the final resolve of a killer loosed when there was no other option but utter destruction.
Here in the midst of Tizca's ruins with the aether whirling about them as a world died, its armies scattered and blood in the air, there was no creature born better suited to triumph in such a hell than the Wolf King, though Magnus would not be brought low without grievous cost. This was a contest in which he was perhaps always destined to be the victor. Despite that his brother burned him and smashed him down time and again with his arcane power, Russ rose up once more, bloody but undaunted. Minutes or hours after they had begun, for time itself had begun to fray at the fury of their battle at the centre of the aether tempest, Magnus, Russ' savage wolf-kin snapping at his heels, the Silent Sisters, by some accounts, cutting into the arch Sorcerer's control over his vaunted powers, faltered for but a moment and his brother cast him down, the final blow different to each who viewed it-for some the stroke of a blade ended it, to others the breaking of the Cyclops' back. It was a defeat played out across an infinity of existences with the same result. Leman Russ stood triumphant, wreathed in the wounds inflicted by his brother, his role as the Emperor's wrath once again fulfilled, and in its wake a storm of blinding light emanated from the sealed and embattled pyramid beyond Magnus' silent and torn corpse. When the blaze o light had faded, there was no sign to be found of any who had once occupied it, nor of the body of Magnus.
The very spire of the Pyramid of Photep burst asunder, a peal of thunder that shook the world, rippling out in the wake of its demise, and Magnus descended to the battlefield borne by a crackling pillar of black lightning, there to confront his brother. As the two Primarchs confronted one another, the tempest that surrounded the centre of Tizca intensified - many accounts speak of sibilant whispers heard by all present, urging them to deeds they would not later speak of - and the thunderous wind tore through many of the tottering buildings and monuments that surrounded the battlefield. Some accounts, including that of Vigil Commander Krole, speak of quiet words exchanged by the two Primarchs, but all agree that the battle began with the roar of the Wolf King. Of the first blow dealt, none can be sure whose it was, for such was the skill of the combatants that of those present perhaps only Valdor could follow the interplay of golden axe and silver blade. Russ' raw fury and patient cruelty met the psychic might and subtle skill of Magnus, and all in their path was torn apart, be it the sturdy architecture of Tizca or the ceramite plated battle tanks of the Astartes. Those Legion warriors who sought to intervene in aid of their lord were annihilated before the Primarchs were even aware of their presence, and even the Custodes dared not interfere in such a battle. All about them was chaos, the frantic madness of battle and the unnatural reality-warping effect of the tempest - for as the Primarch Magnus unleashed his full power, it ripped apart the veil between dimensions and set loose those creatures that dwelt within the aether.
The two Primarchs tore at each other with blade and will, never giving an inch, both made for war in the gene-forges of Terra to be unconquerable. Yet the Emperor had not created all His sons equal - to each He had granted primacy of some aspect of war He had deemed worthy of inclusion in His Legions. Magnus was a supreme general, crafted to lead, to inspire and to divine the weakness of his foes - a master of that detached and emotionless state of war long practised by Strategoi and tacticians since ancient times. Though no less the general, Russ was a far different beast - forged upon a harsher anvil for a more brutal and personal degree of war. His was the blood-red fury of necessity and dark ages lost to savagery, the final resolve of a killer loosed when there was no other option but utter destruction.
Here in the midst of Tizca's ruins with the aether whirling about them as a world died, its armies scattered and blood in the air, there was no creature born better suited to triumph in such a hell than the Wolf King, though Magnus would not be brought low without grievous cost. This was a contest in which he was perhaps always destined to be the victor. Despite that his brother burned him and smashed him down time and again with his arcane power, Russ rose up once more, bloody but undaunted. Minutes or hours after they had begun, for time itself had begun to fray at the fury of their battle at the centre of the aether tempest, Magnus, Russ' savage wolf-kin snapping at his heels, the Silent Sisters, by some accounts, cutting into the arch Sorcerer's control over his vaunted powers, faltered for but a moment and his brother cast him down, the final blow different to each who viewed it-for some the stroke of a blade ended it, to others the breaking of the Cyclops' back. It was a defeat played out across an infinity of existences with the same result. Leman Russ stood triumphant, wreathed in the wounds inflicted by his brother, his role as the Emperor's wrath once again fulfilled, and in its wake a storm of blinding light emanated from the sealed and embattled pyramid beyond Magnus' silent and torn corpse. When the blaze o light had faded, there was no sign to be found of any who had once occupied it, nor of the body of Magnus.
