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Part I Feed the Horses One Mundane divinity The too human familiarity of Angels Spite i. “At the beginning, in my younger years, I did not think it possible that man alone could change the way of the stars. “I thought it the purview of His great Angels, and those iron behemoths shaped in His image. That only they, in His divine power, could reach out their hands and wring from the stars the yokes of their fortunes and bounties and treasures so that Mankind might prosper. “It wasn’t until Anchreus that I saw just what Man could do. “Men, flesh, blood, of tissue and sinew unchanged and unblessed. By their thousands. By the very tide of their bodies, I saw as they stacked one another up, chewed through by bullet and las, they changed fate. “A rout made into victory by flesh. An unwinnable battle won, because of the bounty of flesh Man had to offer. Castles unassailable, assailed unto ruination, by Man. “It tore me to my foundations. The sight quite literally drove me to a sort of personal madness, an affliction of the spirit my liege would say. He is like that, both painfully aloof and vague, but blunt unto the point that it borders on rude, even accusatory. “You are welcome here, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. The Spite Crusade welcomes all pilgrims. I cannot take you to the lord Spitewielder now, nor his commanders, but I can take you to his knights. “My dear, are you well? You look rather, I’m sorry, not pale, but a…mauve?” Acenya Bhabli caught the shoulder of the older man, steadying herself. Translation fatigue, she thought. She could picture the shipboard medicae advising that her new medication would aggravate the symptoms. She offered the older man, the appointed liaison who had been awaiting her arrival at the docking hangars aboard the Astartes battle barge The Flail, flagship of the Spite Crusade, and home to the Black Templars Crusaders forming its backbone. The liaison, an aged man in a cream robe with a black woolen rope around his waist, older in feature if not gusto, was still staring at her, a look of paternal concern tugging at the folds and wrinkles of his eyes. “I’m well, sir, thank you. Translation fatigue, I’m told.” She smoothed out the crinkles of her tunic, clearing her throat to make up for the lapse. “His knights, you were saying?” The liaison, Tyren, turned to stern, his crooked nose preferred over his finger in directing her. “Follow me this way, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. There are few on board, him, the Castellan, their squads. The rest are below, completing the last of their preparations before departure.” He led them away through various corridors, both immense in scale and claustrophobic in its immediacy. She had been led to believe, before her master had sent her on this task, that the Templars were somewhat ostentatious. That the insides of their vessels were gilded bow to stern, and that every panel inside would be lined with a sector’s worth of gold and jewels decorating them. Most areas were spartan, left bare, save for the heraldic cross of the Black Templars Chapter and candles left in their loneliness. Almost every archway and door carried the icon. Either acid etched, carved, or embossed, each one was different from the last. Some were deep stones of jet, others dull and uninteresting blackened iron. The Flail was old, and she showed her age in the cavities that ran throughout her bones. Ancient prayer scrolls from thousands of years ago, barely tattered moth-scraps left on grisled wax seals that were much more grime than purified wax. She sensed an air of melancholy running through it, which she found both highly perplexing of an Astartes vessel, and profoundly sad. She spent many months aboard shift ships, and the last handful aboard the mass transport vessels of civilian ships. Crowded, teeming, so full of life. Certainly cramped, and containing very little privacy. And the noise, so many people corralled together, confined to claustrophobic quarters. She hadn’t seen much on the approach to the docking hangars, but she heard the pilots almost fawning over the sight of the ship. On more than one occasion, she had heard the term “halcyon” used by them before landing. Now that she was inside, she felt something between let down and intrigued. She came to appreciate quickly that most starships were, in fact, ships and shared a great deal of mundane familiarity amongst each other. Halls were just halls, no matter their grandeur or ornamentation. Scaffolds were just scaffolds, regardless of the intricate, painstakingly hand etched blessings carved into their handrails. However, there were some places that demanded reverence. Ancient places that floated out amongst the stars, sheathed in the ships they called home. Tyren had brought her near the threshold of such a place. Black and white checkered tiles led on until her vision could only see where the narrowed walls met. Worn from years of use, yet not a single stain or crack hobbled their surfaces. The walls themselves were brushed brass, with black iron sconces burning at regular intervals, the flames throwing arcs and moors of light, cascading onto forever in the dim glow of millions of trillions of reflections proliferating on and on and on. Paintings of individual warriors, of the Templar knights, hung from the walls, their features jumping between portrayals of stoicism, pride, and unbridled zeal. Most of these were unhelmed, save for a few wearing the most ancient marks of that sacred attire. Hauntingly, the far, faded echoes of hymnal chanting reverberated from the depths, beyond where the light reached. It was deep, unceasing, coming from dozens of voices. Without knowing why, she felt that she could tell the chanting was old. Old old, from a time long before that the actual grasping understanding of its length was laughable. Banners depicting richly sewn scenes of triumph, loss, somber humility, and righteous victory hung heavy, looming even, as sentries from the ceiling on thick chains. Here was the depiction of a bold knight in black armor, wielding a mace with the very same death’s head the knight wore. The figure seemed vindictive and righteous, surrounded by knights in uniform black and white checkered armor. The scene was intricately wrought, sewn in the classical Gothic style that dominated most Ecclesiarchal domains and that of nobles. Yet here, it lacked the ostentatious nature. Indeed, all of it held a heavy air of reverence. She looked at the other banners. There, another this done in fine golden thread, with rich reds and oranges laced throughout its stitching. This knight was hewn into the shape of a giant astride a field of fel corpses, the same mace as before held before him as if in warding. Her eyes drank more and more in. Each banner detailed a similar skull-faced figure, similar but slightly different from banner to banner, yet all carrying what she believed to be some ancient relic of the Chapter. She craned her neck straight up to look at the closest banner. This one was newer, the fabric still vibrant and fresh. On its pallid surface, three warriors rested at a respectful kneel, two of their armor trimmed in red, the third in silver. A fourth figure was prone, abasing himself at the feet of yet another warrior whose features were that of a human skull. In its outstretched hands, the skull-headed mace. The scene was surrounded by flames, warriors in crimson armor staked atop black spears. She let out a startled gasp as the liaison placed a firm hand onto her shoulder, stopping her from taking the step she was unconsciously making onto the checkered tiles. “We are not allowed here.” Tyren said. All warmth had left his voice. “What is this place?” She asked, entranced now with the mystery of it more than the gaudy nature of the hall. “It is their temple. Their church is beyond the dark, there. Only they are allowed here, and certainly we mustn’t cross the threshold. Do not step onto those tiles, Historitor Acenya Bhabli.” “It’s…just Bhabli.” “They will kill you, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. They will kill you and that will be the end of it. Take nothing else I say to heart but this; go no further.” She made to respond but was interrupted by the dim shadows. “He is correct.” They both startled. The voice came from the blackness beyond the light of the sconces, deep and mechanical. She felt her guts tighten, and a thin sheen of sweat coated her skin. A slow, steady thump echoed down the hall. The rattling of chains and the teeth aching hum of an active engine crept from the dark. An immense figure of black armor confidently strode into the dull torch light. “Castellan Kestian.” The old man offered a deep bow. “Why are you here, Tyren?” The giant asked, coming to rest just meters from them. “Mistress Jasper advised me to take Historitor Acenya Bhabli through here to the Solemn Archive to await the lord Spitewielder.” Replied Tyren, not moving from his proffered state. “This is the Historitor?” The Astartes asked. “Yes, lord Castellan.” Tyren replied. “This was to be Jasper’s duty?” “Yes, lord Castellan. But she entrusted it to me, citing other pressing matters she needed to attend to.” Said