Judge-Lord Angelika Fabel
Judge-Lord Fabel is the face of the implacable justice that has entrenched itself into Sylvania. No matter if lords or farmers, heroes or monsters, all are equal before the steely gaze of the Supreme Black Judge; all are judged fairly and ruthlessly under the laws of men and gods. A perfect impartiality that some say doesn't stem from the Lady's devotion to her station, but from some other factor, a mysterious inspiration. A dark element that would also explain the Judge's perfect record of resolved cases. Something, a very few whisper, that would have turned the Black Lady of Mercy into a being more than human...
The story of the future Judge-Lord of Drakenhof started in a nameless village in the hinterland of Altdorf. The only beloved daughter of the shepherd Hyerik Fabel and his wife Fabrika, Angelika was a strange child since her first years. She seemed to see things nobody else was able to, said she talked with "men of sun and women of moon, giants that spoke with the land's voice and birds that sang with the sky's song, the lords of the land, the ladies of the above and those beneath". Instead of playing with the other children, little Angelika liked to spend her time in strange places. You could find the girl laying beneath a tomb, her golden hair streaked with grave dirt, or running bare-footed among the brambles, not a scratch on her little feet. She could wait for hours in the forest, perfectly immobile except for her quick breath, eyes closed and expression excited like she was hearing a beautiful song. Or you could find her in the old church's tower, beside the rusted bell, watching her own reflection in opaque brass.
Any other child would have been called strange and shunned, but strange happenings seemed to follow the daughter of old Hyerik. Whispers, things moving just out of sight, objects moving inexplicably. And then, liquids flowing backwards, flowers turning her way, a sudden breeze where the wind wasn't supposed to be, and another thousand small happenings that convinced every inhabitant of the village that Angelika was no ordinary child.
The obvious consequence would have been a witch trial. Instead, something miraculous happened: the people of the village, their sigmarite priest first of all, believed Angelika to be a saint of their church. In the Empire, where ignorance and superstition mean that such strange happening are met with violence and hostility, it's almost impossible to explain such a result. The love her parents had for Angelika was such that they looked over any strangeness their only daughter could have. The other inhabitants didn't have such compunctions, and yet Angelika was their darling. There was no farmer that didn't welcome the little girl, no other child her age that didn't search for her. For her part, her strange quirks apart, Angelika was a little angel, always polite, always smiling, always ready to help and work.
As things were, a normal child would have passed a prosperous, happy life. But Angelika was no ordinary child, and her life changed one night, when the Four-Fingered Man found her.
Nobody knows for sure what happened during that fateful night, and Angelika herself speaks of it only in riddles. The closest to a clear description anybody ever had from her is this: "I stood in a court of ivory and stone, with otherworldly creatures as my jury and monsters as my witnesses. A man bowed in the accuser's stand. His head was that of a frog, his hands were raven talons, his breath was fire, and his belly was uncovered and shaved to smoothness. In the defendant's stand, another man stood. His clothes were woven from strands of light, and his face was a dazzling gem. They launched accusations and argued over the nature of justice and the diatribe of good and evil while I stood, small and paralized, one moment in the place of the accused and the next tall in my judge's seat. A passage of the harangue of the four-fingered man caused me distress. Seized by great anger, I took my mallet and smote the judge's desk, calling him a liar. But the desk was his skull, and he was on me, howling and screeching. I hit him again, and he disappeared in a blur of dark light."
Whatever happened, when the dawn came, Angelika was alone. The once thriving village was an empty, silent ruin, the long dried-out bones of her parents and friends littering her house and the streets. Without a word, she walked away, leaving forever behind the ruins of her past and future, her once golden hair now as white as snow, her once glittering eyes now glowing with cold light.
