++Inspiration Friday (Chaos Icons. Until 12/18)++

[corsairjoe]

Here is my first entry! Let me know what you think:

 

Terra's Might was a vessel of fantastic size and incredible might. The flagship of the Imperial Fists XXIVth company had seen many battles during the Great Crusade, who could forget it's heroic actions against the greenskins at Gillean IV, and her honors were bestowed upon her bows. Great murals of battles, heroes, and the glorious Emperor of Mankind stood as giants amongst the endless void of space. It was impressive. Halan, so inspired by the work of the remembrancers, had decided to make his own mark on the masterpiece.

 

The Night Lord's dreadclaws landed in a circle around the halo above the Emperor's head. Activating their melta-cutters, the midnight clad ships danced, cutting a large hole in the side of the beautiful ship. Bodies struggled, then went slowly limp as they were overtaken by the void. The Terror Squads poured into the ship. After three hours of bloody battle, things were looking bleak. The combat shields of the few remaining breacher squads were blocking off the bridge. Harlan was perturbed. His men had taken the engine room, so he would destroy the ship. But, the Captain would not be happy with his work. He reached out with a blood-red gauntlet to activate a portal to the landing bay. No luck. "Meltabombs," he barked over the vox as he walked behind his men. He stared at his gauntlets again. He was marked for death, and a failure in this mission would see it sooner rather than later. The bomb turned the door to slag as his squad ran into the room.

 

They were surrounded by astartes. Silver armored, beak-nosed astartes. The Night Lords opened fire, then quickly stopped and began to laugh. These suits of armor were empty. Of unknown mark, but surely empty. There had to be hundreds of the suits. Halan smiled a crooked smile. His company had been fighting in patched-up suits of mark IV and make-shift mark V armor for years now.

 

"Get these to the ships now! Katarc, how long 'til the reactor blows?", Harlan growled.

 

"Fifteen minutes Headsman".

 

Halan stood and admired the view. Amongst the stars a metal disk spun slowly in space. Once his men transferred the last of the power armor to the waiting Storm Eagles, he walked onto his ship. As soon as the ships and dreadclaws were a safe distance away, he commanded all of his men to activate the pict-screens in their worn helmets. The Emperor's head floated above Terra's Might. Burnt metal and singed paint had morphed his stern face into a sad, black skull. Halan activated the vox network.

 

"Five... four... three... two..."

 

A blinding white light illuminated the darkness. The Night Lords cheered, then began to chant in unison, "Death to the False Emperor! Death to the False Emperor!". Halan would avoid death again, but it would still come one day.

 

"Katarc!", the Headsman growled, "Have a servitor prepare one of the new suits for me. I grow tired of these rags".

[EesiOh]

A Relic and a Trophy

 

Alesandro could no longer sleep. Not that as an Adeptus Astartes he actually needed too, but rest was becoming impossible. the whispers at the edge of his hearing, the blinding rage that would suddenly overtake him and had le to the death of more than one Vostroyan on this forsaken hellhole. He had no doubts as to what the target of this building rage was. Borishkov. The incompetent, foolish, insufferable Captain of the Vostroyans that had been sent to reinforce his men. At that thought Alesandro's expression became a sardonic smirk. Reinforce them. The Vostroyans and their commander were the one thing stopping this campaign from being won. Alesandro, in his duty as captain of the 6th company, had to do something about it. Even as he had that thought he found himself looking towards the armoury that had been erected, where his ornate power axe was currently stored. Emperors Will it was called, and it was passed down from 6th company captain to 6th company captain. Alesandro began walking towards the armoury even as he was having those thought. Utilising his unique squad vox, he summoned his honour guard. They arrived at the armoury nearly all at the same time and as they were admitted he told them of his plan. "Borishkov is losing us this war, the only chance we have of regaining our momentum and crushing these heretics is if he is no longer in charge." He looked at his men, Nerus and Gavriel completely agreed with him, he could tell by their expressions. Dontus looked slightly troubled and Aphael, Aphael was unreadable. But as none had objected to it Alesandro took that to mean they agreed with him. "arm yourselves brothers, in a few minutes we shall win the war" 

 

As they approached the command tent the two guards, veterans of countless campaigns, armed with hellguns and the experience of countless battlefields. It was no where near enough. Alesandro ignored their calls to stop moving forwards and when they levelled their guns at him he just smiled before leaping forwards and grabbing onto one of the guards. Alesandro felt a sudden urge and giving in to it, sanks his fangs into the guardmens neck, before ripping his throat out with a contemptuous turn of his head. The other guardsmans face was ashen and before he could react Nerus had walked up to him and punched a hole through his face. The squad entered the tent as Borishkov looked up, he was about to say something before seeing two of the four spacemarines standing in front of him covered in blood. "Captain, You have been Demoted" Alesandro said in an almost robotic voice before jumping over the Astra Militarum Captains desk and bringing the Emperors will down in a viscous strike. Alesandro bent down and when he stood held the Captains head in his hands. "What we have done tonight brothers, we shall not be unrewarded for it". "Nerus if you please" Nerus nodded and activated the capture setting in his helmet. He then broadcast the video to all the allied forces on the planet. The video showed Alesandro with blazing eyes, blood around his mouth and running down his chin holding Borishkov's severed head.

++ Vostroyans, I have demoted your captain, his incompetence and foolishness came close to losing us the campaign, but i have now rectified that matter. You may either choose a new captain from your ranks, or you may fight me. The choice is yours++ 

 

(the Relic is the Axe, but I have a forging the narrative thing with a friend where I get preferred enemy (imperial guard) and he gets hatred (chaos space marines) because Alesandro kept the head as a trophy and uses it to taunt Vostryans, hence the name) 

[Carrack]

Knowledge is Power, Guard it Well

 

 

Lythane the Black needed to consult the Liber Apocal. The damned book was calling for him again. He had put it off to long, and his temples throbbed with a headache that felt as if someone was tightening and loosening a vice on his skull. He needed it to recharge his sorcerous power anyway, and there was a pause in the invasion of Calebra Hive as his army consolidated their recent gains in the lower levels. He stepped into the foyer of a shelled out hab block and motioned for his terminator retinue to guard the door, from the outside. He did not want any distractions as he consulted the dangerous tome.

 

 

Wearily, Lythane removed his helm and hung it on his belt next to the bound tome. He would have to call his familiar daemon to open the profane text, as only the neverborn could safely turn its pages without suffering its terrible curse. As he made the necessary preparations for the summoning ritual, he recalled how he had come to possess the Liber Apocal.

 

The book itself had been penned by a daemon summoned into reality by Venagi Mythrass, a radical inquisitor of the Ordos Malleus. The summoned daemon had tricked the fool inquisitor into turning the pages of the book with his own hands. Venagi Mythrass's soul was sucked into the pages of the Liber Apocal, and his body fell dead. Lythane had once seen the likeness of this inquisitor move across a page, but Venagi Mythrass was only one of many to suffer such a fate. After several more attempts to read the tome met with similar results, the book was locked in a triple warded vault on the Inquisitorial Bastion orbiting Gajon Secundus.

 

In centuries past, when Lythane still graced the court of the Despoiler, an envoy of an unnamed XV Legion Sorcerer came to Abaddon with information on this sorcerous text. They would exchange the services of a sorcerer and his two squads of Rubricae for the text following an already planned assault on the bastion. Abaddon had agreed, and because of the nature of the prize, had assigned one of his own sorcerers, Lythane the Black to lead the assault. Lythane had seen to it that the Thousand Sons thunderhawk was the first to land in the heavily defended bastion. Only when the Thousand Sons Sorcerer's cries for reinforcements ceased, did Lythane lead the remaining 6 Thunderhawks to the orbital bastion. Lythane walked away with the bound tome, and the inquisition's notes on its properties.

 

Both the Inquisition and the Thousand Sons, the name of the sorcerer who desired the tome still a mystery, have sent strike teams to recover the Liber Apocal. All have been repelled by the might of the Black Legion. Yet, Lythane the Black knows that if Abaddon or his new master, Lord Carrack, were to find out about the Thousand Sons desires for the Liber Apocal, what happened at the Inquistorial Bastion, and which Thousand Son Sorcerer in particular is after the tome, Lythane would be given up to the Sons of Magnus in an instant.

 

Lythane the Black began the ritual and would soon be reading from its cursed pages.

 

[Teetengee]

More than a Mile

Hidden Content

“Please, Brother Tollus, struggling is unseemly and ultimately pointless. I respect you and your kin greatly, even if we disagree on some pretty fundamental points. I do not wish you to degrade yourself when escape is impossible. My adepts have paralyzed all of your joints below the neck. Please keep your pride,” In front of me stands an impossibly ancient suit of terminator armour. Hundreds of layers of sea green paint at different stages of peeling are emblazoned with an obscene combination of symbols both unholy and defiled by their use on such a creature. In places the metal twists and shimmers, some even move. Eyestalks and tentacles protrude from countless sores and even greater are the number of blast marks and pockmarks showing where similar taint has been well scrubbed out. In summary old, and beyond the point of repair.