Tyren, wrinkling his nose. “Serf Jasper is a girl of thirteen, Tyren. You are…what? Fifty-seven now?” Tyren frowned. “Fifty-eight, lord Castellan.” As he made his attempt to abase himself to the Castellan, Bhabli took in the full features of the knight before her. He was without a helmet, allowing her to see the rich ochre skin, like a fine, deep leather. A well kept beard trimmed his features, only giving way to a trio of diagonal scar tissue, reaching from the crest of his bald scalp, carving just near his left eye, catching at the corner of his lip, before finally disappearing into the collar of his gorget. Slung over his shoulder was a finely crafted ax that gave a faint reflection of blue in its recesses. It was heavily ornate and finely decorated, but she could make little of its features from the light. The knight wore a tabard belted at the waist by a chain. The same symbol shown on his chest as she had seen at every entryway of the ship. A chevron adorned his right pauldron, three stylized morning stars the color of sage over a field of white. He would have been handsome had his features not been enlarged by the transhuman reshaping that forged him into homo Astarte. “The Primarch sent you?” He asked, turning his brown eyes upon her for the first time. That direct look shot a bolt of pain into her chest from the terror response. Transhuman dread was still difficult to shake off even for those who were more accustomed to being around them. You weren’t being looked at like another person. You were being meticulously killed a thousand times over as efficiently and brutally as possible in their gaze. She was held steady, impossibly immobile by the giant’s hand engulfing her shoulder. Without her even seeing it, he had bent to a knee and held her steady. His eyes were now directed to the top of her shawl that hid her face. “My apologies, Historitor Acenya Bhabli. Too many days spent with those used to marching beside us. Are you well?” The Astartes sounded genuine. When the shaking had left her bones, she took in a deep breath and nodded. “I’m fine, thank you. I’ve a touch of translation fatigue, it’ll pass, and I’m smart enough to admit that, yes, you did terrify me just then, and no, you do not have to apologize again.” “Lady Historitor! Mind yourself, that is the-” Tyren was cut off from his chastisement by the warrior’s single raised finger. “You are expected to meet with the lord Spitewielder in the Solemn Archives?” Bhabli nodded as the Templar rose to his feet. He turned to Tyren, gave him new orders, accepted the elder man’s bow, and turned. One massive gauntlet rested against her back and she was being led further down the hallway, away from the decorated hall they had met. “I was actually intending to meet with my brothers there. I will take you.” ii. The Solemn Archives were the names given to the vast halls that contained all repositories of information, lore, history, and documents collected since The Flail was a fledgling warship in her birth-anchor. The entrance was guarded by a single knight. His armor was largely unadorned save for a single chain of silver hanging from his left pauldron. The charm at the end was a heavily stylized version of their Chapter’s heraldic cross. Drawing his sword in a left handed grip, the Templar came forward. In his free hand, a beaten lantern of black-iron barely illuminated the hallway. A strong smell of perfumed smoke crept from the bent and tattered corners that met the candle box’s glass surface. Inhaling the smoke made her eyes throb and her pulse became a beating tattoo in her temple. “Halt ert name thyselves!” The warrior’s voice was strong, assured, almost cocky as it carried away into the blackness they had traversed. “Step aside, boy.” Came the Castellan’s reply. The Templar did not waver, though he hesitated before activating the sword. “That pause would have cost you, Initiate Hunfrid.” Clapping the guardian knight on his pauldron, Kestian pushed past him. “It is a good thing I am not the one seeking admission into the Reclusiam. The Spitewielder would not have found your familiarity with me a virtue.” Chastised, the knight saluted, jogged past to open the door, his head dipped in dogged resignation as they left him. They were greeted with towering shelves spanning into the hazy dark. Distantly, softly, the sound of a heavy organ rang hauntingly throughout the endless isles of contained knowledge. The space towered above her, yet she felt compressed, consumed by the vastness that stretched forever upwards and forwards. She could see stretches of finely crafted wooden floors, corralled by beautifully wrought iron banisters creating balconies in which different shadows played host to the lights its occupants inhabited. Corners flickered with candles, robed and isolated figures that were certainly other Templars, poured over books and scrolls and patches of torn cloth. Pieces of art were displayed in their own cabinets. As they walked past, she would appreciate them, hungry for any details she could glenn for future recording. In one she saw an intricately detailed landscape in miniature. Small figures of what seemed to be Black Templars amongst a broken city’s garden district fought against armored Astartes in oceanic green, of whom were adorned in spikes. Though the Templars looked odd, their armor etched in black and Imperial gold, icons of thunder bolts and fists as frequent as the heraldic cross. A second held what, at initial glance, looked to be battlefield detritus. A rusted piece of barbed wire, a chunk of burned rockrete painted in hazard stripes, and another item that caught her curiosity. A symbol she had spent much of her recent life around. Near the corner of the display case, atop a cushion of black velvet, sat a broach in the shape of the Ultima symbol of the Ultramarines Chapter. Though this seemed more archaic, more ornate, indeed, there was a certain air to it that spoke of something both painful and merciful. They walked for what seemed like an hour before coming to a closed door nestled between two shelves stacked either side with helmets. Each bore some grisly damage, no doubt the killing wound to its former bearer. Some were black, others gold, sprinkled throughout where she could see were a handful of cream and checkered patterns as well. Fewer still were faint suggestions of red helmets further up near the ceiling. The Lord Castellan opened the door and held it for her. A hiss of escaping air greeted her. Inside were several more Astartes, each tending to their own interests. “Greetings, brothers. I’ve brought with me Historitor Acenya Bhabli, sent to us from the Primarch himself. She has assured me that our lord is interested in meeting her.” The proclamation was greeted with silence. Every eye turned to look at her, but this time, she turned her gaze to their boots, tucking her eyes further into the recesses of her shawl. “He’ll be another hour, says his herald.” One of the warriors spoke, a seated Templar with long, curled hair. He was square jawed and stoically featured, closing the book he had been reading as he addressed them. “Should you not be with him, brother? Being our Castellan and what not?” Asked another, this one of paler complexion. A thin beard trimmed his chin, with a buzzed mohawk of dirty blonde scything his head. He offered the Historitor a toothy, confident grin. “He dismissed me.” Replied Kestian, closing the door behind him. “Dismissed you?” The two asked simultaneously. “Did you talk reason to him?” Asked a third Templar, looking over his shoulder from the cogitator he was stationed in front of, his silhouette made more absurd by the many snake-like appendages jutting from his backpack. “I did.” Said Kestian with a knowing smile. “That would do it, then.” The knight turned back to the glowing monitor, the sound of heavy mechanical clicks emanating from his corner, one of the appendages made a machine buzz sound as it turned within its arm housing. “I’m sorry. May we slow down?” Bhabli finally managed, trying very hard to follow the conversation. Sweat crept down her neck, making the shawl stick to her uncomfortably. Her head hurt and there was a twitch in her eye she didn’t appreciate. “My apologies, Histo-” “Just Bhabli, please. Please.” She interrupted, turning fully to emphasize her point. “Very well. My apologies madam Bhabli. Brother Kybert is inquiring as to my presence. Our lord is particularly choleric as of late, and has dismissed me from the current fleet junction going on.” Spoken so plainly, Bhabli balked at the casual nature of the remark. Especially coming from what was a lord Castellan. “You were not sent to fetch me?” She asked. “No, madam. I was simply leaving my meditations from the chapel and happened upon you and Tyren.” “Tyren?” Asked the warrior Kestian had indicated was Kybert. “What was he doing at the chapel?” He looked appalled, the other Templars almost motionless. The Castellan raised a hand to calm them. “Outside the Hall of Legacy, not the chapel itself. Tyren was escorting her on Jasper’s orders.” “I have more questions now.” Said Kybert, his face pinched in confusion. “Lady Bhabli, could we offer you a seat? I can hear your pulse. You are under immense stress at the moment.” The Astartes who had been