Whatever she saw during that fateful night, Angelika was changed forever by it. Gone was the happy-go-lucky girl without a care in the world. Now, she was a creature of deadly intent and dark knowledge. She knew that forces of evil walked the world, and her life's purpose was now to eradicate them. For her murdered family and life, and for herself, since the loathing that evil provoked in her soul was too much for mortal tongue.
It was clear to her by now that the creatures and voices she was able to speak with since birth were none other but the Gods themselves, and her enemy the Dark Gods of Chaos. To defeat them the latter, she knew, she had to understand both. So, she travelled, searching for all the divine knowledge the Old World had to offer. She apprenticed in the Church of Sigmar, devouring libraries of esoteric knowledge and training among the Sisters of the templar orders. She walked the serene courtyards of the Temple of Myrmidia. She meditated in the glades of Taal, learning at the feet of the weather-beaten masters of the forest, reading the ancient lore of the land written on the bark of still-living trees. She dug in the dirt of graveyards as one of Moor's gravediggers, learning the lore of worms and death. And more, much more. She traversed the breadth of the Old World, consuming every scrap of knowledge on the Gods her land had to offer, reaching every place where the Gods were said to dwell.
The Gods kept talking to her during that time, and to that constant communion and her own instinctive understanding Angelika joined the weight of her learned knowledge, until she became one of the most learned humans of the Empire in the matters of the divine. None could have ever suspected that the silent, mud-encrusted girl that often seemed to be listening to invisible voices could have probably been the most learned sage in the history of the nation.
Unsatisfied with what her land had to offer on the divine, Angelika left the Empire. She traveled to Norsca, to study to bloody rituals of that barbaric people; to Kislev, where she served and learned from the mouths of Patriachs and Ice Witches; to Bretonnia, where the knightly court of King Loeun and the Fey-Enchantress welcomed her with knowledge of their Goddess.
And it still wasn't enough. Thirsting for more, Angelika went to the elven realms. More than once she risked death under the arrows of the elves of Athel Loren, until Ariel herself, for her own imperscrutable reasons, took her under her royal tutelage. Probably the first non-Damsel to do so, Angelika learned under the tutelage of the Queen of the Woods herself.
She traveled to Ulthuan and, for reasons mortals cannot understand, the Loremasters of Hoeth allowed her access to their secret teachings, maybe the first human to be allowed such an honor. She even stood before the White Flame of Asuryan, staring into its depths while the Captain of the Phoenix Guard taught her divine lore.
The whispers of the Gods, both dark and earthly, hounded her at each step. They argued, demanded, cajoled, all asking for her undying loyalty. Angelika kept her silence. Her mission against the Dark Gods was unbreakable, but the truth was that she nurtured a grudge against the others too: none of the Gods had stepped in to save her family and friends.
And the more she traveled, the more she saw imperfections and defects in all the Gods' worshippers. Before leaving Athel Loren behind forever, she gazed briefly upon the glory of the woodland courts and spoke one, stark comment: "Decrepit Gods and their lackeys, exchanging savagery for nobility." Before the majesty of Sigmar's cathedrals, she said: "ignorance and blindness, made unto pillars." Unfazed by the glittering palaces of Ulthuan, she uttered: "Vain pride!"
The more she saw the failings of the Gods' worshippers, the more she saw the failings of the Gods themselves. Judging them wrathful, cruel and unthinking, her grudge toward them turned to disdain.
Still, even after wandering almost all of the known world, Angelika felt her knowledge was still incomplete. Furious, she took a voyage to Lustria. In that torrid land, she disappeared, alone, in the jungle. When she returned, the imperscrutable knowledge of the ancient Slann within her, she was the mortal with the most complete knowledge of the history of men and Gods to have ever existed.
Armed with her well of knowledge she came to a shattering conclusion. The Old Ones revered by the Lizardmen created the Gods men and elves worshipped. The Gods themselves were protean, multi-faceted beings that shifted and changed, showing themselves in many forms that essentially could be reconducted into one. The logical conclusion was that all Gods, of men and elves, were just one, great pantheon. All the wars, religious and racial incomprehension were the fruits of distorted understanding and stubborn foolishness, and as such, senseless. Magic, so disdained by men, was nothing but the breath of the Gods, and as such, sacred.