 

Mouth dry and Betcher’s Gland disabled by means I do not wish to understand I cannot spit my reply but can only scratch it out, “Spare me your mockeries, servant of the neverborn. My kind has never bent the knee to the likes of you, and I will not be the first.”

 

“If I expected you to kneel Knight,  I wouldn’t have had them paralyze your hamstrings. You deserve an explanation for why you are denied a warrior’s death,” Having no reply, I look on as young attendants and servitors begin to help remove his armour. Some of them beat back its resisting tentacles and screaming tiny jaws with staves and whips while it is slowly and painfully removed. Chunks of flesh sometimes come off with the plates as the suit is disassembled whilst occupied. Seeing the pain of this traitor’s failing armour will likely be one of the last pleasures I shall know.

 

“So, noble warrior, what are your plans with me then, if you so wisely understand the futility of attempting my corruption,” Together we stand in quiet mutual appraisal. Even more attendants come to him, first applying salves and bandaging wounds, and then dressing his mostly naked form in garb of leather, metal, and cloth. Looking at him, I cannot but feel a sense of familiarity even though I have definitely never seen him before; the massive patchwork of scars covering his body I would remember if I had.

 

“I am going to kill you, painfully but efficiently, have your Aegis armour cleaned of your remains, and then claim it for myself. I do this not because of bragging rights or of an attempt to pollute your order with signs of doubt, but because I am in need of such armour for my own purposes. I plan to honour it as best I can, and to not let your death be in vain. My servants shall say your name with reverence in light of your sacrifice, no matter that it is unwilling.”

 

“You dare desecrate and defile my armour! Turn it against its purpose and violate all it stands for! PERVERTER, UNCLEAN, SILVER TONGUED HERETIC, PRINCE OF LI---” my voice fails me as he motions to those I cannot see. I lose the ability to move entirely as great barriers lower around me, trapping me in a transparent chamber. A hissing fills the room as I try to struggle against the prison of my own flesh and bone, a soul trapped in my own corpse. I fill my mind with litanies of purity and service as a searing, biting pain begins to envelope my exposed head and eyes. The incredible pain doubles and redoubles encroaching deeper into my body as the world goes blind and silent. Eventually I see starlight, and feel a cool breeze on my burning face. Pain. Flashing lights surround me. Pain. Undulating sounds. Pain. Pain. Pain.

[Warsmith Aznable]

My entry for this week. I hope you like it.

 

Hidden Content

"Cut the audio." The Warsmith said with a weary wave of his hand.

 

The three dimensional projection still towered above the Warsmith's command group, the Isarnhauld, who were assembled with him in the strategium. Oblivious to anything but his own anger, the Lord of an VIII Legion warband, the self proclaimed Murder-King, described by the holotank shook his fists and waved his arms, ragged toothed mouth flinging spittle and silenced promises of gruesome death and imminent revenge.

 

"Thegn Loptr's shuttle is returning at speed, my lord." A mortal technician glanced up from his station and informed the assembly. "It is under pursuit, and I have dispatched long range pickets to intercept and escort."

 

"Is he in communication?" The Warsmith asked.

 

"No, my lord." A different technician answered. "There is a signal, but distortion signatures are consistent with array damage."

 

"Signal the escorts to lead his shuttle to my personal hangar." The Warsmith frowned and ran a distracted hand through his unkempt beard. "I would know why our negotiations took such a dramatic turn for the worse, and sooner rather than later."

 

All was silent for the next few hours as the Warsmith and his Isarnhauld watched the steady progression of ship icons on the forward viewscreen. For his part, the Murder-King did not pause in his silent ranting and exaggerated pantomimes of flesh-rending punishments.

 

+++++++++

 

Thegn Loptr walked into the strategium in his Saturnine-pattern Terminator armour with his usual combination of purpose and swagger. Instead of his usual self-assured sneer, however, he wore a carefully neutral expression. Some among the Isarnhauld recognized this innocent mask, and mentally steeled themselves should whatever aggravation Loptr had perpetrated move their famously temperamental Warsmith to sudden, indiscriminate violence.

 

The Warsmith did indeed look aggravated.

 

"Explain to me why your mission to end hostilities on the planet below has failed so utterly and completely." The Warsmith began to fume, balling his fists, his breath becoming heavy. "Explain to me what you were thinking when you spoke your false assurances of a speedy end to this untenable and unprofitable situation!"

 

The figure in the holotank froze upon seeing Thegn Loptr enter the strategium. There were no more blood curdling curses or impassioned shaking of fists. The Murder-King had apparently become so enraged that conscious movement was no longer possible. He shook with rage, and his eyes widened so far they seemed ready to pop out of his skull. The mortal technician tending to the holotank decided that if looks alone could kill, everyone in the strategium should already be dead.

 

"Explain to me---" The Warsmith, who had been escalating his anger with each word, suddenly stopped mid-sentence. He stared long and hard at Thegn Loptr, a genuinely confused look on his face. Finally, he pointed to Loptr's armoured boots. "What are those?"

 

"My lord?" Thegn Loptr feigned ignorance for a moment. Then his facial expression brightened, and he held a foot forward so that those assembled could get a better look. "Oh, these? Just a little something I managed to pick up on my way to the meeting with his majesty, the Murder-King."

 

The Isarnhauld held their breath. Upon Thegn Loptr's feet were shiny blue Terminator boots, intricate lightning bolts painted across the surface.

 

"Do you like them?" Loptr turned to show off the other boot. "I was worried they would clash with the orange and black. But what do you think, my lord? Does it work?"

 

The Warsmith stared at the Nightlord's boots upon Loptr's feet for another long moment, then into the theatrically innocent expression upon Loptr's face.

 

Suddenly, the Warsmith threw his head back and laughed. It was a deep, belly laugh that threatened to topple him backwards in his heavy Terminator armour.

 

The holograph of the Murder-King raised a fist and spoke an unheard vow of eternal vengeance, then finally cut the feed. It would not be the last that the Iron Hounds heard of him.

 

Relics of the Grand Company come in many shapes and sizes. Especially sizes. Fit is important.

[Teetengee]

Size 22, Murder Blue, Extra Padding, worth every penny.
 

[Kierdale]

If you quote this post you can cut and paste the code for the Octed Amulet award. :)

[Carrack]

Warsmith Aznable, the artificers have completed your award for last week's challenge. I have edited it into the original post.

[Beachymike123]

@Carrack: Just out of curiosity (and I may have missed it if you've already addressed it) but when does the Stolen Relics IF finish? In last weeks entry (bottom of p.4, 18th September), you say it's the 25th October, yet the edited title of this topic says 25th September. As I say I may have missed it, apologies if I have, but if not just thought I'd point it out. 

Anywho:

The Blooded Claws of the Bloodpups

Not all Siege Makers are created from the great geneseed of Perturabo, Master of the IV Legion. Some have flocked to their banner after realising the truth of the Imperium. One such individual is a relatively young Space Wolf, known as Lokorex. He and his pack of Blood Claws were training on the world of Yenden, when the Siege Makers ambushed them and gave them a choice - to live and fight for the Siege Makers, or die there and then. The Wolf Guard Leader, a seasoned veteran, died from a precision Bolt to the throat as he tried to convince the Blood Claws to stay loyal. It was to no avail, and Lokorex was the first of his pack to swear allegiance to Helslash. As a gift, he was given the Lightning Claws worn by the Wolf Guard Leader, chapter relics of the Sons of Russ named the Crossed Bolts, as they were often crossed to form a small arc of lightning before combat. Now, since they have been turned to the services of the Blood God and killed several loyalists, they have been renamed the Blooded Claws, and are a symbol of stature within the Bloodpups pack. 

However, this has not sat well with the Space Wolves chapter. On the world of Grasel VI, a small force of Space Wolves were fighting alongside a combined chapter force to fight the uprisings there. The Siege Makers were part of the uprisings, and Lokorex and the Pups were present too. The squad was repeatedly attacked but, through some dark miracle, lost no casualties. Instead, they slew any who tried to cross their path, and ensured vid-logs were taken to send back to Fenris to show what happened to those who defied the Dark Gods. Lokorex is now one of the most infamous names in The Fang, and orders are to shoot him on sight and retrieve the gauntlets. Better it is the Space Wolves retrieve and destroy them themselves than allow another to claim them and slay more servants of The Emperor. 

 

Ward Bike

Not many chapters went to great lengths to add psychic protection to their bikes. The Star Scythes did, however, and each of their bikes assigned to their Librarius was done on an individual level. But the Star Scythes are no more. Their homeworld was decimated by Eldar of Biel-Tan, their Fortress-Monastry nothing more than an oversized tomb. Their fleet, which had been deliberately stretched thin, had been slaughtered piecemeal by the xenos. The fine works of the bikes was lost to the Imperium, the Inquisition and several chapters wished to know the true secrets of the defences. While several ruined Ward Bikes have been retrieved, virtually all of them are unusable due to excessive damage. Which is why upon discovering the last of the Star Scythes were in fact still living, a small conclave of Inquisitors made several plans to try and hunt them down and retrieve the last know Ward Bike. 

