The reborn's ascension

[Rune Priest Ridcully]

Just had a gem where I wiped out the enemy army except for the lord who was on one wound for the loss of one terminator till the last turn, where my Sorcerer lord and his ruberic unit shot and assaulted the lord, ans aspiring champion challenging and getting butchered for his trouble

My opponent then got Daemonic ascension. Which I was never expecting.

The battle had gone well, exactly as Zarathustra had planned, he had maintained his domination of the enemy daemon engine throughout the battle, using it to decimate the black legion force and the plague marines who accompanied them. He was still alive though. He enemy commander, despite the time Zarathustra had dedicated the enemy war engine to slay the one who had brought it to the field. He was amidst the shattered ruins of a bombed out building, trying to open the sealed access hatch with his lightning claws. His Terminator was beaten and burnt, one shoulder pauldrons having shattered and fallen away, Blood seeping through the exhaust vents on his back, and many cracks and small holes in the ancient war plate.

Waving his hand forward into a pointing position, a stream of purple and gold energy materialized, burning through the ruins and sweeping the wounded lord off his feet and against the wall, near a crater where he had been embedded to earlier by the fire of his own war engine. Sensing warp energy supporting the lords breached war plate, channelled by the gravely wounded lords fell prayers, Zarathustra commanded his rubric accompaniment to fire, their boltgun shells smashing to the lord, blasting chunks out of his armour, which was fizzling and weakening from the power Zarathustra was using on him, the many icons and fetishes that had adorned it already having burnt away.

Suddenly a golden arrow slammed into the falling lord, slicing off his right arm and creating a huge gash running from the bloody ruin of the lords groin to the now exposed face. Surprised, Zarathustra let the power ebb, furiously turning to face one of his subordinate sorcerers, Ptolemy Vempher.

The lord should have died, but the rubricae had lowered their boltguns as Ptolemy was rushing forward, the force axe he was using in place of his usual sword ready to land the final blow on the now slumped lord. Hearing the lords muttering and recognizing the dark chanting coming from the wrecked face, Zarathustra telepathically commanded Ptolemy to stop, to set back and to follow the plan.

It was too late.

At the last second the lord had shifted, Ptolemy’s axe sinking into his useless right shoulder whilst his remaining claw had plunged upwards into Ptolemy in a twisted mirror of the wound inflicted by the impetuous sorcerer. His face a burnt skull, the lord broke into dark laughter as Ptolemy fell to the side, Zarathustra not hearing his last words and not caring to, more focused on the consequences of his rash subordinate. The sky had, and mostly was still a clear sky, yet black clouds and suddenly rolled into existence above the Lord and the dying fool. Lightening striking the ground at eight points around him, a circle of white hot flames joining them, whilst the lords shape seemed to fuzz and become unclear, multi-colored light swarming him, along with shadows of indescribable colors.

Then, for a moment, it was as if a sun of those unspeakable colors was there in front of him. It faded with a primal roar, and there, the reborn stood Ascended.