The Ark of Alternatives was unfolding like a tangram flower. Complex panels of engraved and enamelled bone shifted slowly through the air as the Tzeentchian choir chanted and hummed around it. Sparks of blue and pink light snapped and crackled from piece to piece. Already, you could hardly tell it had been a box at all.
What would it become?
"Magister!"
The apologetic acolyte was clearly reluctant to intrude. Zonaranoz, chief Magister of the Tzeentchian Throng, waved his apologies aside - if this was important enough for the acolyte to enter during the days-long ritual, it would have to be heard.
"The greenskins have returned, and in greater numbers!"
Zonaranoz sighed. "Hardly startling. It is their way. Very well. Muster the guard, we shall drive them off once more."
"But Magister, our guard! They are so few, and the orcs are many!"
Zonaranoz made a complex gesture, and the three nearest candelabra in the room flared with coruscating light. The heavy brass twisted, melting and bulging into new shapes. Within moments, a trio of Flamers writhed in place, guttering fire spilling from their boneless jaws.
"Then we must create more," Zonaranoz said, smiling. "Come hither, boy. I shall show you a new rite, your very own transformation ahead of the great Day of Change. You shall become more powerful than you ever expected! You shall behold the Vortex, and become its bearer!"
The acolyte smiled nervously, but followed. Zonaranoz felt serene. The choir could manage without him for a time, and the creation of a Mutalith was always enjoyable.
This should be fun.