The Ward Bike is in the possession of the Sorceror Vithian, who sold his soul to Tzeentch. To this end, and unbeknown to the Imperium, the Ward Bike has in fact become stronger than ever. It is almost an extension of Vithian's will itself, with him seemingly able to steer without use of his hands. It can track targets across several spectrums and realities and even generates it's own aura for protection against physical harm as well. Vithian, through the bike, also knows he is being hunted by the conclave, and is setting into motion a series of traps to avoid losing his few remaining chapter relics. 

 

Barkesh's Blades

Not all relics and trophies within the Siege Makers take the form of a weapon or piece of wargear. Some are in fact the Astartes themselves. In some cases, what is left of them. While Helslash rules the Siege Makers with a tight fist, he also has the allegiance of the Khorne Daemon Barkesh, who is seeking to allow his legion of Daemons into this realm via possession. The unit known as Barkesh's Blades is one such unit, and one that is an afront to all Sons of Dorn. 

It is made up of three lesser Bloodletter Heralds than Barkesh, each of whom is actually a mighty champion in their own right. Sar'krel enjoys slaying Eldar Wraith units and devouring the spirit stones. He enjoys doing this as a way to deny them to Slaanesh. He also inhabits the body of a Black Templar Champion known as Estikan, and still wields the sword that his mortal host once did, as well as the black and white armour, although most of the icons are now defaced. 

Ar'Kr'Swan, although a daemon of Khorne, enjoys gladitorial combat more than any other form. To this end, he will often tweak ends to allow this to happen rather than rush headlong into combat. It is through these manipulations, so uncharacteristic of a Khorne daemon, that he was able to use a group of Orks to get him to close to Brother Siguel on Rynn's World just after the Reclaimation Fleet began landing. Of all of Barkesh's Blades, he is also the one that sports the least daemonic mutations, instead he just appears to have larger muscles and more height. In addition, he also sports Khornate runes across the host, so as to keep a better foothold in reality. 

The last of the Blades is the greatest - Kiten'Darveed. Once a Son of Horus, he ascended to daemonhood following the Horus Heresy. He despises what has happened to his Legion though, and will disrupt and harm their plans if allowed to do so. However, it is this rage that gives him a sense of purpose, as he has all but forgotten his mortal life. He inhabits the body of the former Veteran Brother Foren, and has wrought some powerful mutations on his host to better accommodate him. 

The names of these Daemons is kept upon the Librarius of the Phalanx, should they be found. These names have also been given to the remaining Librarians on Rynn's World, and to the Crusade Command of the Jekrax Crusade, whom Estikan was formerly a member of. 

[Kierdale]

Edited the thread title to 9/25 as I presumed Carrack got the month wrong :D

I also need to edit the event links and winners but that can wait until I'm properly back.

 

My own entry for this week, quickly done during my commuting here there and everywhere today...

 

Hidden Content

The faint sound of hoarse, shallow breathing awoke him into darkness. The next sensation he was aware of was the immense pain in his chest which he quickly realised was stabbing in time with the hoarse breathing. His, then.

The faintness told him that his hearing was damaged. He could feel that his head was wet all over, sweat no doubt and likely blood too; he mouthed a prayer to whatever gods were listening that nothing else was leaking out of his ears: the headache that was rapidly coming on could easily be a skull fracture.

The darkness -at first he worried he had also lost his sight but it wasn't an impenetrable blackness, he could make out the dead lenses of his helm- told him his helmet's visual sensors had been knocked out as well as his audio ones. A result of the terrifying sonic weapons the Enemy had employed.

But how long ago?

Not knowing how long he had been unconscious at first he dared not move. But what was best? To lie here, bleeding...dying perhaps, his comrades still fighting around him for all he knew...or to rise from the rubble he felt pressing upon him, perhaps surrounded by his fallen comrades -fair Arahen, swift Gatisia, skilful Enalahh and the twins Hatabiis and Igubahd - and face the Enemy? Perhaps indeed the war still raged about him? Might a humble mason such as he once again take up his catapult and slay the pawns of She Who Must Not Be Named? To sell one's life as dearly as one might, was that not the best that one of his ancient race could hope to achieve? To then be reborn anew, his stone placed within a grand body of Wraithbone, and to answer Fuegan's call at the time of the Rhana Dandra?

The pain dimmed, whether it was the end nearing or vigour born of his visions of the End Of All, he knew not nor cared.

Carefully he raised his hands, released the catches of his tall helmet and slid it carefully from his head.

 

The sound of his ragged breathing within his helmet was replaced by a familiar chipping noise, but the bright light of midday was more stunning and he shielded his eyes.

The Enemy had assaulted at dawn. Evidently he had been out some hours.

Checking his body he found his chest plate fractured with a spider's web of cracks. Another effect of the sonic weapon. It had went through his armour and the waves had reverberated within, smashing his organs in a way bitterly similar to the kiss of the Rillietann.

He also noticed the empty socket upon his chest. His spirit stone was missing! Then came that chipping noise once again. How such a small, insignificant sound could draw his attention from loss of his stone -without which his very existence would be but a morsel for She Who Must Not Be Named!- he did not know yet he found himself craning his neck around until he, Enolatir, guardian of Carth-Lar, found the source...

 

The Eldar of craft world Carth-Lar, like their cousins of Biel-Tann, sought to renew their once-great civilisation and did so by nurturing maiden worlds: select planets in locations so perfectly placed that it could only be the work of Ishtar herself to gift these worlds to her children, and with Vaul's blessing they sculpted them into paradises. Yet this one, Mesusid, had been discovered by the Psychopomps: the Mon Keigh's genetically malformed warriors the Astartes were ugly and dangerous enough, hideously inelegant, but those who fell to the worship of the Primordial Annihilator and She Who Must Not Be Named in particularly, were truly vile.

They had descended upon Mesusid like bloodthirsty, mad reavers.

 

The sound was as Enolatir thought: some meters behind him stood one of the damned Astartes: his bulky armour painted in pastel hues and decorated with fell iconography, he helmet topped with a crescent blade. The bastard stood with one foot on the ground -the beautiful emerald sward of Mesusid- and the other upon the chest of a fallen form. It was one of the statues Enolatir himself had carved (he using tools and stone as in the most ancient ways rather than psych-sculpting Wraithbone), the highlight of his career and his crowning work upon the maiden world if not his life. It had been the proud form of Kurnous and his heart sank to see the the idol -crafted by his own hand- now under the boot of a pawn of the bane of his race.

The Chaos space marine was chipping at the neck of the statue. Evidently his patience wore thin as he sheathed his knife and looked about, eventually finding a Diresword in the limp grip of a now headless Avenger exarch. Enolatir winced to see the Astartes' blasphemy knew no bounds as the brute began hacking at the statue with the elegant weapon. Eventually he removed the face of the statue and held it aloft, admiring it.

The guardian had not been able to watch the final desecration and had looked about for his weapon, finding it a few meters off, leaning against the marine's combat bike. Behind the marine's back. In time with the hacking he had pulled himself across the grass, pushing broken stone and other debris from atop his legs into to find as he did so they he felt nothing in them, for he appeared to be paralysed from the waist down. This did not stop him and he pulled himself along in time with the crack of the diresword upon the neck of Kurnous.

The damned Astarte's bike was a massive, brutish thing - fine match for its rider with its crazed paint scheme, spikes and blades designed to mangle those it rode down. Enolatir forced himself to focus not upon the vehicle but upon his weapon resting against it. Therein lay his salvation.

He was but a meter from his shuriken catapult when the hacking stopped.

Despite his bulk, the marine was quick. Before Enolatir could cover the last meter, his slender fingers groping for the grip of his weapon, the Astarte was upon him. The Eldar felt great hands grab him and turn him over, his legs flapping like the limbs of a broken doll. And he came face to face with the Enemy.

The Astartes' helm was not closed but rather open in a T over the face, exposing the mouth, nose and eyes just as much as was necessary. Enolatir immediately noticed the tattooing about the post-human's left eye: deep black over the lids with crescent arms almost encircling it, a spike out toward the left ear ending in a smaller crescent. The symbol of She Who Must Not Be Named.

The Astarte did not speak but threw Enolatir back to the ground before fastening a hand about the Eldar's throat. He held the perfect stone face of Kurnous next to Enolatir's bruised and bloodied one.

Fighting for breath, the sculptor-come-warrior could barely wonder if his features were being compared. Was the brute checking if he himself was Kurnous? Or comparing them with the intention of taking the farer face?

"What- what do you-," Enolatir managed to splutter out the rough Mon Keigh tongue. Anything to stave off death.

"Who was this?" The Mon Keigh mutant asked, holding the hewn face before him, his voice far deeper than any Eldar.

"No o-" Enolatir managed before the marine's grip tightened and he put a knee onto the guardian's chest.

"Without that gem stone upon your chest -which I assure you I now have-, your soul goes straight to Slaanesh. This I know. You would have me quicken your end? Unite you with the very god your people gave birth to? I am almost jealous."

