Chapter 12: Chapter 12: The Rise of the forgotten Part 1
As Skarbrand delved into the heart of the Badlands, his every movement made a statement, echoing his unyielding determination. The earth seemed to acknowledge his purpose, with shifting sands and winds that whispered tales of bygone eras. The terrain, a mosaic of reddish dunes and hazardous crevices, tested his resolve continuously. But instead of deterring him, each impediment only stoked the fires of his drive further.
The pervasive silence was punctuated only by the echoes of ancient tales, age-old stories borne on the winds. They spoke of long-deceased kings who once held vast dominions but eventually succumbed to time, resting now in majestic tombs. Rumours suggested these crypts housed unimaginable treasures, relics drenched in mystic potency, awaiting a worthy claimant. While Skarbrand usually disregarded such fables, the allure of such overwhelming power was hard to resist.
Wielding the Horn of the Ancestors, Skarbrand felt an intensified bond with the land's mysteries. As he muttered arcane incantations, holding the horn up high, it responded as if alive, resonating with his deep-seated desires. Emerging from the horn was a shadowy energy tendril, writhing like a snake on the hunt. This dark beacon seemed to tear through reality, indicating realms of concealed might.
Pursuing this spectral guide, Skarbrand saw the once-dismissed legends materialise before him. Beneath the undulating dunes lay dormant legacies, chronicles from epochs when deities roamed the terrain and monarchs served as their earthly agents. The atmosphere grew heavy with expectation.
Skarbrand felt the nearness of something monumental, a dormant force brimming with life. The Horn of the Ancestors' beacon was leading him unerringly towards it.
Journeying across the ever-shifting terrain, the relentless sun tracking his progress from above, Skarbrand felt the weight of countless ages pressing down upon him. Time, in these forsaken lands, seemed an abstract concept, with days stretching into nights with little distinction. But after what felt like an eternity, the bleak horizon yielded a sight that arrested his march.
Before him stood a colossal entrance to a tomb, almost camouflaged by the dunes that had sought to claim it. Towering statues, their majesty eroded by the ravages of time and the unforgiving elements, stood sentinel at the entrance. These stone guardians, with their stern visages and intricate designs, spoke of a culture rich in artistry and pride, a civilization unknown to Skarbrand, bearing no resemblance to the Greenskins or any of the known tribes of these lands.
With a mixture of caution and intrigue, Skarbrand began his descent into the enigmatic depths. The sweltering heat of the Badlands gave way to an unexpected chill as if he was entering the very heart of the ancient world. The corridors, narrow and winding, seemed to stretch endlessly, lit by a mysterious luminescence. Hieroglyphics of intricate design decorated the walls, silently narrating tales of heroism, sacrifice, and perhaps, betrayal. Each symbol, each glyph, held a mystery, echoing the voices of its creators, waiting for someone to decipher its tales.
The deeper Skarbrand ventured, the more alive the tomb felt. Ethereal shadows danced at the edge of his sight, whispers of long-lost conversations filled the silence, and a rhythmic pulsation, like a dormant heart, seemed to emanate from the very walls. The energy was palpable, resonating with the legacies of rulers who once held sway over vast dominions.
Upon reaching the grand chamber, a vast hall adorned with opulent sarcophagi and treasures that gleamed even in the dim light, realization gripped Skarbrand. Here lay the fabled Tomb Kings of Nehekhara, monarchs of an age when the world was a different tapestry of power and intrigue. Their names might be forgotten, their tales reduced to whispers, but the aura of their might remained undiminished.
The lure of an artifact of immense power beckoned him, a treasure that promised to amplify his already formidable might. Yet, amidst the allure, Skarbrand sensed the challenge that lay ahead. The Tomb Kings, despite their eternal slumber, were known to fiercely guard their dominion. Any attempt to lay claim to their treasures would undoubtedly rouse their wrath.
But Skarbrand was undeterred. The prospect of battle, the thrill of a confrontation, was what he lived for. And as he prepared to breach the sanctity of the tomb, the stage was set for an epic showdown. The chaotic fury of Skarbrand was about to clash with the ancient majesty of Nehekhara, a battle that would reverberate through time.