This conclusion, for which she would have been hunted down by all mortal races if revealed, was the one Angelika embraced.
Her journey was complete, and yet her true mission was only now to begin. Turning her back to all the other Gods, she swore her oath to the five that seemed the only worthy to her: Myrmidia, Goddess of Justice; Sigmar, God of the Empire and Man; Asuryan, Father-God of the Elves and Ultimate Arbiter; Chotec, Lizard God of the Sun, the Unblinking Eye; and Ptra, Creator God of Nehekara. To these five, Angelika, the only being among mortal and immortal to do so, offered her undying loyalty, a perfect pantheon of gods of unflinching justice that she represented on her personal crest: the open, five-fingered hand.
After this culmination, Angelika disappeared for two decades. It's unsure where she passed those years, but she reappeared at the following of Lorenz Von Drak when the still-unknown heir made his appearance to Altdorf.
When Von Drak rode for Sylvania, Angelika followed, and so it was for all the count's campaigns, the stern woman always beside her lord. When the Count founded the House of Mercy and instituted the Black Judges, it was Angelika that took the place of Judge-Lord and it was her that nominated all the other Black Judges.
Today, Angelika stands at the peak of Sylvanian justice, her word absolute in all matters of law. A woman of indefinable age, she presents an impeccable yet stern appearance, with her black judge garb spotless and her long silver hair held in a tight bun, the only allowance to ornaments being the silver badge of her rank appointed on her chest.
The long years of wandering and the many brushes with the divine have left a heavy toll on Angelika's body. The left side of her face is a knotted mass of scar tissue, the eye little more than an almost closed slit. Countless memories of wounds cover her skin, one of which breaks her lips, turning it into a constant grimace.
Yet, what truly makes Angelika's appearance hideous is her prosthetics. Marvels of Empire steam engineering and arcane technology, this black-iron machinery replace both of her arms, her left leg, right foot and part of her waist, clinging up her neck as so many tendrils. Even Angelika's right eye isn't the original anymore, a sphere of translucent material that is dull like glass one moment and shines a bloody red the next having been set in her eye socket.
No average Empire Engineer understands the secrets behind such incredible technomancy, and the cabal of mechanics and mages that attend to the daily maintenance of Lady Angelika's Apparatus isn't keen on revealing details. What's sure is that the Jude-Lord relies on her Apparatus to survive; she passes most of her time strapped to a grotesque machine that, among clanking pistons and moving bellows, pumps air in her ruined lungs. If her broken body causes her discomfort, the Lady of Mercy doesn't show it: she passes entire days seated on her dais, her raspy voice passing judgments with the same impassive efficiency of the coils powering her Apparatus.
And maybe, many whispers, this is exactly what the Judge-Lord Angelika has become: a machine, unfeeling, and cold, as distant from human emotion as her creaking prosthetics. It is better to keep such opinions away from the ears of anyone affiliated with the Black Judges. The followers of the First Judge regard their patron with a devotion bordering on fanaticism. To them, she's no machine, but the avatar of the Gods' judgment, perfect, unflinching justice made flesh. And maybe, that's exactly the same.
Angelika cares not about others' opinions. As she sits on her dais, her ears are only for the whispers of her chosen pantheon of Gods, her eyes for the handling of perfect justice. Such has become the reason for her existence, to correct the mistakes and misery of mortals with words pronounced and inspired by divine voice. It is her way to make war upon the Dark Gods, not by sword and fire, but by the handling of a justice that mortals can look upon and be inspired, and terrified from. This, she feels with iron-clad certainty, is the way through which the devotion to the Dark Gods will be eradicated.