Enolatir winced more at the mention of the bane of the Eldar than at the crushing pain in his chest. His body was but meat and it would pass, but his soul was eternal...

"I would gladly trade places, bastard," the guardian managed between painful gasps.

"Now is not my time. I am a Psychopomp." And the grip tightened once more.

"Kur- Kurnous!"

The pressure was eased and the Psychopomp nodded in recognition of the name, a surprise to the Eldar.

"Your hunter god. Father of your race," the renegade marine recited from memory and lifted the stone face to regard and appreciate it once more in better light. "I see his visage now for the first time."

Enolatir looked up at his captor in confusion.

"How do you know this?"

The marine did not take his gaze from Enolatir's handiwork, but similarly neither did his boot move from the Eldar's chest nor his right hand from his neck.

"To know one's enemy aids in hunting them. Killing them. And the kill, the taking of their soul, becomes ally l the more exquisite."

"You would destroy our race? Our culture which has stood for aeons?"

This drew the Psychopomp's attention back to his captive. "This is not the erasure of your culture. Your works, we do not destroy them. These images of your gods and your champions...they are trophies to us. They bring us and our Lord ever closer to the birth scream of our shared god."

Enolatir knew all too well of which god the mad Astarte spoke of.

"We would send you and your race to her. To the Dark Prince, for you live on borrowed time. And none escape the sands of time, no matter how long lived."

There was a look in the marine's eye, as if the mutant was all too well aware of his own immortality. And what fate did he seek, Enolatir briefly wondered. Daemonic possession? Daemon princehood? All meant offering up oneself to be naught more than a puppet!

"Then you destroy my works and kill me here?"

"Your work?" There was a hint of admiration. "I would learn of your work, your skill, master mason. And you will not die here." The Astarte drew a barbed chain from a saddlebag -Enolatir saw the emblem of a black-headed steed upon the marine's right pauldron, and yet more faces within the bag, both stone and flesh- and proceeded to chain the guardian across the rear faring of his bike, taking the shuriken catapult too.

"You are bound for the Infernal Engine, master mason. I will learn all you have experienced. The delicious elation and bitter sorrow, I will devour all. And what I cannot learn from that, I will learn from this," and he tapped Enolatir's temple before licking his lips. "Then, and only then will I send your soul to Her, and your face will adorn my bike alongside your fine Kurnous!"

[Beachymike123]

@kierdale: mate, that was sweet to read. You are a true fluff master. So many images congured up with that. Thank you for sharing that. I actually thought itwas a loyalist marine to start with(perspective wise).

[Kierdale]

Thanks, Mike.

I edited it just now to flesh it out a little. Some minor tweaking which had nagged at me since I posted it.

That and I corrected a typo I hadn't noticed, about the chaos space marine's "fate" rather than his "date" :D

[Carrack]

Guard your valuables, keep one eye open, and your weapons ready, for Chaos is here and they will even steal your boots off your feet.

Another weeks worth of good stories, and I am left with the difficult task of choosing a winner. This week's contest was about stolen relics, and we had an enormous amount of booty. There I said it :) But seriously, we had a sword, hundreds of suits of rare and valuable power armor, an axe, a book, a suit of Aegis armor, a pair of size 22's, a pair of lightning claws, a ward bike, a trio of Heralds of Khorne, and the face of an alien god. All remorselessly stolen from their rightful owners.

Yet again, another great set of stories. This week I was torn between two contestants in determining the winner. I think Eeshio wrote a good story with his decapitating axe, but I was particularly impressed with Beachymike123 and his collection of stolen goods, especially the ward bike. Beachymike123 claim your award.

Now for the last week of my guest hosting of Inspirational Friday. For the week ending Friday October 2nd, I present.

Summoning

Describe an instance where your army has summoned beings from the warp, be it daemons or anything else. How was the summoning accomplished? Was it a complex ritual, or did a sorcerer bring forth the daemons with the power of his psychic might alone? Or perhaps the Warband committed some act that thinned the veil between reality and beyond, causing daemonic manifestations. Once summoned, how did the Warband interact with the daemons? Did they bargain with them, or did they compel the daemon to do their bidding? What was the purpose of the summoning? Were there unintended consequences?

Please submit your entries by 2 October.

[EesiOh]

so much relic stealing going on it was like Davian Thule and teh Blud Revhens were in the thread

[Warsmith Aznable]

Good show, Beachymike

Here is my entry for the topic of "summoning," entered early for once. I hope you like it.

Hidden Content

Officially, the process starts with a gibbet of cold, black iron.

Unoffically, the process starts with a leather bag filled with lead shot.

+++++++++

“Will there be enough?” The apprentice Warpsmith asked Fabricator Volundr. The two space marines stood high above the lines of desperate refugees, observing the final despoiling of the planet from the balcony of a former cathedral. The apprentice attempted to emulate the detached composure of the Master of the Forge, but his servo-arm fidgeted, revealing his excitement and anxiety.

“There is always enough.” Fabricator Volundr assured him. Amongst the rabble below there were specially trained witch-smellers from the mortal auxiliaries, easily distinguished even from this height by their garish costumes and ridiculous masks. “A single hive structure provides enough density to fulfill our needs many times over. A less-concentrated industrialized metroplex such as this is comparable. A retro-grade feudal world of gunpowder and steam will do just nicely, even with a vigorous suppression program.”

“So if there’s enough civilization to cut stones and engage in trade...” The apprentice, aided by freshly implanted low grade logic engines, ran calculations based on the few related formulae the Fabricator instantly made available in their shared data manifold.

“There is enough latency to exploit to our purposes.” The ancient warpsmith confirmed.

+++++++++

Finder had been alarmed at first. He found things, he knew things, and he always avoided being the one who was found or known. Sometimes it was a vision, at other times an intuition. Sometimes it was like remembering where he had put a recently lost set of keys, a realization of something always known, yet hidden for a time. Sometimes, though, the Voice told him directly.

When he was a juve the Voice was his imaginary friend. Or that’s what his mother had said, and urged him to grow out of it. He learned to pretend that the Voice was merely imaginary the first time he went with the Dog Eaters gang on a hunt. He had thought they were called ‘crazy hunts’ because the hunts themselves were especially dangerous. After that night he did not need his mother to tell him not to mention his "imaginary friend."

The Voice did not often speak directly as he grew older, not in any way that normal people understood. But when he wanted to know something and then he did know it, he understood that was just another way that the Voice spoke.

Finder was called Finder because he earned his meager living locating lost things and telling people true things that they wanted to know. They believed he was an investigator, or maybe a snitch, or maybe someone with connexions. He always knew when block raids were coming, and when people who did not like their truths being told were coming, and he always found a way to not be there when they did come. Except this time, because when the space marines came there was no place far enough he go and nowhere left he could hide.

So Finder had been alarmed when the witch-smellers of the invaders boxed him in and yanked him out of the crowd. He had been alarmed that the Voice had nothing to say to him, and felt alone for the first time in his life.

But Finder had never been treated well by anyone but his mother before, and sometimes not even then. Finder had not expected to be given clean robes to wear and fresh food to carry with him and eat as he was lead away from the screaming press of humanity that was all that was left of his city.

The invaders were not Imperial, Finder reasoned, so maybe they did not hate ‘crazies’ and mutants. Maybe, he allowed himself to believe, they would value the use of his knowing and his finding.

The Voice, so silent since the invaders poured over the crumbled walls and into the panicked city, did not say if he was wrong or if he was right. He was unaccustomed to thinking things through and making decisions without the intuition or direct advice of the Voice. But even the juves on his block knew that Big People gave food and clothes to those who were useful to them, those who they needed.

He decided to ingratiate himself to these space marines, to be cheerfully useful, and smiled his blue-toothed and ragged smile as the soldiers led him, and a small group of others like him, to a special area away from the masses.

+++++++++

Officially, the process ends when the fourth and final brass rod is inserted through the pre-positioned holes, piercing the flesh at exactly the right angle and depth.

Unofficially, the process only ends when the Fabricator himself takes each engine through its paces and declares that the new infernal power source in question is synced well with the machine and has a steady, controllable output. Even an Epsilon+ combined with at least a semi-sentient daemon will run a dreadnought sized engine for approximately fifty Terran-standard years of general use before the warp creature and the corrupt soul it is bound to are annihilated. Intense campaigns or particularly poor fire discipline, of course, produce suboptimal service-lifes, but appropriate hosts are always available.

From "Advanced Practical Metaphysics and Engine Theory" - Fabricator Volundr, Master of the Forge, IV Legion, 49th Grand Company
(intended for novices and apprentices)

+++++++++

Nothing of lasting value can be achieved by being a slavish plaything to the creatures from another dimension that dare to call themselves "gods" or "daemons". They exist to be subdued, used, then disposed of. The galaxy belongs to Humanity, and Humanity belongs to the Legions. Make them to know their proper place, bind them into iron and brass, yours to command, or suffer not their unclean presence.