Skarbrand, an embodiment of sheer rage and unquenchable thirst for power, stood amidst the echoes of an ancient era. The grand chamber, with its vast arches and ornate carvings, was dimly illuminated by a single source: a gilded belt resting on a marble pedestal, its centrepiece a gem that throbbed with a mesmerizing glow.
The silence was thick, almost suffocating. But Skarbrand, with his mind always on the precipice of fury, barely noticed. His entire focus was on that artifact, feeling its pull, its promise of immeasurable power.
However, as he took a step closer, a murmur resonated through the chamber, growing louder with every subsequent step. The ground trembled subtly, a mere whisper of movement, but enough to give pause.
Suddenly, statues lining the peripheries of the room began to shift. Stone eyes, once blind and unseeing, now glinted with fire – a balefire that hinted at ancient consciousness. The guardian spirits, protectors of this sacred sanctum, awoke from eons of slumber.
"Why do you seek what is not yours?" A voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the chamber. It seemed to emanate from the very walls, spoken by no mouth but felt by every fibre in the room.
Skarbrand's eyes, always burning with an insatiable fire, fixed on the shifting statues. "Power," he growled, the single word a statement of intent, carrying with it all his boundless ferocity.
"You tread where you are not welcome. The treasures of the Tomb Kings are not for the likes of you," another voice responded, colder and more ethereal than the last.
He grinned, a mirthless, menacing smirk. "I fear no king, living or dead. And I bow to no spirit," Skarbrand bellowed, his voice filled with contempt and challenge.
The statues, now almost fluid in their movement, closed ranks, their forms shifting from solid stone to spectral warriors, brandishing ethereal weapons. Their eyes, all fixed on Skarbrand, promised a confrontation of epic proportions.
"You, who know only fury and destruction, have awakened forces older than memory itself," the lead spirit intoned, stepping forward, the ancient regalia on his form shimmering with an otherworldly glow. "Do you believe your rage can best the might of Nehekhara's chosen guardians?"
Skarbrand's laughter, guttural and mocking, filled the chamber. "I am rage incarnate, and I shall claim what I desire." With that declaration, he prepared for the onslaught, his every fibre thrumming with anticipation.
As the spirits readied themselves, the very air grew thick with tension, ancient might face undying fury.
Skarbrand's essence was a rolling tempest of fury, and the ancient tomb became a cauldron of raw emotion as he confronted the spectral warriors. With each moment, the atmosphere grew thicker, almost tangible, as if the air was heavy with millennia of memories and magic.
From the ground, with a sudden and violent eruption of sand and dust, Tomb Scorpions emerged. These were monstrous constructs, remnants of an ancient past, fashioned from fused bone, metal, and stone. Their giant pincers gleamed in the dim light of the tomb, and their tails were poised to strike, dripping with an ethereal venom.
Skarbrand roared in the challenge, his voice echoing and reverberating through the corridors of the tomb. Without hesitation, he lunged towards the nearest Tomb Scorpion, his weapon clashing against its armoured carapace with a deafening clang. Sparks of chaotic energy flew in every direction, causing the very walls of the tomb to tremble. But the Tomb Scorpions were not his only adversaries. As the battle raged, from the shadows emerged Ushabti, guardian statues resembling gods of old, their statuesque forms wielding ancient weapons, and their stony gaze fixed on the intruder.
Skarbrand, even in the thick of the battle, showcased an unmatched ferocity. With a swift swing of his weapon, he cleaved through the nearest Ushabti, causing it to crumble into dust.
However, the Tomb Scorpions were faster and more agile, their tails striking like lightning, narrowly missing Skarbrand each time.
Each blow Skarbrand delivered was matched by the relentless advance of these ancient constructs. The Tomb Scorpions' pincers sought to ensnare him, to crush him in their grip. Their tails, infused with otherworldly energies, thrummed with a sinister intent.
Amid the chaos, the tomb itself reacted. Columns trembled, and age-old carvings animated, joining the fray. The chamber became a whirlwind of action, with Skarbrand at its centre. With each swing of his weapon, enemies shattered and reformed, driven by the will of the ancient spirits.