sitting in one of the stone benches arrayed in the room rose, gently taking her hand in his silver gauntlet, and gave her his seat. “You are surprisingly gentle for Space Marines.” Bhabli let the words come freely, feeling from the gathering of warriors that simple plainness of word was welcome, even encouraged, here. She winced as she saw how the three unhelmed warriors’ eyes collectively twitched. “Our lord has made mortal interaction and etiquette mandatory training within the Crusade.” Replied the warrior as he bent back up from aiding her down. “How very Macraggian of him.” The Castellan laughed, as did Kybert. The warrior helping her let slip the edge of his lip in the flash of a smirk, but nothing more. “He would probably find that both incredibly humiliating and painfully true.” The warrior turned, the edge of his silver arm catching the light from the other seated Templar’s display. He poured a small amount of wine into a pewter cup made to scale for Astartes. She took it with both hands, lifting the folds of her shawl before taking it up, and drank. “I am Altus, and this is Malgur of the Forge. He is poor company, but not a displeasure to be around. That is Kybert. Him and I, as well as another of our brothers, are what remains of our founding of the Spiteful.” She blinked. She felt utterly naked without her quill or servo skull. There was an aching pain to write everything she had just heard, to catalog and to push and to question. “What-” She began. There came a knock on the door. All heads turned. The lord Castellan went to the door, pushing it open on silent hinges. “The lord Spitewielder comes just before me. Please make ready.” A man of middling age came through the door, half his face covered by a gorgeously carved mask hewn in the features of fury. He turned and nodded upon seeing her. “Excellent. Please rise, Historitor Acenya Bhabli.” She did so. He made for the door, disappearing behind it. A final warrior joined the congregation. A chorus of rattling chains and the smoke of burning candles filled the room. Adorned in black armor, a different, more profound black from that of his brethren, it was hard edged and cumbersome looking. Atop his backpack were three headstones, each of which hosted a skull fashioned from bronze. Atop these were votive candles, their flames strong and bright. Spikes adorned the vents of the massive generator. Secured to his shoulder by chains was a human ribcage. She was oblivious to the symbolism of it. But it was a chilling site to see such a grisly trophy displayed on a warrior of the Emperor. This was not the gothic touch the Imperium festooned upon everything. It was simply a butchered man’s rib cage chained to the Templar’s shoulder, the charm’s heraldic pendants shaped into crosses. Hanging from behind his tasset, set at the waist, hung a black tabard showing the white crest of his Chapter. His helmet was like the one seen in the banners she had looked at before crossing Kestian. The singular gleaming red eye lens. The black cross branded onto the scowling forehead. The vox caster clamped between grinding teeth. All of this collectively, almost instinctively upon making the connection to the banners, forced her to look at his hip. Hanging against a loop of brass, a war maul shaped into a grinning skull, a halo of spikes cresting it. A limp chain connected it to his vambrace. An aroma came off of it, deeper and more pungent than the smell of incense or the smoke from the candles. It was the smell of centuries of blood. Of slain foes and retribution. It stank of malice and hatred and something very specific, something more personal than resentment, but more meaningful than vengeance. There was a palpable scornfulness to its casting. It wasn’t just a lump of steel or iron or ceramite. From its recesses and in the pools where the light didn’t quite catch it was a deeper color still. The weapon was unlike any she had seen in her handful of years documenting the fighting edges of the Imperium, where the Primarch sent the very mightiest of the Emperor’s armies to fight and wage war against the encroaching darkness. This here was the man she had been sent to meet with, and to document and make historically accurate texts of, as per the laws of her newly found Order. Here was the curator of an Imperial Crusade Army, and of that, a particular kind of Crusade Army. This was what the Templars would cite as a True Crusade Army. One commanded by the Black Templars, the scions of Sigismund, and sons of the Primarch Rogal Dorn. Here were warriors who had never left the Great Crusade. These warriors claimed a legacy that dated back ten thousand years. And she was ignoring him entirely. “Lady Bhabli, are you well? This is not the first time you have been asked this, I am told.” “You are the warrior from the banners I saw.” The skull faced helmet tilted to the side ever so gently. “Yes, but no.” “Yes, see, he has a fancy necklace.” Kestian pointed to the golden cross, studded with rubies and ambers, hanging from yet another chain, though this, too, was gold. “The others were more humble.” A chorus of laughs came from the gathered knights. “It is a long story, and one many Chapters have done since the time of Legions. Armors are passed down from generation to generation, from dead knight to risen squire. The face of a Chaplain will carry on even further than that, thus you recognize me. You see the face of my master, and his master before him.” The Spitewielder ran a hand over the skeletal visage of his face. “This helmet looked upon the face of my father when he still walked amongst us. It has seen the face of the Arch Traitor himself, and the whoresons he sired. It has bled the foe under the skies of Terra. I am the face of the warrior from the banner, yes. But, I am a faint echo of an eternal spite.” “He also,” Grumbled Kestian, “says a lot of exhaustive :cuss: like this.” Bhabli’s hands clenched and unclenched with the ache to begin writing. Seeing this, the masked man who had accompanied the Chaplain, quietly spoke into the hem of his collar before stepping to the door, retrieving a small yellow satchel, and offered it to the Historitor with a servile bow. She tore into it, tossing the bag onto the stone bench, fetching her slate and quill. The Templars had already begun talking amongst themselves. She made quick and short snippets of dialogue, explanatory and contextual notes, and maddened scribbles. Her head shot up once she had emptied the brewing storm of words in her skull, threatening to burst from her ears and eyes if she did not release them onto screen or parchment. The knights were departing, the last words she caught mentioning a formal inspection before mass boarding. Castellan Kestian offered her a polite bow of his head, before donning his studded helmet. “Well met and best of luck, madam Bhabli.” Then the doors shut and she was alone with the man of highest authority in the entire sector. “Where shall we begin, Lady Historitor?” iii. “You are coming from Demeter IV, with the armor reinforcements? That was several months’ travel for you, Lady Bhabli.” They had retired into one of the anterooms adjacent to where they had met. Here, several chairs designed to both support an armored Astartes, but also provide some semblance of comfort to an unarmored warrior, it was still laughably too large for her. The Chaplain was seated, his hands resting against either armrest. Wine was near and available, but he had not removed his helmet. She had not yet mustered up the courage to ask him to. There was a quality to him that made it somewhat more difficult to be around him. There was a heightened awareness that there was something other about him. Between the transhuman dread, and her bout of translation fatigue, she accepted two things; firstly, she was human, and ultimately susceptible to those mortal limitations. Secondly, the warrior before her was a great many things. A Chaplain of an Astartes Chapter, the architect of this Crusade, and a living weapon set before her in an intimate setting. There was much to be unnerved by. “I am, my lord.” She said, picking up the lapse before it lingered too late. “My master gave me instruction to join your fleet, to embark on your Crusade. Document its goings-on and analogize what can be given back to humanity, when so much knowledge and lore has been lost.” Even saying it, she felt a tinge of home-sickness. She perfectly recited what her mentor would quote to her small class at every chance he could when describing the nobility of their cause, and the justness of its execution. “Quite so. What is it you know of us?” The Chaplain drummed the fingers of his right hand in a steady rhythm. The knuckles of which were banded with brass spikes, the brutal stumps fat and acid etched with minute scripture. It sounded like a piston hammering into stone. “Of the Black Templars? Only what the Primarch’s office provided us. Basic organization structure - more so, what your ranks were and how I might address you - but otherwise, nothing much more than the name of your Chapter Master, which legion you hail from, and your progenitor.” She swiped through her data slate, clearing her throat and read from it. “It is known that the Black Templars are devout followers of the