Vocal Cords Cut

Created by Burning Templar

In the Scarlands, all hell had broken loose. The vast host of Kade Stormfury had broken into headless flight, scattering into the vulcanic wasteland. Lone riders broke off from the bulk of them at a breakneck pace, pushing their steeds to the furthest; each trying to reach allied forces to alert them of their dire situation, to rescue them from the vengeful forces of Lord Aichmos and his allies.
The Enlightened came upon them. Upon shrieking discs of Tzeentch they stood, stoic Tzaangor wielding sacred halberds, more heavily armoured than usual Enlightened; these were Templars, after all, clad in golden, resplendent plate, and they would be the riders' death.
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One of them, a Freeguild Pistoleer, was a woman of barely 20. Blood ran freely down her right arm, where a cannonball shard had struck her; the makeshift bandage she had improvised with a shred of her cape obviously wasn't working anymore. Even over the sound of her horse galloping and her own heavy breathing, she heard the Enlightened before she saw him.
Cursing under her breath, she swiftly ducked from under the blades and thorns of the demon dics as it flew over her, gritting her teeth as she watched it fly a curve back towards her, the Tzaangor staring at her with blood-red eyes.
With stiff, cold fingers, she fumbled for her pistol, struggled for her left arm to keep steady at that speed, and, fueled by pure stubborn defiance, took shots at the advancing Enlightened. She hit him, twice, in his chestplate and his shoulderguard, but it was not enough to topple him.
Again, the disk of change passed her by, and this time, the unprotected flank of her horse was slit open, and it crashed.
She did not really feel the impact, as she herself crashed down into the dirt. It was the sharp pain of multiple broken ribs that followed, which she truly felt.
Blinking away the tears that formed in her eyes against her will, she glanced back towards her horse, a trusted companion of many years, now dead and disemboweled by a chaos worshipper. No. If could not end here, not like this, not now. She had to get help. The Heroes of Stormfury counted on her. They trusted her. She had never betrayed trust put in her before.
With gritted teeth, she crawled. It was only a few feet to where her pistol had landed. Just a good, well-placed shot…
She heard the screeching of the disk again, mercilessly coming closer and closer. She grabbed her pistol, turned around, aimed with her arm shaking from pain and exertion - and missed.
White-hot pain shot through her body, as the jagged tip of a halberd was thrust between her shoulder and lower neck, causing her to let go of the weapon.
It was over. She had failed. It all came back to her now, all the mistakes, all her regrets.
The Enlightened lowered his head toward her, his gruesome beak opening to speak to her: "You are correct;" he hissed, "you could have prevented it, back then. But you chose not to." 
Her eyes shot wide open, the agonizing memory overpowering any physical pain, and the Tzaangor turned the blade.
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They hunted them. The Messengers. All of them. The gathered Stormfury armies had sent for help, by whatever mount they made use of, by messenger bird, the most desperate even by foot. Templar forces on discs of Tzeentch had stood ready to intercept them, making sure none of them would pass. No prisoners were made, nobody was dragged back to Scarra, they could not let anything slow them down. Their Operation was cold, efficient, effective.