The great secret about reality was that there were two sides to it. There was the side that all conscious beings were initially aware of, the material side, the physicality, but there was also the immaterial side, the reflection of reality in the warp, the spiritual and the psychic side to all living beings, all matter and motion. No matter how the simple-minded tried to deny and ignore it, it was always there and always in connection. It was in this dual-state of comprehension that beings such as the sorcerers of the Thousand Sons lived.
Sanakhet marched blatantly across a section of open battlefield between the Imperial forces and the recently chastised and retreating warriors of the Black Legion. He ducked a moment before a bolt of lasfire singed the air just over his helm as if he had known of its coming a whole 5 seconds prior, which of course, he did. Rising again, he rounded the corner of some ruined stones that would provide him with cover, and as he did, he extended his bolter pistol around ahead of him, firing even before he had vision at the wounded astartes that had been lying there in wait out of ammunition at point blank range. The aura of the wounded space marine had been sharp and bright, appearing crystalline in its honed structure like that of a highly tempered warrior. The color of its spirit had been devoid of fear, as was to be expected, and the timbre of its consciousness clearly indicated a readiness to engage the enemy that was about to round that corner with all due ferocity. Sanakhet saw all of this without a flicker of emotion as he moved to kill with zero regard for what others may have deemed 'honor.'
A brief flash of surprise overtook the wounded space marine's aura in an instant as rounds were fired before the loyalist could react. The attack had come moments before he had anticipated it, a misjudgement commonly made against a lesser sorcerer-champion of Tzeentch, but all was fair in war.
The tides of battle were clearly turned, and even in the lowest enumerations, Sanakhet could easily sense the begrudging shift in emotions of the supposed "allies" around him as they bent and broke into shame, hatred, and denial. Fear was a rare emotion, actually. Warriors on both sides more often went down with the fury of their souls still quite alive, raging as they dispersed into the ether. Sanakhet added the fallen marine's ammunition to his own.
Suddenly, the strangest lights of hope and joy lept to the sorcerer's warp-touched awareness from not far behind him, and it drew his attention like a sparkle in the otherwise bland sea of darkness, smoke, and blood. Several chaos marines, yet to be identified, were driving with full intent upon a target... a ship! Sanakhet immediately realized their plan and formulated his own to join them. Quickly, in a refelxive precautionary measure, Sanakhet elevated his consciousness to increase his foresight before moving. Five ways saw him blown up by a missile launcher whos operator was already searching for a proper target, 2 ways saw him delayed by enemy engagement to miss the ship's departure, but one way, if he delayed a total of exactly nine seconds and obscured his presence saw him to within 20 meters of the ship's dropped cargobay door. Good enough to take it.
6... 7... 8... A booming explosion, as the missile slammed into a rolling APC that had almost gotten away. Sanakhet moved now, an accelerated stride toward the gunship and the small band of Emperor's Children fighting there before it. The sorcerer took the enemy by surprise, flinging three fully armored bodies from his path before he even reached for his forcesword. Electric blue streaks of raw warp magic flashed down Sanakhet's accursed blade a it mercilessly split the blade of a chainsword that had been swung in the wrong direct, his direction. Shards of chainsword teeth flew wildly in all directions as the damaged weapon blew itself apart, and yet the eyes of the dark blue and gold astartes who had rendered the blow had never been on the chainsword or its owner at all. They were fixed on Vibianus Agathon, who he began to approach with pitiless, metronomic strides.