Suddenly, from the shadows, Sepulchral Stalkers joined the battle. These statues, with serpentine lower bodies and humanoid upper torsos, moved with eerie grace. Their eyes, deep voids of nothingness, fixed on Skarbrand, seeking to pierce through his very essence.
Determined to overcome, Skarbrand unleashed a battle cry that shook the very foundation of the tomb. The power emanating from him became a blazing beacon, drawing all his adversaries towards him. He became a vortex of rage, pulling his enemies in, and with brutal precision, striking them down.
A Tomb Scorpion, sensing an opening, lunged, its tail aimed straight for Skarbrand's heart. In a split-second reaction, Skarbrand sidestepped and retaliated with a fierce blow, shattering its exoskeleton.
But as one fell, more advanced, and the weight of numbers began to press on Skarbrand. His fury was boundless, yet even he could feel the strain of the relentless assault.
Suddenly, with a resonating roar, a massive Necrolith Colossus entered the fray. Towering over even the mighty Skarbrand, it swung its giant weapon, threatening to end the battle with a single blow. Skarbrand, ever the embodiment of chaos, met the challenge head-on, parrying the Colossus's strikes with his weapon, each clash causing ripples of energy that destabilized the very fabric of the tomb.
In a climactic moment, Skarbrand, drawing from his deep well of fury, lunged at the Colossus, aiming for its core, the source of its animation. The impact was cataclysmic. A shockwave rippled throughout the tomb, causing it to quake.
As the dust settled, Skarbrand, the very embodiment of unrestrained fury, stood amidst the ruins of the ancient guardians. The Colossus, once a towering monument of Nehekhara's might, now lay fragmented, its core darkened and lifeless.
From the edges of the room, the spectral remains of the Tomb Scorpions began to dissolve, their forms dissipating into the ether, their ancient duty fulfilled but ultimately fruitless against such indomitable wrath. The Ushabti statues, those that hadn't been shattered, retreated into the deeper recesses of the tomb, their stone forms blending into the dimly lit surroundings.
Drawing a deep, ragged breath, Skarbrand surveyed the chamber. The scars of battle were evident everywhere: cracks ran through the ancient stonework, and the once meticulously crafted carvings and hieroglyphs were now marred by the ferocity of combat.
Yet, for all the destruction, there was an odd sense of respect emanating from the tomb. It was as if the ancient spirits recognized the sheer might and determination of their intruder. In the brutal dance of combat, Skarbrand had inadvertently earned the grudging respect of millennia-old guardians.
Reaching down to the fragmented Colossus, Skarbrand extracted a shimmering gemstone from its core - the artifact that had drawn him to this place. Its glow seemed to pulsate with an energy that resonated with Skarbrand's essence.
But his respite was brief. From the deeper recesses of the tomb, he heard the haunting and unmistakable sound of skeletal feet, drawing closer. It wasn't over. Skarbrand prepared himself for another onslaught.
Emerging from the shadows were the Nehekhara Warriors and Tomb Guard. Their skeletal frames, though devoid of flesh, moved with a martial skill and precision that was a testament to their years of training and battle expertise in life. Each step they took echoed the weight of history and purpose. In their hollow eye sockets, blue flames of determination burned.
Skarbrand readied himself, his grip tightening on his weapon. The first wave lunged at him, Khopeshes slicing through the air with deadly intent. With a roar, he met their charge, his weapon smashing through bone and ancient armour. Brutal and unrelenting, their combat mirrored the intense and bone-crushing brutality of a Mortal Kombat bout. Bones shattered, weapons clashed, and ethereal energy sizzled in the air. Each blow Skarbrand delivered was met with the relentless advance of these ancient soldiers, unyielding even in the face of such raw fury.
Despite their numbers and the confines of the tomb, Skarbrand's chaotic energy allowed him to anticipate and counter their every move. He executed a series of devastating punches, crushing ribcages, and decapitating skeletal adversaries with precision. Using the environment to his advantage, he would slam a warrior into a pillar, shattering it and the skeleton in one brutal motion.
