Wrath of the Doom wheel pat 2

But the battle was far from over. A stray shot rang out through the cavern, the projectile embedding itself painfully in my shoulder. The acrid scent of burning ozone mingled with the coppery tang of blood. Moments later, another warped bolt of lightning cracked through the air, narrowly missing Lim Dul as it sizzled past. Amid this chaos, the Skaven warlord—the malignant force behind the doom wheel—bellowed orders like a twisted commander of the vermintide. His voice, high-pitched and vicious, echoed off the walls as he directed his minions with maddened precision. More shots filled the space with deafening sound.
 
Lim Dul responded swiftly, his eyes glinting with cold determination as he cut down two skaven figures swarming Rory, plunging his lance in the throat of one and in the eye of another. He then advanced, his form melting back into the shadows to reposition for the next assault. I pressed forward, the luminous energy of my enchanted robe surging through me. My own holy radiance mended my wounds as light dazzled and disoriented our enemies, turning their attacks wild and erratic under its brilliant glare.
 
Rory, his fury unabated and his resolve as fierce as ever, soared toward the sniper positions. With brutal efficiency, he slashed through their ranks, his blade lined furious necrotic energy as he culled their numbers one after another.
 
The cavern itself trembled under the relentless assault—the floor cracked, stone fragments cascaded from the ceiling, and the roar of battle mingled with the sound of crumbling stone. The very air was thick with the smell of scorched metal and hair, acrid smoke, and the bitter tang of spilled blood. In that dire moment, amid the chaos and destruction, every second pulsed with the promise of both peril and salvation.
 
The doom wheel continued its relentless orbit weaving in and out of the battle, its jagged spikes rending our defenses and bolts of emerald lightning slicing through the cavern air. I refocused my attention on the infernal contraption, launching a barrage of assaults at the warlord. Despite my ferocity, the machine’s intricate design allowed only two of my four attacks to find purchase.
 
In that split second, Rory rejoined the fray with a savage lunge, his eyes burning with determination as he attacked the ratman driver in a desperate bid to wrest control of the death wheel. The warlord’s halberd lunged at me—one attack ravaging my injured arm, forcing me to erect a magic barrier to evade another—while Freya’s transmutation magic clawed at his form, though her efforts were resisted.