From “Sayings of the Warsmith” - Warsmith Bolverk, Master of the Child of Calamity and Jarl of the Iron Hounds, IV Legion, 49th Grand Company
(Required philosophical reading for all levels of dissemination)

[Carrack]

The Eye Nevermore

 

 

Garaduk idly swatted at the cloud of flies that had become his constant companions. It was no use, they had survived burning promethium, freezing temperatures, even the heartless vacuum of the void, they would survive his slaps as well. They weren't really flies anyway, they were an expression of the attentions of his patron, The Lord of Flies, and like the attentions of his patron, weren't so easily dismissed. Garaduk stood on Level 81, The Requiem. In ages past, Level 81 had been a more prosperous uphive level. It had housed the High Cathedral for the world of Candlebright. But as the hive had expanded upwards into the sky, the High Cathedral had been relocated to a higher level to be accessible to the nobles and dignitaries without them having to rub noses with the common mid level dwellers. Now all that remained of Level 81's more illustrious past was the bones of relatives once entombed in the High Cathedral, but now too forgotten, or too unimportant to be reinterred uphive.

 

Garaduk's forces had just started their upward climb to link up with the spear tip assaulting the upper hive. They still had 32 levels to go, and although mostly comprised of the most feared enemies of the Imperium, Chaos Space Marines, they did not have the manpower to protect a protracted supply line. Thus the atrocities. From their initial breach point on level 77, Garaduk's strike force had climbed to Level 78, and released poison gas. It was a choking agent, a heavy, faintly green cloud that blanketed the level in death. Victims were drowned in fluid-filled lungs and left to rot. On level 79, in case the defenders had taken the precaution of rebreather masks, it had been a nerve agent. Invisible, the gas crept through the hive killing the inhabitants as it contacted with their skin. Level 80, The Billiard Room, as known by its inhabitants, had been a slower demise. The strike force had breached into a manufactorum and quickly slain the workers without raising an alarm. Then Garaduk had infiltrated his mostly human looking cultist into the level to poison the fountains that fed the thirst of the populace. Nothing was left that could strike back at the Black Maw Warband on all the levels Garaduk had visited thus far. But Garaduk path was becoming predictable, he needed something to draw the attention of the defenders away from his strike force's ascent.

 

The Black Maw had devoured their way to the center of The Requiem with ease. The PDF of this level of the hive was comprised of mortar platoons, tasked with supporting line soldiers in maneuvers in the open wasteland of Candlebright, but ill suited for battle in the low ceilings of the Calebra Hive. The center of the level was the foundation of the former High Cathedral, the building itself relocated uphive stone by stone long ago. In the centuries past since the heart of the level had been transplanted, no new construction had been allowed to cover the once hallowed ground. All that was left was a labyrinth of mausoleums that were once sealed beneath the sanctuary floor. Judging by the detritus scattered on the ground and the scents still lingering in the air, Garaduk surmised that the bones of this cathedral now served as a place where women working in the oldest of professions would meet clients. There was a symbol here about the fate of the empire Garaduk had once helped build, but he was not the philosophical sort to figure it out. He had his perimeter set with the small squads of thinbloods under his command, and his two squads of plague marines were patrolling the area. It was just him and his retinue of Vulture Raptors, the dozen or so of his surviving cultists, and a handful of specialist-thralls in amongst the tombs. Garaduk looked at his specialist-thralls and the cultists and commanded, "Crack them open." They went to work with stolen tools opening up the graves.

 

The desicated corpses, some crumbling to dust, were laid out to form three circles by the specialist and cultists. Some of specialist-thralls began the chanting. They were mutants concealed behind black robes trimmed with green and corroded bronze masks. They served as a priest class for the mortals of the Black Maw, priests of Nurgle. They would assist in the ritual, but Garaduk would preside over it.

 

Garaduk began the calling. The words were called in the dark tongue of the Daemon. They were words of power. The cultist fell to the floor, weeping, and these were hard men and women not unfamiliar with such rituals. The specialist-thrall laborers likewise hit the deck puking and scratching at their ears. The Calling continued. Some of the chanters were starting to succumb to the power of the ritual, as it started to syphon the sacrifices of the recent atrocities to power the ritual's master. One chanter passed out, bleeding from his ears and mouth. The other chanters struggled to pick up his slack, but remained voicing the Mantras of Despair. A sorcerer could have done all of this without the theatrics, but Garaduk had not been assigned one. Another slight from his liege, Lord Carrack.

 

The words of power and the chanting reached its crescendo with the culmination of the ritual. For a moment there was silence, then a series of sickening pops sounded across the bones of the cathedral. They sounded like puss filled buboes being lanced, only louder. With each pop, a daemon was wrenched from the warp to use the bodies of the one-time Imperial worthies to draw forth their unnatural forms. Skinny, disgusting mockeries of man sprouting worms from their bodies and single horns from their skulls. The daemons wrenched off lengths of wrought iron that were decorating the nearby tombs, these lengths of iron quickly warped and corroded into the vague semblance of swords. They were Plague Bearer Daemons, and they were but the first wave. A few minutes after the first wave of ten Plague Bearers, another 10 followed along with a more powerful daemon who formed his body not from the bones of the Corpse God worshippers, but from the chanter who had been overcome with the power of the ritual. This daemon looked like the others, save he was taller, his sword more ornate, and had an aura of power far greater than the other Plague Bearers. Then the Grinder of Souls vomited into existence, gathering the myriad of insects and vermin infesting the area, including a fly or two from the swarm around Garaduk to form its body. The beast was some sort of crab centaur with a crab's legs and barnacle encrusted shell, but with a daemon form thrust from the top of the shell bearing a vicious claw. Lastly, with the remnants of the bodies in the circle, a series of small wet pops announced the arrival of three gangs of Garaduk's least favorite neverborn, runty but bloated, jovial Nurglings. Now came the difficult part of the ritual, the call that Garaduk was unclear if it would be answered. The Calling of the Daemonic entity known as the Filth Monger, the calling of a Great Unclean One.

 

Before Garaduk could conduct the grand finale of the ritual, several zings sounded next to his ears. One of the zings, caused by a large caliber projectile zipping out from a silenced sniper rifle, pierced his helm's right eye lens and blinded the eye before lodging in his orbital bone. The eye that once sighted down the barrel of a boltgun in the Emperor's palace on Terra, would never see again. Garaduk unceremoniously dropped to his seat, losing his concentration, and his hold on the calling of Filth Monger. The thinbloods at the south of the perimeter began firing bolt rounds wildly, defensively, when he heard the cry, "Victorus Aut Mortis!" Over the roar of Astartes jump packs. The war cry of the XIX Legion, the diluted remnants of the Raven Guard.

 

Garaduk struggled to his feet, fluid still leaking from his shattered eye lens, as his retinue and the newly summoned Daemons charged to the southern perimeter. They were too late. The Black Legionaries guarding the south of the position were ripped apart by chainswords and lightning claws. The Raven Guard assault squad had just as quickly, retreated, once again using their jump packs. Garaduk's forces, particularly his Vulture retinue started to pursue before Garaduk called them back. "It's a trap, such is the way of the XIX. Withdraw to the breach point, leave the neverborn to wage war on this level."

 

 

This story is a heavily edited version of a story I wrote in the Fan Fiction sub forum. Time permitting, I will also submit a new story as well.

[Thedarkprincesnun]

Ok here's my entry

The Death Bringer

Kira stood there. She observed hooded figures moving around outside the window dragging a group of slaves off. "Praise the Emperor" Kira thought believing they hadn't noticed her. reaching for the las pistol holstered at her waist she went to aim it and kill one of the traitors when a crimson armoured marine burst through the door. The silver trim clear to see he saw Kira. "Human you have a choice surrender and convert to the true gods of the galaxy or fight and be dragged to the sacrificial altars where even your corpse god cannot save you" said the marine his voice sounding almost strained like something which would cause him to lose control was trying to break through and he wouldn't allow it "never will I surrender to you you treacherous fiend" Kira screamed before running at the marine and starting to fire her laspistol. As she began to run at him he sent a signal to one of his brother marines who entered the door way and grabbed her.

Dragging her to the altar all she could tell was that it was the world's former cathedral to the corpse Emperor yet now it had been defiled to serve purpose to some dark entity. Kira quickly found herself chained to it. Looking around she saw 2 more marines stood near her wearing the same Crimson coloured plate as the one who had found her. "Ha I'm surprised Hericus didn't tear her limb from limb" said the marine to the left. "He probably fancied her as his slave jimbob" said the other.

 

Chuckling both marines walked off. As they walked off Kira heard a door open and heard heavy foot steps to her each sounding like a earthquake. "Where is the whore daughter" she heard one of them say. "She's right there chained to the altar Lord Hawkes" said another marine. "Hmmmmm so she is" said Hawkes chuckling to himself "very well prepare the altar for i plan to begin the ritual within the next 5 minute's". As the 2 marines walked towards the altar Lord Hawkes walked towards Kira. The first time Kira saw him she noticed his Crimson armour and it was clearly thicker than the other marines. In one hand he held a stave and in the other nothing but strapped to his side was a bolter and on the other side 5 books hung from his armour each bound to his armour by gold chain. Around his feet moved a small creature almost the size of a human child had Kira not seen it's face it would of not disturbed her but when she saw it's face she saw the face of evil. It's face was like that of a child but it had horns sprouting straight from its head it's eyes almost bloodshot yet the size of bug eyes. When it smiled at her she saw teeth each out sharp looking.