That's why she serves Von Drak. Sylvania is virgin land, still untouched by the other churches' influence, the perfect place where to set her very personal brand of heresy. As for her relationship with the Count, many are surprised by the very casual, many nobles would say disrespectful, way she addresses him, and even more by the respect the usually intractable Lord lavishes upon the Judge-Lord.
Armed with knowledge unmatched by any other mortal and with a soul of iron, one would expect that nothing remains of the young, golden-haired child that once danced in the meadows and played with spirits. Such is not the case. For all her ruthless, stern justice, Angelika Fabel has a compassionate heart. Beyond all the arcane knowledge, the pain and the constant, unbroken work, her fervent desire to rectify all the mistakes, the plights, the injustices plaguing man stem only from it.
A blasphemer standing tall in plain sight, Angelika would be hunted down if her personal beliefs were to come to light. In a shocking similarity, even Daemons and Chaos cultists regard her as some kind of a heretic, since she believes that, through her devotion, her five Gods join together into one, perfect Lord of Light and Justice that not even the Gods of Chaos can challenge. Madness, and yet there's no denying that her authority, so powerful and so often enforced, seems to have become a power of its own. Mortal and immortals, bar the most powerful, find it difficult to attack her, the weight of her authority worming its way into their minds, coaxing them to kneel and accept her judgment. Daemons in particular are vulnerable to it, their presence unraveling by just being in her presence. It remains to be seen if it's truly what Angelika believes, the power of the five-fold God, or something else entirely.
But whether her beliefs are blasphemy or not, Angelika doesn't care. A growing cabal inside the Black Judges is made aware of them, and follows her teachings as surely as they follow her judgments.
On the battlefield, the Judge-Lord brings all the weight of her uncanny knowledge and arcane machinery. Seated on her Dais of Judgement, her tattered Banner of the Five-Fingered Hand flapping behind her, she strikes a figure of dread for both allies and enemies. With a gesture, the Lady of Mercy can dispel wicked enchantments and spells, befuddling dark mages and daemons, that find their curses fail even as they utter them. The clenching of a fist is enough to summon awe-inspiring displays of divine magic that no warrior-priest can hope to attain, golden fires that burn witches and heretics to ash. When the Judge-Lord's eye blazes, enemies are consumed in white-hot surges of energy, their souls ripped apart by divine vengeance. When she utters, her incantations make the air tremble as holy power protects the warriors of the faith, makes their blows strike true, or even allows them to step through worlds, so that they can reach enemy spellcasters easily. Some would say that many of such displays resemble the vaunted High Magic of the Elves, or even the ancient Nehekaran magic.
But magic is far from the last method of harm the Judge-Lord can bring. Her massive Dais crushes and skewers any too slow to get out of the way, its harpoon-launcher, chest-mounted cannon more than able to skewer and bring down the greatest monstrosities. And for those blasphemous enough to try and attack Her Excellency, their fate is to be bludgeoned into a paste by her steam-powered hammer-fist, or blasted to smithereens by her hand cannon. A proper end for those who would dare to bring disrespect to the avatar of justice.
Equipment: Silverite Armor
Magic Items: The Apparatus, Cap of the First Judge, Banner of the Five-Fingered Hand, Eye Unblinking. Right Hammer of Justice, Left Hand of Justice
Special Rules:
- This unit is Large
- This unit is considered both a Machina and a Knight
- This unit is considered a Torchbearer by Black Judges and Inquisitorial Troops
- Judge-Lord Angelika Fabel must be your army's Lord
- This unit has Terror
- Judge-Lord Angelika Fabel can cast spell from the Lores of Sigmar, Heavens, Fire, Metal, Life, Death, Nehekara and High Magic.
- The Edict of Magic Unwound: by manipulating the Winds of Magic through her godly blessings, Judge-Lord Angelika Fabel makes the use of magic an offense against the Gods. Enemy mages attempting to cast spells in her presence find their power slip through their fingers, just a moment before their bodies are wracked by magical feedback as the wrath of the Gods falls upon them.