Imperial Creed, and that you are some of the most sought after and requested warriors of the Era Indomitus. The Imperial Regent, the Primarch Reborn, impressed upon my master, who impressed it upon me, that the Knights of Dorn would do well to raise the hearts of Imperial citizens, and offer hope in these dark times. So, it is my thanks that you accepted this proposal. I have heard tales from my colleagues that many of the other Crusades denied them.” She went to sip from her wine, embarrassingly remembered the cup’s size, sat the data slate down, and lifted the cup up slowly with both hands. “I imagine many, if not most, were denied. We are sons of Dorn. What else is there needed to be known from us?” The Chaplain’s mace sat in his lap respectfully across his knees. Occasionally he would run his thumb along its leather handle, fidgeting with some unseen imperfection. “Well, first and foremost, my duty is to document the Crusade. My master was particularly enthused by your acceptance to our request. He claimed that it was special in some way.” Bhabli’s fingers held the quill firm to the dataslate, ready to transcribe everything. The Chaplain did not reply for many moments. He simply stared at her, the one eye lens showing with a pinprick of red. “Many Crusades exist amongst the Imperium. Mightiest is the Eternal Crusade. The one our sire, the first High Marshal Sigismund, vowed to continue. Amongst some of that mighty number are peculiar beacons of history, myth, and legend.” He stood then, taking the maul near the base of the head into his fist and carrying it with him to where a fireplace did its poorest effort of illuminating the room they were in. “The Black Templars are an old Chapter. We existed even in the time of the legions, inside the order of the Imperial Fists. Many of our artifacts and heirlooms come from such times, so we are dedicated and watchful stewards of these curios.” He turned the mace over in his fist, looking at it, his back partially turned to her. She didn’t move, only her hand making steady, quick traces over the green ambient hue of her screen. The Chaplain continued after a moment’s pause. “Crusades take on titles and names of the system they are conquering, or the foe they face, or the warrior that leads them. Sometimes the essence of the war entire. But some Crusades bear the Titles of Eternity. Meant to be challenges to our enemy, a boast of what we represent, a promise to those that dare foul His realm.” “So the Spite Crusade is such a thing?” She asked. “It is.” “And so what curio do you house? What myth is carried by the knights of the Spite Crusade?” Bhabli was leaning over her data slate as she wrote, furiously transcribing the Chaplain’s words. The room was then suddenly filled with a dreadful rasp and a baleful light of stark, unforgiving white. From across the room, the Chaplain had activated, and was pointing, the head of his maul at her. “This is the honored crozius arcanum Spite, wielded against the traitor on the walls during the Siege of Terra. We are the 88th founding of the Spiteful, the oathed keepers who continue the saga that would wield Man’s spite in His glory.” He ran the weapon in an arc across the air, sparks snaking out of its head, encompassing the greater ship around them. “Similarly, The Flail has been the home of Spite and its host since it was gifted to our Chapter at our founding.” He finished. “And so now you are the Spitewielder?” Bhabli’s throat was dry, and the active weapon field ate any moisture in the room. It made her gums itch and eyes sting. Spite deactivated in an abrupt growl, coming to rest at the Chaplain’s knee. “As were the wishes of my master, and the blessed Reclusiarch. Everyday, I must be found worthy of it. You come at an auspicious time, Lady Bhabli.” “Why is that, my lord?” “I am still young in my years as the Spitewielder. You’ve met my Castellan?” She offered him a wry smile, one he ignored behind the snarl of his helmet’s stylized teeth. “Yes, well, in most circumstances he would be in charge. Indeed, he should be a Marshal, but he is also…No, sorry, but forgive me keeping some secrets. There would typically be a Castellan or a Marshal appointed to this role.” “And not a Chaplain?” She asked, curiously holding her quill away, looking for a physical cue to continue writing on the lore of his Chapter. When he simply did not protest, but continued talking, she did too with her transcription. “Chaplains have led Crusades. But these are usually warriors under my circumstance, or due to the death of other officers amongst a Crusade. But yes, as the title of Spitewielder sits upon my mantle, I hold the authority of that office.” The Templars priest let the mace fall into its holster-loop with a dull thud and walked over to her, nudging the dataslate down to read with his middle finger. “Your handwriting reminds me of my own.” He said. “Thank you.” “It was a criticism, not a compliment.” She blinked, read over her notes, and wrote something down and turned the screen to show him. “Now, certainly that is something you should avoid calling me out loud. Lest it be inappropriate to a man of my station.” “I may correct it. In the future.” She set the data slate down. “So you are new to the title? To the office? And this great collection of ships and what looks to be a jumbled mix of cobbled together troops?” The Chaplain’s head tilted to the side in that curious manner of his. “How do you mean?” He asked. “Well you mention my coming here amidst the armored reinforcement.” “I have made a call to war, sent out a Declaration of Arms to the various worlds and systems surrounding us. We have been docked here for years, waiting, gathering, amassing. The last of those to heed the call are here. Those who would answer have sent what swords they could.” As he spoke, he reached up to the golden medallion dangling from his neck, running armored fingers down it. The word “Spite” was engraved in High Gothic. “To gather warriors, especially in these times, can be difficult. I am, due to my rank and title, and the very nature of what I am, afforded more luxuries. But supplies, man power, ships…all so valuable, more so with the return of the Primarch Reborn. Those pilgrims that come to me are welcomed, and brought together under my banner. Even still, I’ve lingered and cannot spare any more time. We must be the blade unsheathed. “I take any and all who come. Ours, Lady, is the spite, and I can wield it in any fashion it is forged. Come with me, Historitor Bhabli, I will take you to the world below and show you the many manifestations it has come to me in.”

The Cobalt Justiciars Heralding from the Ultima Founding, the Cobalt Justiciars are a Codex-compliant chapter of Adeptus Astartes tasked with the adjudication of the Emperor's justice in the Scarus Sector. They specialize in rapid deployment, spearheading footholds in key points of large-scale conflicts, subsequently establishing reinforced forward positions from which to harry the enemy relentlessly, while simultaneously offering line support to bolster bulk forces. They are adept at utilizing every means at their disposal to achieve battlefield advantages. Whether it's deploying to cut off supply lines or seeking the heart of the conflict to eliminate high-value threats, the assessment and execution upon pivotal opportunities make them a force to be reckoned with. The Cobalt Justiciars field a bolstered array of armored vehicles augmented above the standard of most other chapters. Unique to this chapter is a vast cadre of additional baseline troops and personnel that also deploy alongside them following thrust deployments. Once the leading Cobalt Justiciars clear the way, their Tech Marines, allied Techpriests and engineer corps establish temporary strongholds that can serve to completely alter the tide of battle. From these operating points they utilize Chimera tanks and artillery to devastate enchroaching foes and punish fortifications. The chapter is ideal for turning the tide of large-scale engagements where precision strikes the Astartes are known for are not feasible. They are called upon when the need arises for a perfect balance between attack and defense, and to galvanize beleagured allied forces. Their battle prowess is drawn from pragmatism and a desire to preserve as much Imperial influence and strength as possible. They value the people of the Imperium and understand the necessity of protecting assets other chapters ignore. They also serve to step in where Imperial leadership falters, with their senior leadership often taking on temporary governing roles to reorganize and invigorate Imperial forces and populations. Commensurate to their battlefield responsibilities, they often work to administer Imperial justice to maintain order, serving as intermediaries between disparate allied factions. They embody order, strength and the will required to revitalize Imperial domains, knowing full well that if the galaxy was to once again shine in the light of the Emperor's great vision, they must part the darkness for the empire to see it.

Hi guys, saw this over in the Special Projects forum. I checked it out, looks well put together. The download links are to an external site, but just thought it was in our wheelhouse.

