“AHRIIIMAAAAN!!!” A terrifying scream echoed over the torn vulcanic plains of Jökurrvall, the bastion planet that housed Abaddons forward base where he was mustering troops for his newest Crusade.

“You dare to refuse my command to submit your frail bird wizards to the ranks of my next undertaking, and still remain on this planet? I will make you regret your insolence. My true, obedient followers will tear your wings, crush your beaks, and gouge out your eyes!!” “My ears will start producing pus if this tiresome bellowing won’t cease, Ahriman thought. “A fine offering for Nurgle, would I ever need it.”

Ahrimans translations of the old Machine God tablet, recovered in the mines on Mars, had led him to this planet. When Abaddon sensed his presence, he had attempted to force his thrall band to join one of his new, soon to fail Crusades. There was no time for this nonsense and Ahriman had simply stated “No can do” and flown away on his disc. He underestimated Abaddons pride however and battle was soon upon him. A tiresome distraction.

Abaddon had assembled a ragtag band of terminators, legionaries, apostles, and masters from the Word Bearer legion. They were now being given the chance to curry favor with their master. Dangerous was his rage, which he channeled into his warriors to make an example of the arrogant sons of Magnus. The Thousand Sons forces were mobile and unpredictable. Sorcerers riding discs of Tzeentch and enjoying haste providing mutations flew around the battlefield directing Rubric marines and spawn while hurling bolts of doom from all directions. [9:57 PM]

His troops failed to impress him. At every turn they were tricked, misled, made into fools by the Sons who refused to give a fair fight and kept their distance chanting their magics and raining down horror that no armor could stop. Abaddon had not thought to bring with him psykers of his own to disrupt the Sorcerers. Only when the Word Bearers were outnumbered 5 to 1, did the frail psykers dare to challenge them in open combat.

Abaddons forces were withered down while the zig-zagging forces of Tzeentch hardly seemed to dwindle. He soon grew tired of this gross incompetence and sprinted with a deafening roar into one of the Rubric formations that were standing still and performing supporting rituals. With ease he slew a handful of Rubrics and turned his sights on the Sorcerer leading them. However, Tzeentch was in the mood for fuckery at this hour and protected the Sorcerer from all strikes, even allowing him to return some blows. Ironically just as the Sorcerer managed to escape the melee with Abaddon, he found himself under the mechanized fist of a Legionarie sergeant. Splat.

Ahriman had fled a long time ago, finding it tedious to fight the anvil that was the Chaos terminators. He had more important things to do and relieved command of the battle to his second in command. Drawing power from each other’s minds, the Sorcerers managed to inflict enough wounds on Abaddon that he had to retreat to regain his strength. After that, the few cultists who were left were a nuisance to clean up. Abaddon had been humiliated yet again, and yet again had Ahriman fled the battle to continue pursuing his confusing quest.