Atlas sat atop his giant arachnid, a towering figure amidst a sea of skeleton warriors. Despite the formidable number of undead at his command, there were notable absences among his most trusted allies. Strickler, Konak, and Draz, along with all the greater undead, were conspicuously absent from the ranks, their absence keenly felt in the face of the impending threat.
On the horizon, a dark tide of Chaos Dwarfs surged forth, their armoured forms clambering over hills and desolate valleys with relentless determination. The air reverberated with the ear-piercing blasts of horns and the thunderous footsteps of thousands of warriors, a symphony of war heralding the impending clash.
Atlas surveyed the approaching enemy with a steely gaze, the AI Chip calculating numbers, estimating odds and suggesting strategies. The results were all the same – outmatched. Despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him, there was no hint of fear in his demeanour, only a confident calm.
As the Chaos Dwarfs drew nearer, Atlas raised his hand, signalling his skeletal warriors to prepare. With a resolute nod, he guided his mount forward to treat with the greatest of Chaos Dwarfs – Astragoth Ironhand.
Astragoth Ironhand, High Priest of Hashut, cut a formidable figure amidst the ranks of the Chaos Dwarfs. Despite the gradual encroachment of petrification upon his body, Astragoth retained an aura of power and authority that commanded respect from all who beheld him.
Once, at the zenith of his powers, Astragoth was the most formidable sorcerer-prophet to stride the Plain of Zharrduk in a millennium. Now, however, the ravages of time and the relentless march of petrification had taken their toll. His once agile legs were now immobile stone, and even his hands had succumbed to the same fate. Yet, through the dark arts of the Chaos Dwarfs, Astragoth had adapted, his body encased within a mechanical frame of his own design.
The contraption that supported Astragoth resembled a twisted amalgamation of flesh and steel, a grotesque fusion of organic matter and dark machinery. Steam-driven pistons whirred and hissed, propelling him forward with an eerie mechanical grace, while armoured plating provided additional protection against the blows of his enemies.
Despite his physical limitations, Astragoth exuded an air of authority and power that was unmistakable. His eyes, gleaming with a malevolent intelligence, surveyed the battlefield with a cold, calculating gaze, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of his adversaries with keen precision.
As Atlas approached, guided by his towering mount, he felt the weight of Astragoth's gaze upon him. The High Priest of Hashut was a figure to be reckoned with, a master of dark sorcery and ancient lore, and Atlas knew that any dealings with him would require the utmost caution and diplomacy.
Atlas and Astragoth faced each other across the desolate landscape, the air heavy with the scent of sulphur and the distant rumble of approaching chaos. Astragoth, encased within his mechanical frame, towered over Atlas, his petrified limbs creaking with each movement.
"Yuh ha angered de children o' Hashut, invader," Astragoth's voice rumbled, thick with malice. "Now yuh must pay de price wit' yuh life."
Atlas met Astragoth's gaze with a steady stare, unfazed by the threat. "And what makes you think you have the power to dictate my fate, Astragoth?" he countered, his voice calm but laced with defiance.
The Chaos Dwarf High Priest's eyes gleamed with dark fire as he leaned forward, his mechanical limbs whirring with barely contained rage. "We are de masters of dis land, invader," he growled. "We hold de power of de volcano in our hands, and we will crush anyone who dares to defy us."
A faint smirk tugged at the corners of Atlas's lips as he tilted his head slightly. "Overconfidence can lead to defeat, Astragoth," he warned. "I have faced many foes who thought themselves invincible, yet they all fell before me."
Astragoth's mechanical frame trembled with suppressed fury as he clenched his fists. "Yuh may have won battles, invader," he conceded, his voice dripping with scorn. "But yuh will find dat dis army more than yuh can 'andle. Yuh will not leave dis place alive."
Atlas's eyes narrowed, a glint of steel in his gaze. "We shall see about that," he replied, his voice cold and determined. "I have faced greater challenges than this, and I have always emerged victorious. Your arrogance blinds you, Astragoth. It will be your downfall."
Astragoth's lip curled into a sneer as he leaned in closer, his mechanical limbs emitting a low, ominous hum. "Yuh may be confident, invader," he snarled. "But yuh cannot defeat de might of Hashut. Yuh are nothing but a speck of dust in de eyes of our god."
Atlas's jaw tightened, but he remained composed, his gaze unwavering. "Perhaps," he conceded, his voice tinged with a hint of defiance. "But even a speck of dust can cause a mighty storm."
Atlas knew his host was no match for his foes, they were stronger, better armed and with their slave vanguard; more numerous. However despite this staggering disadvantage, he had drawn them to an open field to do battle. His confidence was such that out there, under ash and rock, lay one of his most valuable artefacts – the blood caldron. He hoped that by positioning where he predicted the battle would be would all him far greater harvests.
Before either side could turn on their heels and return to their armies to bring the battle to its head, another sound echoed across the plains. This one was far different than the Chaos Dwarfs' arrival. More primal.
The guests had finally arrived.
As the ground trembled beneath the relentless march of the Greenskins, a tide of green stretched across the horizon eclipsing even the Chaos Dwarves' great army. Atlas exchanged a knowing glance with Astragoth. The arrival of the orc and goblin horde was no accident; it was orchestrated, a strategic move in Atlas's grand design.
To the south, where once the barren landscape stood, now surged a sea of green, a mass of warriors fuelled by centuries of oppression and resentment. The Chaos Dwarfs had long held dominion over these lands, enslaving the Greenskins and treating them as little more than fodder for their dark ambitions.
But now, with the Black Fortress under his control, Atlas had extended an invitation to the Greenskins, a call to arms against their common enemy. The fortress, once a bastion of tyranny, now stood by silently as those who dared to challenge the iron grip of the Chaos Dwarfs were offered safe passage past its walls.
Astragoth's mechanical frame creaked as he shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Dis is unexpected," he muttered, his heavy accent betraying his unease. "De Greenskins are not known for allyin' wit' outsiders. Dey must have a purpose for comin' 'ere."
Atlas nodded in agreement, his mind racing with possibilities. "Indeed," he replied cryptically, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "The Greenskins have long suffered under the yoke of the Chaos Dwarfs. Now, they see an opportunity for revenge. What a fortuitous coincidence."
As the Greenskins drew nearer, Atlas could feel the rage radiating from the sorcerer. He had spent many mortal lifetimes fending off the Greenskin menace only for their great army to be free to march across his lands.
With a new enemy to distract the dwarves with, Atlas turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Astragoth seething with rage and frustration. The stage was set for a clash of titans, and neither side would back down without a fight.
Remembering a quote from his old world, Atlas prepared to witness history in the making – even in the approaching End Times, such epic battles were rare.
"He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight."
Sun Tzu, The Art of War.