Here is my first attempt at a little snippet of fanfiction, along with accompanying pictures...I apologise for the quality! "Brother Gregorius," the Chaplain said, his voice as full of gravel as the ruined battlefield he walked on. The sounds of battle did nothing to muffle his voice. The space marine walking a step behind him didn't speak, as a Judicar, he'd taken a vow of silence, instead he nodded solemnly. He knew what was about to be asked of him, and he hefted his executioners blade in readiness. "This world has been tainted by the Xenos, for every inch of it they have stood on, we will extract the Emperor's vengeance a thousand fold. You know this, correct?" Gregorius nodded again. "When we swing our blessed weapons, we are singing the praises of the Emperor, we are dispensing his justice with every foe we put down. You know this, correct?" the Chaplain stopped, allowing his comrade to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Gregorius turned to him, awaiting the next order. "Then let us go and prove our faith, Brother, our enemies are waiting..." the Chaplain set off again, heading into a mess of buildings. **** Overlord Maultek stood impatiently as his bodyguards surveyed the scene, their warscythes crackling with malicious energy. He rested his own weapon on a rock that he imagined might have been part of the humans primitive dwellings. He'd been tasked with conquering this world, scrubbing it clean of humanity's filthy touch. He had no time for such a trivial matter personally. Still, he'd been told that the orders had been passed down from the Silent King himself till it reached him, and he had no one to toss it on to. The human resistance on this world had tested what little patience he had left. If it'd been up to him completely, he wouldnt have left his tomb ship, choosing to simply bombard the tarnished planet, and it's unpleasant occupants, out of existence. "Sire," the lychguard closest to Maultek said, his metallic voice grating to the Overlords ears. Despite being visibly irritated, the Overlord let him speak, gesturing him to continue. "There's movement ahead." "More useless effort..." Maultek sighed. *** The Chaplain raised his Crozius Arcanum, a sign that they'd found their prey, hhe hated Xenos moving towards them from the other side of the clearing. "Brother Gregorius! Let us show our devotion to the Emperor, and honour our Primarch. We will smite all those in our sight that defile the worlds that belong to our glorious Imperium!" the Chaplain's voice rose higer, reverberating off the skeletal remains of the dingy hab sector turning making it sound more of a dirge. The Judicar, as required, said nothing. Bowing his head as he listened to his Chaplains war prayer. Maultek hesitated when he saw the two large humanoid figures striding towards him and his lychguard. He'd almost enjoyed mowing down the humans he'd come across before, watching as their weapons did nothing. These two, were vastly different. The humans before had fear in their eyes when they beheld him, these two, had nothing but hatred. The lychguard spread out to meet the two space marines head on...

Hello everyone, I'm WolfLogic and I've been posting my fic on this site and others since 2021. The thread here is called 40k Alternate Timeline as I didn't have an official title for it yet when I first posted the idea. Since then I got a bit of inspiration and decided to call it "Dreams Fall Apart" The summary I've come up with for the story is as follows: Millennia ago the Emperor completed the Webway Project and initiated a new crusade to conquer it. Driven to the brink of extinction, the Eldar made a pact with the Chaos Gods and were able to drive the Imperium out of the Webway. Now having to hold off countless incursions by the Chaos Eldar the Imperium is spread thin and only time will tell if humanity can survive the onslaught. While the project started off small and with a specific idea in mind, it has since become much larger than I originally anticipated as I have a great time building up the world I've created and adding details and hopefully some nuance. That being said, I like to stay consistent and have things make sense, so a year or so ago I DMed one of my readers and asked if I could bounce ideas off of them. They accepted and the rest is history. Unfortunately, that person is taking a hiatus from the site to work on their own writing and won't be around to give me feedback and beta my work. So I'm looking for either a temporary replacement or if willing, a permanent addition to my little cabal. Please either respond here or DM me if you're interested. Thanks, have a great day everyone! Here's a link to the story if you don't want to try and find it Dreams Fall Apart

PART I: THREE WERE ONE Three Bodies, One soul - Varneth The ash stuck to everything. It clung to our boots, softened our steps, turned every movement into a whisper. But even then, we were loud in how we moved. Not in sound, but in intention. We weren’t perfect. Not by technique. But we flowed. Vasik advanced like a storm surge, blunt and brutal. Every blow he made was one I didn’t have to. Maerik danced, not elegant, but deliberate. He never wasted a step. Never struck first. But the moment you lost your guard, he was already there. I cut between them. Fast. Playful. Sometimes reckless. I was the flicker, the one who filled the gaps, confident they'd hold the line. We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t analyze it. We just moved. I don’t know who we were fighting. It doesn’t matter. They moved like individuals. We moved like muscle memory. One formation. One will. Three bodies. One soul. The fight ended as fast as it began. Vasik knocked the last one down hard... too hard, maybe. The poor neophyte bounced off the sparring field’s edge with a grunt and rolled onto his side. Before anyone else could react, I clapped my hands once, loud, and shouted, "We’ll stitch his pride back up, too!" Maerik snorted. Vasik shook his head and muttered something about me needing a muzzle. I just grinned, arms wide, ash clinging to my armor like paint. The sun was high and hot. The world was still gray with smoke and dust. But we laughed. We laughed together, not for long, not loudly. But enough. Just enough to remind ourselves we were still alive, still together. That kind of laughter... it stays in the bones. It’s the sound you remember long after the voices are gone. But not every day was like that. Not every day let us fight side by side. They split us once. Just for a day. Said it was to test our individual strengths. I remember Maerik raised an eyebrow, and Vasik just shrugged. I didn’t say anything. We all obeyed, of course, we were still too young to question orders, and too proud to admit we hated the thought of it. I trained with a different squad that day. Good fighters. Focused. Efficient. But none of them moved like Maerik. None of them held the line like Vasik. No one shouted my name when I got ahead of myself, and no one laughed when I tripped into a barrier because I wasn’t watching the field. Everything worked, technically. My strikes landed. I hit my marks. But something was off, like training inside someone else’s armor. Like wearing your brother’s boots and pretending they fit. The silence after drills felt louder. The meal tasted flat. And for the first time, I realized something I didn’t know how to say: Without them, I was still breathing... but half the rhythm was gone. The next day, they put us back together. Nothing was said, no reason given. Just a nod, a lineup, and the three of us were back in formation. But I never forgot that day apart. Afterward, we sat on the edge of the sparring field. Helmets off, sweat drying, ash still in our hair. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. Maerik passed me his canteen. Vasik leaned back on one arm, watching the horizon like it might try something. I closed my eyes and listened to the silence, the good kind, the kind that only existed between us. I don’t remember what that day’s training exercise was meant to teach. I don’t remember who landed the final strike, or how many points we earned, or what the instructor yelled at us afterward. But I remember how we moved. How the three of us circled and crashed and shifted without a word, like limbs of the same body. I remember the weight of Vasik’s shoulder brushing mine as we turned. The soft hiss of Maerik’s blade just inches from my arm, always precise, always trusted. That rhythm. That rightness. We were three. But we weren’t. Not really. We were one. And those first steps... they still echo in me, louder than any war cry since. I Never Had to Look - Vasik I don’t remember the name of the world. Might’ve been something with "Primaris" in it, or maybe a number. Doesn’t matter. It was dust. Rocks. Heat. A canyon with sharp drop-offs and wind that howled like it was in pain. The enemy wasn’t impressive, fast, loud, overconfident. Thought they’d flank us from three ridgelines and cut our force off from the drop point. They never got close. We were sent as a forward element, a standard sweep operation. Three of us. No need for command vox or squad-wide coordination. Just the three who had trained together since they could walk upright in Astartes plate. We moved without a word. Varneth was already sliding up the side slope before