 

As Hawkes stood there he reached out to Kira mentally "tell me your name human" he whispered. "My name is Kira I am a loyal servant of the Emperor you will not turn me to your heretical ways " she said trying to summon a confidence which just wasn't there. Hawkes chuckled "who said I was going to try and turn you to my heretical ways as you put it. The only reason your here is because you are of use to me and you have something I want" he said with a chilling certainty to his voice. "Jimbob grab this scum and tie her on top of the Altar I will begin now"

 

As she found herself bound to the top of the Altar Kira began to scream. Above her she could see Hawkes' s armoured hands move over her but not touching her. She could hear him chanting in a language she could not understand. She could feel the air around her get chilly and out of the corner of her eyes she saw shadows darting. Kira began to scream louder hoping someone would hear her and come to save her. All of a sudden she saw something appear out of no where aiming straight for her. As it made contact she felt her life end within seconds with everything turning to darkness.

 

After a minute or 2 the body which had once been Kira opened its eyes where there had been human eyes before now there was eyes of pure darkness. The creature flexes it's hands and fingers it wasn't used to this form. It stared at its body it's clothes if they could be described as that where reduced to rags. "Tell me sorceror why did you summon me" it said turning around its head to stare at the marine. "Daemon I summoned you and gave you a physical body because I want your aid. If you never born are as all knowing as you claim to be you know what I want. Serve me well and you can keep this form but refuse to serve me or lie to me and I will banish you back to the warp and I will make sure it isn't pleasant for you" said Hawkes with a clear confidence.

 

"Very well I will lead you to where the Dark Blade is hidden but do know that next time you summon me i won't be so friendly" said the daemon.

[Beachymike123]

Many thanks for the award Brother Carrack. I loved the Stolen Relics idea and felt I had to share some of my warband's treasure trove. I've got a couple of ideas for this week's entry just need to flesh them out a bit. Just for the record, as the Ward Bike seems to be a hit I hereby vow that Vithian and his Ward Bike shall be included in my net game regardless of any other restrictions. I feel it only fitting. If I can I'll try and include all units mentioned, although it does depend on game type, size etc blah blah.

Also, Warsmith Aznable, sorry to break your winning streak bud. At least I'm keeping it in the IV Legion, sort of . Nothing like a bit of sporting sparring between Legion brothers to strengthen the bonds and all that.

[EesiOh]

Ok here's my entry

The Death Bringer

Kira stood there. She observed hooded figures moving around outside the window dragging a group of slaves off. "Praise the Emperor" Kira thought believing they hadn't noticed her. reaching for the las pistol holstered at her waist she went to aim it and kill one of the traitors when a crimson armoured marine burst through the door. The silver trim clear to see he saw Kira. "Human you have a choice surrender and convert to the true gods of the galaxy or fight and be dragged to the sacrificial altars where even your corpse god cannot save you" said the marine his voice sounding almost strained like something which would cause him to lose control was trying to break through and he wouldn't allow it "never will I surrender to you you treacherous fiend" Kira screamed before running at the marine and starting to fire her laspistol. As she began to run at him he sent a signal to one of his brother marines who entered the door way and grabbed her.

Dragging her to the altar all she could tell was that it was the world's former cathedral to the corpse Emperor yet now it had been defiled to serve purpose to some dark entity. Kira quickly found herself chained to it. Looking around she saw 2 more marines stood near her wearing the same Crimson coloured plate as the one who had found her. "Ha I'm surprised Hericus didn't tear her limb from limb" said the marine to the left. "He probably fancied her as his slave jimbob" said the other.

 

Chuckling both marines walked off. As they walked off Kira heard a door open and heard heavy foot steps to her each sounding like a earthquake. "Where is the whore daughter" she heard one of them say. "She's right there chained to the altar Lord Hawkes" said another marine. "Hmmmmm so she is" said Hawkes chuckling to himself "very well prepare the altar for i plan to begin the ritual within the next 5 minute's". As the 2 marines walked towards the altar Lord Hawkes walked towards Kira. The first time Kira saw him she noticed his Crimson armour and it was clearly thicker than the other marines. In one hand he held a stave and in the other nothing but strapped to his side was a bolter and on the other side 5 books hung from his armour each bound to his armour by gold chain. Around his feet moved a small creature almost the size of a human child had Kira not seen it's face it would of not disturbed her but when she saw it's face she saw the face of evil. It's face was like that of a child but it had horns sprouting straight from its head it's eyes almost bloodshot yet the size of bug eyes. When it smiled at her she saw teeth each out sharp looking.

 

As Hawkes stood there he reached out to Kira mentally "tell me your name human" he whispered. "My name is Kira I am a loyal servant of the Emperor you will not turn me to your heretical ways " she said trying to summon a confidence which just wasn't there. Hawkes chuckled "who said I was going to try and turn you to my heretical ways as you put it. The only reason your here is because you are of use to me and you have something I want" he said with a chilling certainty to his voice. "Jimbob grab this scum and tie her on top of the Altar I will begin now"

 

As she found herself bound to the top of the Altar Kira began to scream. Above her she could see Hawkes' s armoured hands move over her but not touching her. She could hear him chanting in a language she could not understand. She could feel the air around her get chilly and out of the corner of her eyes she saw shadows darting. Kira began to scream louder hoping someone would hear her and come to save her. All of a sudden she saw something appear out of no where aiming straight for her. As it made contact she felt her life end within seconds with everything turning to darkness.

 

After a minute or 2 the body which had once been Kira opened its eyes where there had been human eyes before now there was eyes of pure darkness. The creature flexes it's hands and fingers it wasn't used to this form. It stared at its body it's clothes if they could be described as that where reduced to rags. "Tell me sorceror why did you summon me" it said turning around its head to stare at the marine. "Daemon I summoned you and gave you a physical body because I want your aid. If you never born are as all knowing as you claim to be you know what I want. Serve me well and you can keep this form but refuse to serve me or lie to me and I will banish you back to the warp and I will make sure it isn't pleasant for you" said Hawkes with a clear confidence.

 

"Very well I will lead you to where the Dark Blade is hidden but do know that next time you summon me i won't be so friendly" said the daemon.

not bad. two things though. PUNCTUATION. PLEASE. also do you really have a chaos space marine called jimbob? because I mean... its pretty funny. but how is the poor guy going to strike fear into the corpse gods lackeys when they are too busy laughing a his name?

[Carrack]

Many thanks for the award Brother Carrack. I loved the Stolen Relics idea and felt I had to share some of my warband's treasure trove. I've got a couple of ideas for this week's entry just need to flesh them out a bit. Just for the record, as the Ward Bike seems to be a hit I hereby vow that Vithian and his Ward Bike shall be included in my net game regardless of any other restrictions. I feel it only fitting. If I can I'll try and include all units mentioned, although it does depend on game type, size etc blah blah.

Also, Warsmith Aznable, sorry to break your winning streak bud. At least I'm keeping it in the IV Legion, sort of . Nothing like a bit of sporting sparring between Legion brothers to strengthen the bonds and all that.

I'm assuming the ward bike counts as a disc of Tzentch? I like the idea of using one with the Brand, or possibly a sorcerer throwing force lightning on things. I even have an idea for converting one, not as cool as a jetbike, but I have yet to build a suitable retinue yet. Let us know how it goes.

[Slave to Darkness]

As soon as I saw 'Ward Bike' I had visions of Matt Ward riding a marine bike with St 10 Ap1 Superbolterbolt bolters, a save of 1+ with FNP (1) only available to Ultramarines :lol:

[Thedarkprincesnun]

As soon as I saw 'Ward Bike' I had visions of Matt Ward riding a marine bike with St 10 Ap1 Superbolterbolt bolters, a save of 1+ with FNP (1) only available to Ultramarines :lol:

LOL

[Scourged]

Ah, felt good to be writing again. Here's my entry for the Summoning prompt: Escape from Kathalon.

 

 

 

Escape from Kathalon

“What do you mean it isn’t ready?!”

 

Thirty-six hours of ritual and repetition in reverence to their contact in the Warp had passed, yet the summing pit loaded with sacrifices yielded no portal. Sorcery hung thickly in the atmosphere – rainbow wisps of aetherial energy winding out from the pit and snaking around them, an ever-present cerulean mist lapped at their boots, black static lightning crackling and arcing along the edges of their armor – but the Immaterium’s door remained locked. Nine sorcerers surrounded precise points around the well, symbols and runes laser-etched into the dark stone beneath their feet, but their unceasing efforts still produced no results. And until the offering was accepted and the daemon entered this realm, Rahaund’ul Dhelmas would remain trapped on Kathalon – trapped amidst endless feud between the Architect of Fate and the Lord of Skulls. This reality brought a strong unease to the sorcerer lord of the Scourged.

 

He did not want to hear that the summoning ritual was not ready.