Yet, for every warrior he destroyed, two more seemed to take its place, their numbers seemingly endless. The weight of millennia of discipline and skill bore down on Skarbrand.
With his back to a wall, Skarbrand unleashed a howl of fury, a shockwave of pure, chaotic energy. The Nehekhara warriors were thrown back, their skeletal forms crumbling upon impact.
The silence that followed was almost deafening, an eerie void after the tumultuous battle that had raged through the tomb. Skarbrand, clutching the shimmering gemstone, moved toward the tomb's entrance, his body pulsating with the raw chaos energy that had brought him victory. Yet, his respite was short-lived.
As he stepped out of the tomb's threshold, clutching the prize that had lured him here, the ground shook violently beneath him. The very earth seemed to reject his intrusion, and with a resounding groan, the tomb itself began to collapse.
Skarbrand had little time to react. Large stone slabs and heavy debris tumbled from the entrance, crashing down in a chaotic shower of dust and stone. The tomb's grandiose entrance was buried in seconds, sealing the passage behind him.
But this was no mere closure. The tomb, sensing his escape, reacted in a way that no living foe ever could. The air resonated with a cacophony of ethereal wails, and as Skarbrand turned to leave, he saw the spectral figures of the Tomb Kings' army rising from the fallen debris.
As Skarbrand peered into the dust, the first of the Tomb King's warriors materialized from the debris. The skeletal warriors, the very core of Nehekhara's armies, emerged with a ghostly aura. They once willingly followed their mighty rulers unto death, and now stood to protect their sacred grounds. These were not just lifeless bones; they possessed the souls of ancient Nehekhara warriors, bound within by the incantations of Liche Priests.
In stark contrast to Skarbrand's unrestrained fury, they moved with a supernatural discipline that only the immortal can command. They clutched bronze-tipped spears and curved swords, relics from an age past. Among them, the elite Nehekhara Warriors brandished more ornate weaponry, marking their prestige even in death.
Skarbrand stood at the epicentre, the red hue of his being stark against the bleached bones and golden relics of the tomb. Even in his malevolent might, the sheer magnitude of the spiritual energy radiating from the amassed army gave him pause.
The air became heavy with the weight of a thousand restless souls, each one seeking to protect the sacred grounds of their eternal rest. His eyes, burning with a fierce fire, surveyed the vast army before him.
Accompanying them were the Skeleton Archers, a formidable range force, moving in eerie unison, their bows drawing magically blessed arrows, ready to rain death from afar.
The echoing of hooves soon filled the air. Nehekhara's famed cavalry took form. Skeleton Horsemen rode their fleshless steeds with uncanny synchronization, their spears reflecting the relentless desert sun. Among them, the elite Nehekhara Horsemen carried greater armour, wielding khopeshes, the signature weapon of ancient Nehekhara. The Skeleton Chariots, pride of the armies, charged with fervour, their skeletal crews brandishing weapons, set to crush any that dare stand before them. All the while, The elite Necropolis Knights were an awe-inspiring sight, a testament to the glory of ancient Nehekhara. Elevated above the ground on massive serpentine statues, they exuded an aura of regality and power.
These statues weren't mere mounts but intricately carved stone behemoths, a blend of craft and sorcery. Their sinuous, coiled bodies rippled with lifelike precision, scales detailed with hieroglyphs that told tales of valour from eons past.
The Knights themselves, mummified yet majestic, were draped in ornate armour that shimmered even in the dim tomb light. Engravings and symbols adorned their gear, signalling their high status and the countless battles they'd partaken in while alive. In one hand, they clutched sharp, gleaming spears, and in the other, they held hooks that tethered them to their monstrous mounts, ensuring they moved as one unified entity.
Their eyes, deep-set within their mummified visage, radiated an otherworldly glow. These were no ordinary undead; they possessed a consciousness and an unwavering loyalty to their Tomb King. As they fixed their gaze on Skarbrand, there was no fear, only a steely, undying determination.