- The Edict of Violence Unmade: attacking the Judge-Lord is a criminal offense that warrants immediate condemnation. Ranged attacks brought against the Lady of Mercy find themselves inexplicably drawn away, while melee blows are made harmless. By force of will, offenders can persist in their endeavors, but the price to be paid for such blasphemy is wracking pain.
- The Edict of Innocence Preserved: by the din of her holy presence alone, the innocent are preserved when beside the Judge-Lord. Bringing harm to charges deemed innocent by the Lady of Mercy means instant pain upon the offender.
- The Avatar of Justice: mortals and immortals that stand before the grim visage of the Judge-Lord find their souls under the scrutiny of the Gods. Those lacking the blasphemous strength to resist will kneel before the Lady of Mercy, accepting the verdict laid upon them.
- My God, my Light: whether by some hidden power or divine protection, Judge-Lord Angelika Fabel is the bane of the forces of Chaos. Mortals sworn to Chaos feel their souls shrivel under her gaze, while Daemons have to resist or be banished instantly
Mounts: Judge-Lord Angelika Fabel must always be mounted on the Dais of Judgement:
- Dais of Judgement: this monstrous machine is shaped like a mammoth-sized, mechanical spider. Powered by an engine that is half arcane mystery and half technological marvel, the Dais of Judgement lumbers through the battlefield, skewering those too slow to get out of the way and pulping into paste those that try. Seated on the throne atop this massive contraption, Judge-Lord Fabel administers her judgments on the foes of mankind. No matter who comes before her, the Lady of Mercy's verdicts are always pondered and fair, even amidst the chaos of the battlefield. Of course, this doesn't change the fact that judging a vampire or a Chaos Champion takes a matter of moments and the punishment is invariably death. As for those beasts that refuse to submit themselves to judgment, and lack the wherewithal to act differently from what they do, the chest-mounted harpoon launcher can impale and reel back the most massive of monsters, dragging them at the Judge-Lord's feet to receive their comeuppance.
Special Rules:
- Rejuvenating Bellows: be it by arcane machinery or something else entirely, the strange contraptions attached to the throne on top of the Dais provide the Lady of Mercy with constant regeneration, all the better for her to complete her mission.
- You shall not escape your judgment: the massive harpoon launcher of the Dais shoots oversized spears that can pierce a Chaos monster's hide and even drag dragons down from the sky. Monsters hit by this terrifying weapon, no matter how horrible and strong, are unable to escape its grasp.
It was at the Siege of Kelpek. Yes, I was there. 9th company. We were an undisciplined bunch, mercenaries and cutthroats. By Sigmar, we knew how to fight. Guns and swords, that was the way, and we showed it. When those thrice-cursed Chaos curs came to us, we showed them. They were of the Blood God, muscle, madness and no brain. They piled against the wall we held like angry dogs, and we paid them in lead and steel. We shot them in those ugly mouths and hacked them to pieces. We threw so many bodies down that there were mounds of them filling the moat.
And that was when things went bad. I don't know how, but the other half of the Chaos curs were of the Raven. No idea how they managed to work together. I suspect it was only because they attacked two opposite walls. Whatever it was, their sorcerers used all that death to break the bonds of reality. Daemons started to crawl out of the mounds of bodies. Horrible things, all bloody meat and sinew, glowing swords and howling mouths.
For nine bloody days, we held that damn wall. There was no end to those cursed daemons, and the cultists just kept on coming. More, the big ones showed up as well. Chaos Warriors. You don't want to know what it takes to put one down. By the end of the tenth day, we were down by half the company. They threw us off the wall and we ran for the inner fortress.
I don't know where the General got the idea of breaking apart those houses so that the Khornate bastards could see those other monsters. Back then, I wish I could kiss him. The bastards just started whaling at each other, giving us the time to retreat. Before you ask, no, I didn't get the chance. Poor General Bernard got overwhelmed while holding off one of their sorcerers. He died well at least.