 

“I mean exactly that, Brother. We lack the fodder necessary to open the rift. The demands of the daemon are high.”

 

“So I am learning, Scindus. What more do we need, then? “

 

“At minimum, two hundred and sixty-three more minds. However, Brother, I would urge that we collect all that we can to gain this daemon’s favor. I know I don’t have to remind you of their… fickle nature.”

 

“Of course not. And must you continuously regard me with such scorn in your voice, Scindus?”

 

“No, Lord Dhelmas, it is not required. But, I do have such a hard time letting go of the past, Brother. You know that.”

 

He did know that. Scindus held grudges longer than any living man. He lacked the empathy to forgive. This fault earned him no friends as a child as each harmless transgression was remembered, recorded to an inventory in his mind, until a contemptuous rage saw him lash out at his assumed offenders. His family was subjected to the same behavior, every parent and relative at the mercy of the cold and accusatory child, all except for his younger brother. Scindus spared his brother this aggression at every turn, as the younger boy had never once wronged him. In truth, the boy worshipped his older brother, and they relied on each other above all else.

 

No tears were shed when a young Scindus was accepted as an Aspirant of the Seekers of Truth and left behind all those who knew him. He abandoned a world and life that he did not want, and that did not want him in return. The self-imposed hardships and solitude of his life crafted a hardened and ruthless warrior. A better future awaited him in service to the Emperor of Mankind. And whether by coincidence or luck or Fate, the one shining light in Scindus’ life was joining him in this new life – his younger brother had also passed the trials and was an Aspirant as well.

 

“What would you have me do, Scindus? I cannot change the past – I don’t have the powers of our new Master. What was done cannot be undone. You chose to make me your enemy. I will not ask your forgiveness any more – I gave up on that decades ago.”

 

“There was no choice to make, Brother. There is nothing to interpret. It’s acceptance of the truth – unfiltered, unaltered truth. And the final truth is you threw away any hope of understanding that when you accepted your ascendancy, Lord Dhelmas.”

 

Scindus excelled in his new life as an Astartes, with his brother always at his side. Together they grew and excelled, finding their niches within the Chapter. Their emerging aptitudes saw them diverge down very separate paths after earning their Black Carapace. The endless scraps and fights as a child developed within Scindus a foundation of martial prowess on the battlefield, seeing him become the sergeant of 4^th Company’s assault squad. His sibling, however, was gifted in mind instead of body and flourished within the Librarius. Their differences only bonded them tighter to one another, forging the two halves to a coin.

 

Then the foolish Gallus Herodicus damned every last Seeker of Truth with his mewling pleas into the Warp. The Gift spread through the ranks of the chapter until no human mind was unaffected. Their thoughts exploded with the sounds of the Imperium’s falsehoods, louder and louder as the Gift grew within them. For the major of men and at least half of Astartes, such an affliction leads to panic, paranoia, and insanity. But those souls possessing powerful mind or an indomitable will found the strength to resist falling into psychosis. Scindus and his brother were among the lucky to win their renewed sanity, but irreparable damage had been done: that which is spoken cannot be unheard.

 

Everyone lies – it is a fundamental aspect of human nature. It is not a new or novel concept to understand, and will never change. But for all his life as a human and an Astartes, Scindus had never once believed his brother could ever lie to him. Not once. That fact is what cemented the one emotional bond Scindus kept. But the Gift revealed the truth in an unbearable barrage and crushed that belief. His sibling was just as tainted and foul as the schoolchildren who shunned him and the adults who betrayed him. Everything was changed now. A new life began for him once again, but this time Scindus Dhelmas would live it without his brother to depend upon and trust.

 

“Enough, Scindus. I have not forgotten either, but this eternal feud can wait. I want to leave this world behind us. Since our arrival we have faced nothing but disaster, and this bargain from the daemon is our only chance to leave. Captain Piliae, raise the Deception’s Call and inform them that we need three hundred more of the Curse-touched dregs from the holds.”

 

“Impossible, Lord Dhelmas. All long range communication is down – localized warp rift interference. Even if it wasn’t, updated data shows our holds were exhausted of the fodder already.”

 

Absolutely perfect. Yet another misfortune to plague them. Destiny saw them pulled out of the Warp mid-flight and thrown into orbit at Kathalon. Serendipity saw the warp storm encapsulate the system to prevent any retreat. Fate saw the daemon offer an escape if Rahaund’ul and his men opened a portal and summoned it on the planet’s surface. Coincidence saw to it that the ceremonial location was overrun with zealots of the Blood God that had to be eradicated. And now random chance saw to it that the ceremony could not be completed, all thanks to keeping sacrificial humans in short supply. What could possibly come next?

 

“Fine. I don’t care how you do it, but find a way to contact the Call and tell them to sacrifice whatever human crew they… wait, warp rift interference? How bad?”

 

“Worst since we made planetfall. Communication with the Call has been unsteady at best, but it has since evaporated in the last few moments.  Auspex readings show a massive tear in realspace forming on our northern flank. Something big is coming.”

 

As if on cue, Piliae’s briefing was punctuated with an auspicious and thundering crack from reality ripping itself open. The landscape withered and corroded wherever the edges of the materializing Immaterium touched. Wider and wider it grew, stretching like an angry maw of color and emotion attempting to eat the planet. All members of the Scourged had turned to watch the rift open, the ceremony momentarily forgotten. As many stood motionless, whether in trepidation or amazement, Ghan Xeras came excitedly bounding over to Lord Dhelmas, as filled with pointless glee as ever.

 

“Do you see? Lord Dhelmas, Dhelmas, do you see it? See it there? Reality splits itself open, yes! Visitors are coming to see us!”

 

Yes, of course he saw. A horde was fast approaching, having spilled out from the rift. Every servant of the Lord of Rage came running  at them: men and women with axes and blades screaming for blood, mutants shambling as best they could wielding their own talons and fangs as weapons, and abhumans and beastmen thundering forward on claws and hooves. While numerous, the renegades scurrying forward were not the focus of Lord Dhelmas’ concern. No, the real threats came from the vast amount of bronze and crimson Berzerkers leading the charge, chainaxes almost silenced by the Astartes’ bellowed hatred.

 

Rahaund’ul Dhelmas looked to the cascading army of rage advancing and sighed. This ordeal would simply never end. This incursion would only delay their summoning for many more hours, never mind the numerous casualties such an assault would bring. Assuming they survived, that is. Not that it mattered, anyway: the sorcerers lacked the necessary minds and bodies to sacrifice within the earthen pit.

 

No, wait… the arrival of one problem is really the solution for another. Based on initial readings via his autosenses, the blood-red renegades could take casualties at 40% and still be in numbers great enough to appease their daemonic envoy. Perhaps this was not yet another inconvenience, Rahaund’ul realized, but an intervention from his new Master. After reciting a silent prayer of thanks to Changer of Ways, the Sorcerer Lord finalized his revised plans and turned back to his men to relay the new orders.

 

“Xeras, take our automatons and defend our flanks. Lay down suppressing fire and flame. I want every soul that pours from that rift bottlenecked and driven to this position. Understood?”

 

“Oh my, yes. Understood! Very much understood Lord Dhelmas! My Revenants and I will bring visitors to you!”

 

As Xeras joyfully ran off, his Revenants moving with machine precision to dedicated fire and choke points, Scindus approached his brother. Surely the arrival of a blood-hungry horde led by devout Berzerkers signaled a sign for retreat, yes? And yet, the Lord of the Scourged was ordering his men to not only stand their ground, but to funnel the enemy into the heart of their ceremony.

 

“Rahaund’ul… what are you planning?”

 

“We need sacrifices for our summoning. I’m going to provide them.”

 

***

 

Tactically speaking, the Berzerkers would have been better off as the second wave of the assault, not the spearhead. Use the mortal chaff to eat the brunt of the overwhelming firepower and soften the initial ranks with the charge, letting the power armored warriors sweep them in the second wave.  But, Scindus accepted, sound logic and berserk rage seldom meet. No matter. He blink-clicked the activation runes in his display and power immediately surged to his unwieldly fist and electrified claws. He flexed his wrists and arms, habitually testing the weight of his weapons. As always, his hands felt comfortable and ready for the fight.

 

Despite the hail of warpflame-infused bolter rounds pummeling them into a tight rank, the Berzerkers ignored Xeras and his Revenants. The fallen Astartes shouting for blood, skulls, and battle seemed intent on reaching the center of the temple ruins where seven squads of Scourged waited. Another foolish decision. Ignoring the entrenched automatons would ensure their numbers dwindled further before reaching the melee proper, as well as guaranteeing the mortals and mutants lagging behind would be shredded.

 

“We have no use for these insensate champions of the Blood Throne and rejects from the Eaters of Worlds,” called out Rahaund’ul over the chapter-wide vox. “Open fire and let them watch their own demise fly toward them on the tips of bolter rounds. Release your psionic strength and flay their minds in the name of our Great Conspirator. Then steel yourselves for the assault. Let them know we have heard their lies and have come to deliver their punishment!”