The ground trembled as monstrous entities joined the fray. Tomb Swarms, composed of countless reanimated poisonous insects, scuttled forward with unnerving speed. Massive vultures, the Carrions, circled above, casting eerie shadows, ready to descend and snatch their foes. But the most menacing of all was the Tomb Scorpion. Its massive form rose from the desert sands like a behemoth sculpted from nightmares. Composed of an alchemical blend of stone, fused bone, and dark metals, it shimmered eerily under the desert sun. Its segmented body, layered with ancient glyphs and protective runes, reflected a craftsmanship that married function with a dark aesthetic.
Each of its eight legs, armoured and adorned with razor-sharp spines, moved with a disturbing combination of mechanical precision and organic grace, causing the ground to tremble with every step. The rhythmic, haunting sound of its movement echoed the dread it inspired. Its two front pincers, monstrous in size and forged from a metal that gleamed coldly, looked capable of cleaving a giant in twain. Every movement of these pincers, whether a mere twitch or a full slash, promised unspeakable destruction.
But it was the tail that truly distinguished the Tomb Scorpion as a creature of horror. Rising high above its body, the tail was a sinuous, segmented nightmare, culminating in a venomous stinger, the size of a grown man. It hovered, ever-poised, exuding a lethal promise. The deadly appendage not only dripped with a paralyzing venom but was also encrusted with runes that seemed to pulsate with forbidden magic. One could almost hear the whispers of the ancient Liche Priests who had animated this monstrosity, their voices merging in a silent chant of menace.
The creature's eyes, set deep within its armoured head, glowed with a baleful green light, exuding malevolence. These weren't mere organs of sight; they were windows into an age-old wrath, an undying sentinel's gaze, ensuring that the sanctity of the tomb would remain forever inviolate.
Above the hordes of skeletal warriors and beasts, the mighty war constructs of the Tomb Kings cast formidable silhouettes against the desert horizon. Amidst the sea of skeletal warriors and hulking beasts, the Ushabti stood out with a solemn dignity that seemed to pierce through the very sands of time.
While not as colossal as some of the constructs that towered over the battlefield, they still dominated over mortal-sized beings. These statuesque guardians, carved in the likeness of the gods and goddesses of ancient Nehekhara, bore an aura of divine reverence. Each Ushabti seemed to be handcrafted with meticulous care, their forms detailed and distinct.
Their bodies, sculpted from the finest materials that Nehekhara once offered, glistened with an otherworldly sheen. Resembling divine entities, their physiques showcased a harmonious blend of human and divine features. Their eyes, though carved, seemed to gleam with a wisdom that told tales of ancient wars, sacred rituals, and divine blessings.
The weapons they wielded were not mere tools of war but rather symbols of their eternal duty. Crafted with the same precision as the Ushabti themselves, each blade
The Khemrian Warsphinxes were not just colossal, but they bore the majesty and dread of ancient Nehekhara's prowess in art and war. Carved from stones older than some civilizations and adorned with glyphs telling tales of wars long past, they stood as a testament to a kingdom that once was. Their lion-like bodies, covered with intricate armour, moved with a fluidity that belied their immense size. Their mighty paws, each larger than a chariot, flexed and recoiled, ready to pounce and crush.
The most fearsome aspect of some of these Warsphinxes was the deadly scorpion tail that arched high above their backs. Thick as a tree trunk, it gleamed under the desert sun, hinting at its potent venom. This tail, when brought down, had the power to puncture armour, stone, and flesh with ease, delivering its lethal toxin to any unfortunate enough to be struck by it.
Others amongst these mighty constructs had an even more terrifying aspect. Deep within their carved stone jaws, a fiery glow simmered. With every breath they took, the intensity of this inner fire seemed to grow, making the air shimmer with heat.
The sands shifted beneath the weight of time as the Necrolith Colossi emerged into the fray. These towering statues, known to some as the Bone Giants, were nothing short of monumental. Their mere presence was a testament to the grandeur and might of the Nehekharan civilization at its zenith. Each step they took was methodical, echoing through the vast expanse of the tomb and reverberating within the very souls of all who beheld them.