For a while, we thought we had a chance. But then the Tzeentchian sorcerer somehow managed to strike a deal with the Khornate champion. Don't ask me what he told him. Whatever it was, it worked. On the eleventh day, they charged our walls. We lasted half a day before this monster reached the gate. I shudder to call him a man. He was a giant, all covered in blood-splattered metal. His eyes burned with hellfire, and those axes of his felt like they were screaming in my throat. He hit our gate twice before the hinges went up like a cannonball hit them.
What did we do? We were there, by Sigmar, to take his charge, his and of his bodyguard. Chaos Warriors all, covered in blood and gore from head to toe. But we fought. We made them pay for getting into our house. Old Henzik, Ranya Paldrova, Gaspar the Hardy. My comrades. They fought well, by Sigmar. They threw down enough Chaos Warriors to earn their share at the Hammerer's table that day, and some more. As for me, this big brute came at me, his axe screeching like a pig getting spitted. A Champion, mind you. We exchanged blows, and you can be sure his made my bones rattle. But you don't get old in that profession by not knowing a trick or two. When he swung, I did the ol' twist with the wrist. Sent his axe biting in the dirt, and my hammer smashing his helmet in. Chaos Armor or not, blessed steel always does the trick.
And… well, that was when I realized I was the last one standing. My comrades. They… they were all on the ground, bloody and ripped. The whole 9th, heroes all, mind you. Heroes all.
But I didn't think that then. The Chaos curs were all around me, daemons and all. I am not even sure why they just didn't rip me apart. Maybe they were just as surprised. Whatever it was, their cursed Lord came forward. Let me tell you, you don't know the word brute if you haven't seen a Khornate Lord. This dude was, well, he was a monster, pure and simple. I already told you, didn't I?
The other guy was there too, the Tzeentchian. A sorcerer this one was, all feathers and eyes and magic sigils that hurt to look at. There was a disgusting little critter on his shoulder, like a pirate's parrot. Now I know it was his Familiar. Back then, it looked to me like the ugly son of a monkey and a bird.
The Khornate Lord wasn't losing the chance. You know, fight between champions. Their God loves that kind of stuff, and the other guy wasn't getting in the way. Too busy listening to the parrot ranting in his ear, I guess.
Well, there I was, facing that monster. I wasn't going down without a fight, mind you, but I wasn't in no good shape. Throwing down that Champion earlier took the most out of me. My knees were knocking together, and my jerkin was drenched with blood, a lot of it mine. I still had my hammer and my sword, but they may as well have been kids' sticks before that monster.
The Chaos Lord knew. I could feel it, even if that hunk of helmet on his face. If he still had one. He lifted those wicked axes of his and bellowed, the sound of it almost sending me to my knees. It had to be some ritual. The chaos wretches went into a frenzy, well, even more than usual. The daemons, instead, just clanked their fists on their weapons, all the same, like soldiers on parade.
It's difficult to say what I felt back then. Angry doesn't even get close. The Blood God was upon my soul back there, and he put a fire behind my eyes. Blood for the Blood God. I could have killed his champion back then, unlikely as it was, and he'd be a happy little daemon. It didn't matter who's blood flew, only that it did. I knew it. I didn't care about it, and it made me mad that I didn't. Those damn monsters killed my friends. They destroyed my city, and they were going to kill me. The only thing I wanted was to gut them all, make them choke on their blood. Make rivers on it and drown them all into them.
I almost lost my soul there, you know? If I fought, if I let go, Khorne would have got me. And Tzeentch would have got his well-made intrigue, if the chuckles of the sorcerer were something to go by. Two Chaos Gods made happy in one swoop. Like hitting two birds with one stone, or one soul. Mine.
That's when I heard it.
