His only remaining eye was bloodshot, still as cold and frenzied as when he had first appeared, as though it reflected all the malice in the world. He could still roar, his voice still shaking the land, like a civilization that had been savage for countless years had forged its ugliest side into a physical form.
He was the symbol of evil, the embodiment of savagery, the personification of aggression.
From the moment of his birth, he had never belonged to the side of civilization and progress.
Now on the verge of defeat, the battered giant, surrounded by enemies, refused to accept that his fall was imminent. He called for his useless servants to come to his aid, but neither the sinister, bizarre hunting spirits nor the fanatical, mindless gnoll brutes could answer.
Under the black light arrows raining down from the sky, which had scorched the earth, there were no blades or bows left to command into battle. His savage, brutal servants had perished before their master.
Once again, he was alone.
Much like a hundred years ago, when the gnoll chieftain had shaped him with his own hands.
The Lord of the Hunt leaned against his shattered throne, too weak even to lift his weapon. In his abysmal state, even without these godslayers he loathed surrounding him, the evil god—born less than an hour ago—would have perished on his own as his divinity crumbled.
The "death warrant" had even been issued personally by the shadows of Chaos who had shaped him.
Something like this—having a "blade" forged by its creator strike the very core of a god—had never happened even in the War of Light and Dark, long ago. It had left even the well-traveled shadows of the Warp unable to hold back their amazement. Just how unlucky