They were carved with intricate detail, every curve and edge telling tales of valour, sacrifice, and eternal loyalty to their kings. While their stony forms may have seemed inanimate at first glance, a closer look would reveal the faintest of glows in their eye sockets, a silent indication of the restless spirits bound within. These spirits were once heroes of old, and the Colossi served as both their prison and their tribute, ensuring that their valour would never fade from memory.
The construction of the Necrolith Colossi required not only architectural genius but also a deep understanding of arcane arts. Bound within these constructs were the spirits of Nehekhara's most revered warriors, ensuring that they would serve their kings in death as they did in life. Their limbs, though appearing to be solid stone, moved with a fluidity that defied logic, suggesting the presence of an intricate network of magic holding them together.
A formidable arsenal was attached to these giants. Massive blades, so large that they could cleave entire regiments in a single sweep, were gripped firmly in their stone hands. Some were equipped with ancient spears, their tips still gleaming from enchantments cast millennia ago.
The atmosphere grew heavier with palpable tension as the Hierotitans began to emerge. Even among the ranks of towering constructs, these beings stood out, not merely for their height but for the raw, spiritual energy that emanated from them. These were no mere statues brought to life; they were animated manifestations of divinity, crafted in the image of the ancient Nehekharan deities of death.
Each step of the Hierotitans resonated like a solemn drumbeat, echoing through the vast expanse of the tomb. The desert sands, so often a swirl of chaotic movement, seemed to still in reverence, each grain aware of the hallowed presence now walking upon it.
Their design was intricately detailed, a testament to the craftsmanship of a bygone era. Faces, carved in stoic expressions reminiscent of the gods they represented, were lined with hieroglyphs that shimmered, hinting at the magic that coursed within. Their limbs were robust and statuesque, each muscle and sinew etched with precision. It was as though the essence of the gods had been distilled and poured into the stone.
However, it was their eyes that captured the essence of their divine nature. Deep-set, they glowed with a balefire intensity. A look into them was like gazing into the vastness of the cosmos - timeless, enigmatic, and profound. Those eyes held wisdom beyond mortal comprehension, and yet, there was a burning desire to protect, to defend the sanctity of their resting place.
In their shadow, even the other constructs seemed momentarily dwarfed, not just in size but in the sheer gravitas they brought to the gathering army. The skeletal warriors, constructs, and even the monstrous war beasts seemed to recognize the Hierotitans' sacred significance, positioning themselves in deference to these divine beings.
With the army assembled in its full might, the tomb echoed a unified, haunting battle cry. Skarbrand, despite being the embodiment of rage, recognized the formidable force before him. But his boundless ferocity would not let him retreat.
The skeletal warriors took the lead, their bony feet pounding the ancient sands as they charged, a haunting silhouette against the blazing sun. With the precision of eons of military discipline, they launched themselves at Skarbrand. Their bronze-tipped spears aimed for his heart, their curved swords shimmering, ready to taste the essence of chaos.
"Your skulls will bring me power!" Skarbrand bellowed, swinging his weapon with a ferocity that sent a shockwave through the advancing ranks. Bone shattered upon contact fragments flying like deadly shrapnel. But for every warrior he struck down, ten more took their place.
Their approach was eerie, a haunting legion of death casting long shadows in the relentless sun. Every step they took sent ancient sands swirling into the air, creating a shroud of grit that surrounded them.
The warriors, their lifeless eyes burning with a spectral fire, closed in on Skarbrand with an eerie precision. Their ranks advanced in eerie unison, creating a moving wall of death that seemed to pulse with malevolence. The bronze-tipped spears they carried gleamed cruelly in the sunlight, the weapons of an army long entombed but awakened with a singular purpose - to destroy the intruder.
Skarbrand, a being of mindless fury and boundless ferocity, met this relentless tide with his weapon. With every swing, the force of chaos exploded from his form, sending shockwaves rippling through the ranks of the undead. Bones shattered upon contact, turning the air into a deadly storm of bone fragments. For every warrior he struck down, however, it seemed as though ten more were ready to take their place.