I blinked, and… it was gone. The haze. The rage. All gone. Oh, the anger was still there, buckets of it. But it wasn't that senseless thing anymore, you know? It was… right. In fact, I don't think I ever felt as right as in that moment. I don't have another word to explain it. All I can tell you is that, even with the death and the loss, the destruction and the pointless pain, at that moment everything felt right; like when my dad put a hand on my shoulder after that time I broke my ankle and told me that everything would turn fine. Just like that. Right.
And they felt it too. The Khornate Lord was looking around like a dog caught in the pantry. The sorcerer kept blinking at his parrot like he had just noticed it. The cultists didn't what was happening, and the Daemons… ah, that was some show. Those Daemons had no idea what to do with themselves. They fumbled with their swords, some just went and fell on their ass. The other ones, the Horrors, they pawed at their flames like school children caught doing a prank.
And then we turned to look, all of us.
Her Excellency was there.
What I mean by "she was there" is that her Dais was just smashing its way through what remained of the main gate. A Bloodletter, I can't forget it, tried to slink away. One of the Dais' skewers came down on it. Like a cat's paw falling on a mouse.
The Inquisitorials came right after, trampling and smashing all the Chaos scum they met.
And we still didn't move. It was like a dream. We just stood there, until the Dais lumbered into the courtyard.
It was then that I first set my eyes on Her Excellency.
Oh, it can't be put in words. You have to be in her presence to understand. That weight. That righteousness. That authority. It's… the Gods, lad. Come down from the heavens, shining with the sun's light, dark like a black cloud.
It filled the courtyard, pressed down on us like a fog, like a downpour. Nobody could move, men or Daemon. Nobody couldn't as much as blink.
I won't ever forget the moment when her gaze fell on me. It watched me, knew me, knew me better than I did myself. It knew, I was certain of it, every damn coin I had ever swindled in all my dog life. For a moment, I was sure it was going to judge me guilty. I would have taken it, you know. I would take it as surely as I'd take a good death for Sigmar. But it didn't. Instead, it judged me innocent. Me! My wanting, sinner soul! And she had mercy on me. Yes, she did.
But, oh, she didn't with those others. The cultists just threw themselves down, their weapons clattering on the ground as they begged for mercy. A few, there are always a few, threw themselves forward, howling and swinging. They all burst into flames, and I am not even going to try to tell you how terrible their screams were. The Daemons just burned themselves away. Not a scream, not a howl. Just a whimper. Poof! A nightmare banished by the dawn.
As for those two? The sorcerer tried his magics, weaved his arms and twirled his staff, intoned spells and curses, and when that didn't work, he shouted and screeched like a wounded bird, what remained of that ugly parrot of his melting on his shoulder. Then he truly started to scream, but that wasn't his doing. There was something inside him, I could feel it, something hard and blazing, and it destroyed him there and then. He just went down, like an empty bag, and didn't move anymore.
As for the Khornate Lord, he didn't look nearly as big as before. He just stood there, his axes slack in his hands. He took a hesitant step toward the Dais, tried a howl, but all it came out was a broken little sound, like a log being ripped in half. He shuddered at hearing it, and whatever strength he had left him there and then.
You know, I think... I think that he saw himself back there. Without the rage, without the haze covering his eyes. He saw himself as Her Excellency saw him. A murderer, a wretch that was too weak not to give in to his hatred. A slave, and that's it.
He fell to his knees before Her Excellency, head bowed, waiting for his verdict. He didn't have to wait long: Her Excellency waved a hand, and he just went up in flame.
And that was the end of it. The courtyard was filled with ash and trembling barbarians, that weight pressing down on all. But not on me. No, I only had eyes for Her Excellency, and she, she was watching me, waiting for me to make my choice. I did, and I never regretted swearing myself to her service. She… she's special, you see. I can't tell you much now, but one day you'll see. Hopefully, they'll all see.
- Black Judge Moreau Jerek