 

Well said. Though Scindus lost faith in his brother’s virtue long ago, Little Raha’s skill with words did still impress.

 

All around him bolters and plasmaguns fired into the charging warriors of blood and brass, yet still they plowed forward. Those psykers that were not devoted to the summoning struck with bolts and blasts fueled by the Warp, yet still the barbarians charged at them. More and more fell to the ground, dead or dying or dismembered, weapons shameful discarded as they fall dying. Yet it impeded the charge of no other Berzerker. Once the crimson wave crashed on their shores the Scourged outnumbered them four-to-one, but the odds for survival were still only even, at best.

 

Scindus wasted no time and was already slashing his powered claws at the first combatant to engage him, his fist thrusting to his left and pummeling another. Claws met chainaxe in a squeal of metal, sparks and lightning flying everywhere. The crazed Astartes shouted some curse or proclamation at him, but Scindus was not listening to his spoken voice. Instead he attuned his mind to the Berzerker’s silent intentions, hearing every feint and false strike telegraphed as clearly as any other lie. Four seconds was enough time to find a killing blow with the lightning claws and welcome the next challenger.

 

One minute into the fight, and both warbands saw themselves at half strength. Puddles and rivulets of blood were everywhere, soaking the battleground, dotted sporadically with islands of gore. Scindus spared a glance to ensure the sorcerers maintaining the summoning were unharmed – thankfully they all still stood – but it cost him a glancing blow with a mangled blade. Alarmed, and angered with his lapse in guard, Scindus struck with a countering uppercut of his left fist, and the offending warrior was now a red mist from the waist up.  

 

One more minute passed and brought with it the hundreds of mortal zealots that trailed behind the Berzerkers. Those that survived the gauntlet of Revenant’s guns wove their way into the ranks of battle and struck blindly at any target they could reach, friend or foe. Inferior and improvised blades beat and scratched on Scindus’ armor but he paid them no mind as he parried another chainaxe. The mortal chaff was a secondary concern.

 

That’s when Lord Dhelmas spoke on the vox once again. “They play into our hands, brothers. Their foolish assault is the fuel we need for our summoning! Push them into the pit with the others, and open the door for the daemon!”

 

At the end of the third minute, the Scourged had fallen to just shy of one third their numbers, but the Berzerkers had been defeated. Only the collection of mutants and humans remained, but at least their presence was welcome. Every Astartes in azure armor worked to rout the gore-soaked cultists straight into the sacrificial pit, but the fight was still far from easy. The inferior beings swarmed around them all, stifling their movements in a desperate struggle to shed blood. Still, the tide was finally turning in favor of the Scourged. More energy poured out in bolts from the pit, and the mist grew thicker. It wouldn’t be long now. And it’s just as this renewed hope was spreading that the blood on the ground began to boil.

 

Scindus could not comprehend what his senses were telling him at first. The odor of burning blood overpowered him with memories from the galaxy’s birth, and the air distorted in a way that refracted time. Instantly the lake of blood beneath him erupted, and howling out of the miasma came charging a band of Bloodletters, all eight of them heading straight toward him. Scindus dodged the initial attacks on instinct alone, barely able to see the strikes as they narrowly missed his body.

 

This was bad. He fought well, and he fought hard, but this was not a fight Scindus had any hope of winning. Slowly the Bloodletters closed in around him, avoiding any swipe of his claw as he dodged and blocked their blades. He could not predict their actions – the feints of men are heard clear as day, but daemonic lies are silence to him. A lucky strike knocked him to a knee, leaving him open to a coming blow that would surely finish him. And there was nothing Scindus could do to defend himself. Well. So be it.

 

But the blow was late. A glowing green force sword parried the strike before it could remove Scindus’ head, and a telepathic push shoved half of the daemons away. He rallied to his feet and swung his fist in a very wide arc, gaining some breathing room for himself and his defender, Rahaund’ul. The Bloodletters never faltered, still fighting feverishly for a chance to spill blood, now having two bodies to rip open. Scindus slashed at a daemon on Raha’s flank, ripping the arm off at the shoulder just as another daemon wailed as green witchfire burned it away from existence.

 

“This changes nothing, Brother.”

 

“Just fight, damnit! The summoning is almost-”

 

Rahaund’ul never finished his words, as the ground shook and fissured beneath everyone left on the surface. The handful of humans and Astartes still trading blows suddenly ignored each other and sidestepped the widening cracks rending through the bedrock. Even the remaining Bloodletters paused as brilliant blue light shone from within the fissures. Everyone’s eyes turned to the pit as every trace of the cerulean mist was sucked deep within the well. For a split second, the atmosphere froze and there was complete silence, followed immediately with a pummeling shockwave and a screeching, birdlike call from the daemonic figure that had materialized.

 

Pointing a serpentine staff forward, the Lord of Change’s eyes radiated white light as lightning arced from its second hand, vaporizing all but one of the Bloodletters. The lone red daemon rushed forward, Hellblade thrust forward to stab the superior entity.  The Greater Daemon relaxed its arm and flapped its resplendent wings in a single gust, sweeping the Bloodletter off its feet and sending it tumbling through the air. Once high above the battleground the daemon froze, snarling as it fought invisible bonds on its limbs, then wailing once its own body compressed unto itself, making a singularity of daemon flesh. Those scant few cultists of blood still alive – whose minds hadn’t shattered by the very presence of the Greater Daemon – were lifted from their feet and drawn into the same singularity, until all that was left of the assault was a single red crystal falling out of the sky.

 

Every living member of the Scourged dropped to their knees in reverence, save for the mindless Revenants and Rahaund’ul. The Sorcerer Lord and the Lord of Change turned to address one another. Not a word was spoken for some time, either aloud or telepathically. Even as gibbering Horrors started crawling out of the pit in droves and running off onto the planet, the two figures motionlessly appraised each other. At last, the bird-like demigod nodded. Scindus would have reacted to the sudden motion, but he and the rest of the Scourged – alive and dead – were instantly transported to the decks of Deception’s Call. Warpfrost was still sublimating off his armor before Scindus’ mind registered that he was no longer on Kathalon.

 

Every azure warrior, upon regaining composure, left to either attend to the wounded or resume any preparatory duties for departure. If the daemon was true to his word, the warp storm preventing them from leaving the system should no longer stand in the way. A hasty departure was imminent, so no one could be afforded any time to reflect on the day’s events. Scindus opened a private vox channel with Little Raha as he headed to the armory. Perhaps a century of contempt was long enough.

 

“Thank you… Brother.”

 

The channel closed before Rahaund’ul could offer any type of response. Off all the events that had transpired in the last week, Scindus’ warm gratitude was the only one that surprised the sorcerer. But he could reflect on that later. Lord Dhelmas opened up a vox channel of his own, this one to the bridge:

 

“Admiral Rhomanus, take my ship and get us the hell away from this planet.”

 

 

[Kierdale]

It's been a busy week so I won't be able to finish my entry in time. I'll post it next week anyway :) Sadly I didn't have time to read anyone else's entries...yet.

 

Once Carrack had chosen this week's winner I'll put up the next challenge.

[Carrack]

Summoning.

Another week of good tales. Once again I enjoyed reading everyone of them. Since we only had a few entries, I thought I would add my own critiques on what was good and what needed improvement for each. These are all nothing more than my personal opinions, and I'm uneducated, unsophisticated, and occasionally of unsound mind. );

Warsmith Aznable.

+ perfectly captured the use and view of daemons by his Legion.

+ Multiple narrators worked well in telling both an overarching story, and the traditions and practices handed down in his Grand Company.

+I found the character of "Finder" very believable, and an interesting take on a psycher.

-perhaps a little more detail on the setting, not a major drawback, as the story is great as is, and more detail may make the story too long, but it seemed like a missed opportunity to do a bit of world building.

Thedarkprincesnun.

+ Your description of the ritual and subsequent possession was unique and very grim, and dark.

+There was a clear plot to the story,

+Jimbob the Chaos Marine. Coffee exited my nose I laughed so hard.

-Grammar and punctuation. I'm by no means a stickler for such things, the story is more important, but poor grammar and punctuation break up the flow of the story, as the reader has to reread or decipher the intent of the author.

- Kira is a bit of a stereotypical character, perhaps you could explain the reason she had such fanatical devotion, because while it certainly can be believable if explained, it's not normal human behavior.

-Kira refers to the "former cathedral to the corpse Emperor". I doubt faithful loyalists refer to the Emperor as the Corpse Emperor.

Scourged

+epic, epic battle, epic ritual.

+ the characters of the two brothers were interesting and compelling.

+ Great action, I have consistently been impressed with every IF story you have submitted, but this time your fight scenes really stood out, in addition to the plot and characters that you normally write so well.

-What happened when the sacrifices went into the pit? I'm assuming the mist or energy killed them somehow, but I was unclear as to what the pit did to the sacrifices.

Once again, great stories all, but there has to be a winner. Honestly, this last week of my guest hosting IF has been the hardest to choose a winner. The stories of Warsmith Aznable and Scourged both stood out as potential winners, but I choose Warsmith Aznable as the winner of this week's IF. Claim your prize.