I now fear any attempt to describe Tzeentch will fail. Can one sketch a splash of water in mid air? Can one catch smoke in oneís bare hands? Can one give voice to the pleasures of a joyful dream half remembered? If one could know the Shifting Breeze with accuracy, if even for a moment, that understanding would become obsolete in an instant. Such is the vacillating nature of the Changer of Ways. Indeed, even the keenest mindís perception of the Great Mutator is, at best, fleeting, imprecise, fragmentary, partial, and distorted. As the even the finest archeotech relics can detect only the shadowy components of our reality, so too, we can only hope to perceive Tzeentch as a reflection. And, of course, any enlightenment that may brighten our dull, myopic eyes will have passed through the refracting lenses of the Great Conspiratorís deceptions, lies, and corruptions. Still I must puzzle it out; I have struggled too far along this path to turn away, no matter what fate may come to me or my world.
Through space, the Time of Fate has ascended for the Chapter of the Grey Knights to reclaim one of the seven Cloisters lost to them after Centuries ago, the Grey Knights failed to thrice bind a daemon back to the Empyrean. Reclamation of the Cloister must come at all costs. For time is of the essence and as the Cloister teeters on the brink of unleashing a manifestation of daemons into the world, the screaming Cloister is headed on to a crash course into the Screaming Vortex as if almost seemingly pulled and drawn into the vortex by the architect of fate himself. The grand conjunction where the schism of evil upon greater evil could have cataclysmic events.