From a distance, the eerie harmony of Skeleton Archers became apparent. They stood in sinister unity, bows drawn with precision. As one, they let loose volleys of arrows that soared through the air. Each arrow, enchanted with an otherworldly aura, sought Skarbrand with supernatural accuracy. The arrows pierced his crimson form repeatedly, finding their marks with gruesome accuracy. Each strike, far from weakening the daemon, only fueled his infernal might. His roars of fury echoed through the desolation, a testament to the maddening power that coursed through him.
The roar that emanated from Skarbrand was deafening, filled with primal rage and undiluted fury. It was a sound that would have sent the bravest of mortals fleeing in terror, but these undead warriors felt no fear. Even so, the sheer force of the roar disturbed the sands beneath them, making the skeletal horses whiny and rear.
Targeting the nearest horseman, Skarbrand lunged with unparalleled ferocity. His massive hands shot out, grabbing the undead warrior by the throat. The grip was merciless, so much so that the very sands around them seemed to tremble in response. With a savage twist, Skarbrand tightened his grasp, the sound of cracking and crunching echoing as the brittle bones of the horseman's neck shattered in his iron grip.
The lifeless head of the undead soldier detached with grotesque ease, leaving the body slumping on the skeletal steed.
But Skarbrand wasn't done. Ripping the skeletal torso from its mount, he held it aloft for a brief moment, showcasing his brutal triumph. The skeletal husk, now weaponized, became an extension of his rage. With every ounce of his chaotic strength, Skarbrand swung it, using the spine as a handle and the legs as a flail. Each swing was a symphony of violence. The undead cavalry who dared approach were met with their comrade's shattered remains, bones pulverizing bones in a gruesome display.
Horsemen were launched off their mounts, skeletal bodies shattering upon impact. The relentless assault didn't just decimate the undead ranks; it sent a clear, chilling message - Skarbrand's wrath knew no bounds, and his fury would not be quenched easily. Every crushed skull, every shattered rib, only seemed to amplify his insatiable bloodlust.
Amidst the cacophony of clashing bone and furious roars, the ground quivered subtly, almost imperceptibly. The Tomb Scorpion, an engine of desert dread, had been lurking beneath the sand, waiting for the right moment. Without warning, it erupted from the ground in a violent surge of sand and fury, catching even Skarbrand by surprise.
The monstrosity, a creature seemingly carved from ancient nightmares, lunged with a speed that seemed impossible for its size. Its massive pincers, sharp and dripping with venom, snapped with an intention of sheer violence. One of the pincers shot forward, aiming to encircle and crush Skarbrand's thick neck, hoping to choke the life from the daemon.
Skarbrand, though taken aback, was quick to respond. His instincts, sharpened by eons of warfare, kicked in. He managed to sidestep, avoiding a crushing embrace, but not entirely evading the creature's relentless assault. One pincer grazed his shoulder, leaving a deep gash that oozed with dark essence. Enraged, Skarbrand reached out, grabbing the offending appendage with both hands. With a savage twist and a primal roar, he wrenched it off, splattering ichor and torn sinew around him.
The Tomb Scorpion, however, was not so easily deterred. Driven by ancient enchantments and an insatiable desire to protect its domain, it retaliated. Its tail, ending in a lethal stinger that dripped with a paralyzing toxin, whipped around like a lightning bolt, aiming straight for Skarbrand's heart. The daemon barely managed to roll aside, the stinger narrowly missing its mark and sinking deep into the sand instead.
With the stinger momentarily lodged in the ground, Skarbrand saw an opportunity. With a roar that reverberated across the desert, he lunged forward, seizing the scorpion's tail. Using all his monstrous strength, he began slamming the beast repeatedly against the ground. Each impact caused the earth to quake and sent a shower of sand into the air.
Again and again, he pounded the creature, its carapace cracking and shattering, until the once formidable Tomb Scorpion was nothing more than a broken husk on the battlefield.
Yet, even as he stood triumphant over the shattered remains of the Tomb Scorpion, Skarbrand knew the battle was far from over. The relentless army of the Tomb Kings was still closing in, and the daemon had to muster every ounce of his boundless ferocity to meet them.
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