the vox even hissed. Maerik adjusted our formation without speaking, tightening the wedge, shifting our advance angle to trap the lead pack in a cross-pattern before they even realized they were spotted. I kept the center. Shield up. Axe forward. That was always my place. We didn’t call it strategy. We just knew what to do. That’s the thing I remember most. Not the fight. Not the noise. Just the way we moved. I knew where they were before I looked. I knew their rhythm better than my own heartbeat. And when the strike came, when the second wave burst from the ridge behind me, I didn’t turn. I didn’t see the blade. I heard it, maybe, somewhere behind my right flank. But I didn’t shift my footing. I didn’t check. I just kept swinging forward, one strike at a time. Because I knew Maerik was there. And he was. His blade caught the attacker low, swept them off-balance. I felt the brush of movement behind my shoulder as he passed. I didn’t flinch. Varneth came next, laughter in his voice as he drove the kill in deep. I didn’t have to speak. Didn’t have to thank them. Didn’t even turn around. We just kept moving. That was the rhythm. That was the bond. Not because we trained it. Not because someone taught it. Just... because it was true. I always struck second. I always knew I could. When it ended, we didn’t talk. Maerik sat against a half-shattered rock, hands resting on the pommel of his blade, eyes closed, not sleeping, not praying. Just... still. Varneth was wiping gore from his gauntlet using the edge of his own cloak. He said something. A joke, probably. His mouth moved like it was. But I didn’t catch it. Didn’t need to. I just stood there for a while, axe resting against my boot, the weight of it settling deep into my arm. The wind had picked up again. The canyon below us was quiet. Still. The three of us didn’t move for a long time. That was how it was, sometimes. Not silence because we were tired. Not silence because we were angry. Just... the kind that came from knowing nothing needed to be said. That was a good day. A quiet one. A day we’d forget in every way but one. We were whole. We were exactly where we were supposed to be. And I didn’t have to look to know that. That day? It didn’t mean much. Just another patrol. Another fight. No medals. No names. But I still think about it. Because that was the day I knew, no matter where I stood, no matter how the lines shifted or how loud the war got... I was never alone. Not then. Not with them. Words I Needed to Say - Maerik He was staring at the names again. The roll of the fallen, etched into cold stone across the Apothecarion wall. Varneth stood there longer than he needed to, his hand resting on the hilt of his scalpel like it was a relic instead of a tool. He wasn’t praying. He wasn’t reflecting. He was... listening. That’s when I knew. Not fully. Not with words. Just that feeling in the marrow of my bones that something had shifted. Like someone had stepped back from a fire, but left their shadow behind. We weren’t neophytes anymore. Varneth had taken the white, the scalpel, the rites, the silence. He bore the lives of others in his hands now, and he carried that burden with grace I never envied, only respected. And I... I had been named Arbiter. Not a mere pathfinder of souls, but their guardian. The voice in the silence, the flame in the dark. The duty that watches even those you love most and holds them to truth. I never told him I was proud. I thought he already knew. Maybe he did. Maybe that’s why he looked away when he noticed I was watching. It didn’t happen all at once. Little things. He stopped laughing first. Not entirely, but the kind that echoed, the kind that used to make even Vasik smirk, that was gone. Replaced with half-smiles, short exhales through his nose. He stayed longer in the Apothecarion after drills. Said he had to restock or sanitize or finish reports. But when I passed the doorway, I saw him just sitting there sometimes. Not working. Not moving. Just... still. He missed cues in our rhythm, minor things. A delayed nod. A strike that didn’t land with us. Not enough to draw comment. Enough to feel. Once, Vasik threw an elbow at him during a lockup, half-playful, half correction. Varneth didn’t dodge. He didn’t react at all until it hit. He blinked. Smiled like nothing happened. I should have said something then. But I told myself it was fatigue. Or duty. Or... just life. But it wasn’t. The space between us was growing. And I knew it. And still, I said nothing. The Chapel was quiet. It always was. I knelt before the Scales, not to ask for strength, but for clarity. The Scales are not ornamental. Not to us. They are judgment. Balance. Truth. We don’t pray to them, we weigh ourselves against them. And that day, I felt myself tilt. “If you must take him,” I said, barely above a whisper, “let me not be blind when you do.” The candles flickered. The censer’s smoke drifted across the tiles like fog. I stayed there longer than I should’ve. Long enough for the ache in my knees to settle into the stone. Long enough for me to hope I was wrong. But I wasn’t. Because when I left the Chapel, I passed the infirmary again. And Varneth was still there. Sitting in the same place. Staring at the same wall. And I didn’t go in. There was a day, months before the signs, maybe years, when we sat and watched a storm break over the hills. No drills. No patrols. Just stillness. A day between deployments. We remained in full armor, disciplined even in rest, but no one spoke of tactics. No one moved to break the silence. The sky above was too clear at first, almost hollow. Then the clouds rolled in, thick, dark, alive. Lightning arced across the horizon, and thunder pressed itself into the stone beneath us like a slow heartbeat. Varneth made a quiet joke. Said the storm looked like my temper and Vasik’s breath. Vasik replied with a low grunt that might’ve been amusement. I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. We weren’t analyzing. We weren’t training. We were just... together. And it was enough. That moment clings harder than any sermon I’ve ever given. It was the last time I can remember when none of us were being anything but brothers. No command. No watch. Just the sky, and the sound of breathing that didn’t feel heavy. And now I wonder if Varneth already felt it then, the pull, the quiet whisper of the Vault. And if he did… Why didn’t I? Moments when we were alone. When I could’ve asked what he was thinking. When I could’ve told him I was afraid. That I saw him changing. That I didn’t want to lose the shape we had always moved in. But I held back. I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That he would speak when he was ready. That whatever was pulling him inward would pass. I was the Arbiter. I was supposed to guard their spirits. I was supposed to feel the weight shift before it cracked the stone. And still, I let the silence settle. I loved him, not with the love of duty or oath, but with the love of a brother born of my blood, shaped in the same womb, carried through the same rites and fires. I thought he knew. I thought that knowing would be enough. But truth unspoken does not echo. There were no words. But I should’ve found some anyway.

A foreword from the Grand Archivist: This is a communique from a certain Private Barnabus to his wife back home. It is however to be committed to the archives as a record of the events of the Lutemis campaign from the Lucis Adventus crusade of Ordo Celestia. Our history is important & its preservation is willed by the Lord himself. Glory to God in the highest! Amen! ********************************************************************************************************************* My dearest Elisa, I am writing to let you know that I have survived the “battle” for the world of Lutemis in the Joran star system! By the grace of our Lord, we have all survived! We won without firing a single shot & took no casualties! Only He could have done such a thing as to grant us this world without the need for violence, though I know that many others will not be so lucky. We arrived here with just over 500 soldiers from our regiment as was decreed by the council. Our leader was Reclusiarch Cornelius, a chaplain of the Golden Order. He attempted to entreat with the planetary governors, as was dictated, yet they refused to comply. Worse for us, they had an army of several thousand guardsmen ready to drive us away. Our small force would not survive, but we had orders to take this world. The Reclusiarch prayed before coming to us with the words of God. He declared that we would meet the enemy on the field of battle, but not to fight. We were to march in formation, not charge or run, but march as though we were in a parade, while singing hymns to our lord! We all thought him mad! Our faith was not strong. We bickered & argued until he agreed to send a communique to Eden to get confirmation from the arch prophet himself! He obliged, but commanded that in return, we must fast & pray for three days while he was entreating with the Lord. After three days we received confirmation that the Reclusiarch’s vision was true, yet for our questioning of the will of the Lord, we had new orders: we would do what the Reclusiarch had told us, but now we were to march forth with NO WEAPONS! Punishment for our disbelief, but we agreed nonetheless. When