Chapter 15: The Gathering Storm
"Warriors, hear the call! Our god summons us!!"
"The Great Design begins now!!"
All across the jungles and coastlines, the cold-blooded hearts of the Lizardmen surged with a furious, primal energy. The call of Godzilla awakened something ancient and furious within them. Even the great beasts of the ocean and the deep jungle stirred in answer to the divine roar.
None could predict the future—but they knew this: where Godzilla led, they would follow. That alone was enough.
Isis raised a staff for the first time in her life. Her psychic power had always been so potent she had never needed a focus before. But now, the entire planet needed to hear her voice.
"Champions of the temples, warriors of the jungle—Godzilla has given His first command! The Tau fleet approaches. Our mission is simple: remind them this world is not theirs to take!"
Yes, the Tau are the youngest of the major factions in the galaxy—but that doesn't make them weak. Not at all.
The fleet that approached now was no scouting force:
Three Guardian-class starcarriers, fifteen Protector-class cruisers, and an escort cloud of gunships.
The Guardian Motherships serve as carriers, each holding three full squadrons of gunships. The Protector-class cruisers form the backbone of the Tau navy—designed to match the Imperial Navy's venerable Lunar-class in fleet engagements. They often fall short in one-on-one fights, but with numbers like these? The Tau meant business.
In fact, Warhammer fans might remember the infamous Battle of Taros. There, a much smaller Tau task force—a single Guardian carrier and two Protectors—managed to cripple an Imperial supply fleet. They even brought down a Lunar-class cruiser and damaged an Overlord-class battlecruiser before being destroyed. That was enough to stall the entire Imperial ground campaign.
Now? With three times that force, the Tau could easily break most planetary defenses.
But orbital superiority alone doesn't win wars.
To take a world, you have to fight for it.
And that's why Godzilla wasn't concerned.
Not even slightly.
"GW would never let anyone win without melee combat—loyal melee combat!!"
Even the Tau—snipers, drones, and battlesuits—still have to get their hands dirty eventually. That's Warhammer law.
"But I don't have a fleet! Isn't that kind of unfair?"
[You don't need one yet. When the time comes, there will be one.]
"Oh really? Can I just wish it into being? What am I, an Ork?"
Well, maybe that is a trick from the Ork playbook… but they haven't shown up yet. So let's not get ahead of ourselves.
[Don't overthink it. Right now, focus on the Tau.]
"But I can't even fly! How am I supposed to fight a space fleet?"
[That's not your job. You handle the ground war. The void war will take care of itself.]
What Godzilla didn't know—yet—was that this world held more than just Lizardmen. Another race had slipped onto the planet. A shadow passed through a gate in the Webway…
The Drukhari.
The Dark Eldar.
In a misty ruin half-swallowed by jungle, a Webway gate flared to life—and a raiding party stepped through.
"…Wait, this isn't Commorragh."
The leader of the kabal warriors looked around, confused. He had expected to arrive in the twisted mega-spires of Commorragh, the sprawling hell-city that serves as the Dark Eldar capital within the Webway.
Instead? Dense jungle. Buzzing insects. Humidity.
Green. So much green.
"What the hell?! Did the Council mess with the gate again?!"
They tried to reopen the gate. It sputtered—and then slammed shut. Dead.
"Ugh. I hate Old One tech. You kick it once and it breaks for a millennium."
The kabalite leader gave the Webway arch a frustrated kick—and immediately regretted it. The portal remained unharmed. His toes did not.
Snickering echoed from his warriors.
He looked like a clown. A jester.
A… Harlequin.
He growled and turned away, ignoring the laughter.
"This entire planet is disgusting. Look at it! Everything's green. I hate green!"
He stormed up to a massive tree and slashed at a branch with his razor-sharp, monomolecular-edged Eldar blade.
Clang.
The sword dug into the branch—just barely. Not only did it fail to cut all the way through, but the branch immediately began to heal itself.
"…What in Isha's name?"
A chip was missing from his blade. The tree, meanwhile, looked mildly annoyed.
The kabalite captain's anger melted into a very real sense of dread.
"…Okay. What is this place?"
He turned to his squad. "Is our fleet nearby? Call them in. I want backup."
"There's a raiding force nearby—running a slaving operation. Should we contact them?"
"Do it. And tell them we'll need to double the quota. We'll need a lot more slaves if I'm paying for emergency evac."
As the warriors worked to send the signal, the captain began muttering to himself again.
"This place reeks of something ancient. I swear, if this is some kind of trap from one of those damned Haemonculi—"
He stopped.
He heard something.
Something… big.
From the dense underbrush, a towering figure stepped out. Nearly six meters tall. Muscles bulging under armored scales. A massive mace gripped in one hand. Scars criss-crossed his body—one gouged across a milky-white eye.
This was no ordinary Lizardman.
Even the Drukhari could sense it—an aura of divine authority and unyielding violence.
[Eternal Divine-Blessed Warrior — Thoros.]
A name spoken in awe among the Lizardmen. A title earned through blood and sacrifice. He was not just a war leader. He was a living engine of destruction.
And now, he was here.
And he was looking directly at them.
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