the time came, we did as we were told. We left our weapons aboard the drop ship & marched in formation, unarmed against an army of thousands! Even worse, they received reinforcements from a chapter of Astartes! We had to push out the thoughts that we would die & bolster our faith! We continued to march, singing our hymns with the Reclusiarch, & you, my dearest Elisa, are well aware that my singing voice is as sweet & soothing as that of a dying pig, yet still I sang, joining my voice with everyone else’s in our cacophonous choir. Others had brought instruments — drums, harps, guitars, trumpets & more — while I for my part held one of many banners. We must’ve looked like fools, marching into battle with no weapons, singing our songs. They must’ve thought us mad. But as we came into range of their many artillery cannons, not a single explosion rang out. As we drew closer to them, no shots came from Bolters or lasrifles! Perhaps our singing drowned it out, but I did not hear any orders being shouted from them, no “fire at will!” no “Stand your ground!” nothing. We continued our march unabated, our songs uninterrupted as we did. As their faces came into view, I saw the distinct look of fear plastered on every face! Every Astartes, every guardsman, every commissar! Their weapons were trained on us, ready to be fired, yet not a single one could pull their triggers or swing their swords! I tell you, Elisa, the Lord himself was with us for I could feel a courage burning inside me that I had never felt before! A courage that drove me to keep marching & sing louder & as we drew closer the enemy began to back away! Not turn & run, but back away, weapons still trained on us, as if they were afraid that we would strike as soon as they turned around or trying to intimidate us! We continued our march until they were backed against the walls of their fortress city, the capitol of Lutemis. When that happened, we were ordered to halt our advance, but continue our song. We must’ve sung for hours, yet it felt all too short when the planetary governors finally entreated with the Reclusiarch. When they did, they claimed that they had entreated with four individuals, yet it was only the Reclusiarch himself who spoke with the governors. A sign that our Lord Himself was truly with us! Lutemis was dedicated to the Golden Kingdom shortly thereafter! Many converted to our Lord & those who didn’t were sent on their way. I pray that they may find the light. The governors have been sent to Eden to receive spiritual guidance & an inquisitor has been sent to take their place until new governors are appointed. I had hoped to see you soon, but alas, I’ve been called to action on another world in the system & it sounds like things may not go as easily as they did here. I’m going to aid my fellow soldiers fight an Ork invasion on Joran Aleph, a death world. Pray for my safety, my love. Kiss our child for me. I know we shall see each other again, either in this life or in the presence of our God in his Golden Kingdom. Glory to God in the highest! Amen! Love, Barnabus Galahad, Private of the 3rd Regiment ________________________________________________________________________________________________ A story I’ve been mulling around for a while now. I was going to write it more as an actual story, especially to give more context to what the Imperial soldiers saw that made them so terrified & the planetary governor unwittingly speaking with Jesus on what to do about the “threat” he was facing, but ultimately, I decided to write it as a letter from a soldier on the battlefield. This limited what I could put in, but that might be a good thing as I do tend to get lost in descriptions. I know this story isn’t very “grimdark” & it may make my fan faction come off as OP, but I intend for miracles like this to be limited, but present, as they do still suffer losses & can’t win every battle. Their overwhelming victories during the Lucis Adventus crusade are followed by a little over a year of peace before they suffer great defeats during a period I call “the Great Upheaval” where they lose much of what they conquered & they have to fight overwhelming odds to reclaim it whilst dealing with a war with the Imperium caused by manipulations. Additionally, I plan to eventually write another story (possibly as a series of memoirs) detailing a particular battle from Lucis Adventus where the soldier had to engage in urban warfare & witness some horrible things, but who knows when I’ll sit down & write that. I have a lot of ideas in my head, I just don’t always put them to paper… Anyway, let me know what you think of my story, thank you very much for your time &, of course, God bless!

Welcome to Inspiration Friday 2017. Inspiration Friday is a chance for members to write pieces of fiction on set Chaos-related subjects, with a winner chosen at the end of each period and awarded a medal. As in the previous Inspiration Fridays, images accompanying entries are most welcome. While previous incarnations were strictly weekly, I may give two weeks to work on some themes. I should also point out that, living in Tokyo, my Fridays start earlier than many of the Frater and so likely I will close and open themes early on Saturdays, Tokyo-time. Likely still Friday for most of you. From 2016 onwards there were a couple of changes to Inspiration Friday: While I, Kierdale, set the topic each time (or another member I appoint to take the helm in my absence), the winner of each topic will be given the choice of judging the next topic’s entries and choosing the winner from those entries. Should they, for any reason, wish to turn down this duty then judging will revert to Kierdale for the next entry. Judging Rules 1. Many of our members are non-native English speakers so grammar, spelling and punctuation should not be too harshly judged. That said, members are encouraged to type their entries in a word processor program which can help them with their spelling and grammar.
 2. The judge should choose the one entry which, in their mind, exemplifies the IF topic of that week. Not necessarily the most action-packed, the longest, the coolest, etc. 3. The judge may, when posting their judgement, choose to give feedback on each entry. What they liked and didn't like, what they wanted to see more or less of. Past Inspiration Friday Topics Links to previous incarnations of Inspiration Friday, for reference: Under Brother Nihm: Aspiring Champion Chaos Banner Regarding the Legions Favourite Model Paint a CSM Favourite Primarch Why Chaos? Under Tenebris: Chaos Cults - Winner: Disease Legacy Weapon - Winner: Xenith Rank and File - Winner: Kol Saresk Chaos Worlds - Winner: Marshal Sampson Chaos Vehicle - Winner: Loesh Call of Chaos Test model - Winner: Alan of Angels and Loesh Chaos Battle - Winner: Cormac Airt Minor Daemon - Winner: Tdf4638 Spooky Chaos - Winner: Dizzyeye Chaos Stronghold - Winner: Carrack Nemesis of Chaos - Winner: Kierdale Chaos Navigator House - Winner: Marshal Sampson Chaos Knight House - Winner: Kierdale Chaos Santa - Winner: Castellan Cato Chaos Dreadnought - Winner: none was chosen! Chaos Warship - Winner: Conn Eremon Interview with a Chaos Lord - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Interview with a Chaos Sorcerer - Winner: Kierdale Chaos Space Marine Bolter - Winner: Son of Carnelian Chaos Assassin - Winners: Carrack, Kierdale and Zhaharek Intel Report on Warband - Winner: Kierdale Betrayal - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Chaos Sword - Winner: Castellan Cato Chaos Spawn - Winners: Carrack and Kierdale Champion of Khorne - Winner: Slipknotzim Chaos Heraldry - Winner: Teetengee Equerry - Winner: Zhaharek Chaos Tome - Winner: TDF Chaos Crossover - Winner: Lord Pariah Dark Mechanicus - Winners: Carrack and Kierdale Daemon Forge - Winners: Zhaharek and Beachymike123 Battles of the Space Marines - Winners: Carrack, Warsmith Aznable and Tipper Cult Leader - Winner: Zhaharek Familiar - Winner: Kierdale Nemesis of Chaos II - Winners: TDF and Conn Eremon Ruination - Winner: Carrack Chaos Sidekick - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Chaos Skirmish - Tactical Squads - Winner: Kierdale Under Kierdale: 2015 Interview With A Warpsmith - Winner: Carrack ETL Background (care of Carrack) - Winner: Kierdale Lair of the gods - Winner: Scourged Signature Tactics - Winners: Scourged and Majorbookworm Berserkers of every creed - Winner: none. Chaos Geneseed - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Tales of... ...Chaos Glory - Winner: Warsmith Aznable A Stolen Relic - Winner: Beachymike123 Summoning - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Treadheads - Winner: Scourged The Primordial Annihilator versus...the Greater Good - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Replenishments New Meat - Winner: Scourged Chaos Halloween Horror - Winner: Dammeron, Scourged, Zhaharek and Teetengee Interview with a dark apostle - Winner: Carrack Chaos Power Armour - Winner: Scourged Tales of Hubris - Winner: Teetengee Chaos Titans - Winner: Scourged and Teetengee Chaos Icons - Winners: MaliGn, Teetengee, Carrack and Scourged. Bonus Challenge: Chaos Objectives - Winner: Carrack 2016 Memories of Terra - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Possessed - Winner: Captain Malachi Chaos Steeds - Winner: Scourged Traitor Regiments - Winner: Teetengee The Primordial Annihilator versus...the Vlka Fenryka - Winner: Carrack Campaign I - Opening Moves - Winner: Diabolist Interview with a Daemon Prince - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Skirmish II - Upon Cursed Wings/Jump Assault - Winner: Teetengee Lost in Space - Winner: Scourged Imperfect Beings - Winner: Carrack Obliterators - Winner: none Lesser Daemons I - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Tales of Honour - Winner:Son of Carnelian Tales of Dishonour - Winner: Fulkes Campaign II - Assault - Winner: Scourged Knightfall - Winner: no contest. Architect of Fate - Winner: Carrack Chaos Flyer - Winner: Kierdale Schism - Winner: Scourged A Chaotic Alliance - Winner: Squigsquasher Chaotic Rites - Winner: Krautscientist Retro-Chaos - Winner: Carrack ETL-V model - Winner: Scourged The Primordial Annihilator versus the Inquisition - Winner: Carrack Interview with a Chaos Apothecary - Winner:Kierdale Chaos Trophies - Winner: MyD4rkPassenger The Primordial Annihilator versus the Sons of Sanguinius - Winner: Carrack The Primordial Annihilator versus the Bugs - Winner: Teetengee Aquatic Combat - Winner: Kierdale Campaign III - Tables Turn/The Crucible - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Halloween 2016 - Winner: Carrack Tales of Vengeance - Winner: MyD4rkPassenger Unit Champion - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Iron Warriors - Winner: Carrack Thousand Sons - Winner: Zhaharek 2017 Black Crusade – A Call To Arms - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Campaign IV - End Game - Winner: Kierdale Seeds Sown... - Winner: Scourged The Fallen - Winner: Trevak Dal Chaos Bikers - Winner: Kierdale The Warp - Winner: Scourged Hive War - Winner: Carrack Propaganda - Winner: Kierdale The Ends Justify The Means - Winner: Carrack The Witch - Winner: Honda Rivalry of the Gods - Winner: none The Primordial Annihilator versus the Sons of Guilliman - Winner: Caius/DogWelder Death Guard - Winner: Azekai Alpha Legion - Winner: Iron Father Ferrum Desert Warfare - Winner: P3AKHOUR Abhumans and mutants - Winner: Gunnyogrady The Primordial Annihilator versus the Adeptus Mechanicus - Winner: ColonelSchaeffer The Primordial Annihilator versus the Imperial Guard - Winner: Warsmith Aznable Images of Chaos - No contest If Horus had won... - Winner: MaliGn Exalted Champion - Winner: macbeefin The Black Legion - Winner: While each topic will close (with respect to who can win the medal for that theme) after a set period, members who find themselves inspired to write about previous themes are most welcome to post these as and when they can, but I ask that you please title your entry accordingly (e.g. “Chaos Warship”). Inspirational Friday: Timelines of Treachery is a companion thread to this (and past and future Inspirational Friday main threads) for those who wish to organise their IF entries and present their warband's timeline. I know I just about my warband's timeline a lot, so the thread is to help both readers and writers to get their heads around which stories come where. By all means please add your own timelines as and when you can

Hey All, I am a new user. I have been writing a Warhammer 40k Fanfiction and would love to hear what others think. With out further ado, here is the first chapter of Oh God, I Woke Up in Warhammer 40k: Ajax passed beyond the veil of the world fitfully and with many regrets. His journey had come to an end. Now he was going to discover the answer to the question that had plagued humanity since they first gained the capacity to wonder: What, if anything, comes after death? Ajax found himself in a void composed of a darkness that defied description — a darkness so black that black would appear white by contrast. Empty and formless. Vast yet finite. Deep and shallow. His thoughts began to wander as he considered where he had arrived. Was this death? Was this the end that humanity had wondered about since time immemorial? Where had his body gone? Would he spend eternity in this void? These thoughts came unbidden to Ajax’s mind, but as he pondered his current circumstances, he began to smell cooking meat. At first, he didn’t register where it was coming from. He couldn’t see his body — not even his nose. Yet Ajax realized that the smell was coming from the cooking of his own invisible flesh. Ajax began to scream.To him, it felt as though a flame was creeping up his body, roasting his feet, then his legs, and the rest of him after that. There was a sick horror in being able to feel the flesh cooking off your legs, yet being unable to see the flames — a horror that drove Ajax into even higher peaks of panic. He could feel the fire cooking his testicles until they exploded from the heat. As his eyeballs melted out of his non-existent skull, he realized his non-corporeal body wasn’t the only thing that had burst into flame. His soul had caught fire. Ajax screamed a garbled wail through the melting mass of his vocal cords as the very concept of himself began to go up in flames. He screamed for it to stop. He screamed for someone to put him out of his misery. But there was no one to hear his screams. Ajax had received an answer to a philosophical question he’d never wanted answered: If no one is around to hear, does a soul scream in its final conflagration? Yes. Yes, it does. Ajax was screaming in some metaphysical sense as everything that made him who he was began to burn away. His likes. His dislikes. The memories of every time he had ever failed. All of it — and so much more — began to turn to ash and float away. If he still had vocal cords, they would have long since given out. The pain was all-consuming. He could feel the memories ebbing from his consciousness, replaced with only fire. The past and future burned away, and Ajax was left with only this unending present. More and more memories burned, leaving “Ajax” increasingly hollow. A person was said by some to be the sum of their experiences. When all experience was burned away, what remained? Ajax was awash in pain, but he was also terrified by this thought. Even though the fear quickly lit aflame and began to burn away, new fear bubbled up from the deepest core of Ajax. He did not want to find out what was at his core. He had loathed himself for as long as he could remember. He didn’t want to see what he was when everything else was stripped away. He didn’t want to see the ugly sludge at the bottom of the barrel after all the good had been poured out. Most importantly, he did not want to lose the precious memories of his mother and brother. Ajax screamed again — but instead of sheer terror, he screamed in defiance at the fire trying to take the only good parts of him away. He screamed, pushing the memories deeper and deeper within himself, sacrificing more to the flames to save them. If it was his last act, he would save those memories to burn only after the rest of him had turned to ash. Ajax didn’t know how long he screamed defiance into the fiery void. He became a singular existence with one function: sacrificially burning itself to prevent destruction. Time held no meaning in that conceptual realm. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. Everything stopped.The roaring inferno gave way to blessed silence. The aftershocks of pain ebbed away. A deep sense of refreshment enveloped Ajax. To him, it felt like he was a burn victim being submerged in a pool of cool aloe vera. His aches and pains were slowly pulled from his body. “Wait. My body? I thought I was dead?” Ajax opened his eyes and looked down to find himself in a body he did not recognize. The body was much leaner than he’d been in his first life. He had some muscle, but it was clear he wasn’t some sort of bodybuilder. He looked like someone shaped by a hard life where food hadn’t always been easy to find. His hands had scars from what looked like blade cuts. There was a big, round wound-scar on one of his forearms. Odd — it was much larger than a bullet hole and seemed like a cross between a gunshot and a burn. He couldn’t see much more in the dim light. His torso was bare — the night was hot — and he had been sweating into the cot he’d been lying on. He was wearing drab green fatigue pants that had seen better days but could have belonged to any number of militaries across many periods of time. Ajax sat up and looked around the tent he had woken up in. It was mostly dark, with some light from the night sky filtering through the partially opened tent flap. He could hear voices in the distance now and again. People. Vehicles. Movement. It was a fair deduction that he’d found himself in an army camp somewhere. Most likely not in enemy territory — not with how noisy it was after dark. If they were near the front, the sound would have drawn enemy combatants like flies to a carcass. Unless the army Ajax had transmigrated into was completely inept, they were probably in a relatively safe location that didn’t require strict noise and light discipline. “That really doesn’t narrow down where — or when — I am.” Ajax felt around the tent for some kind of lamp. He needed to check the items inside and look for clues. “Actually... why the hell am I so calm? Under these circumstances, I should be having a full-blown panic attack.” He closed his eyes and took a four-count breath — a habit he’d used to calm himself in his past life. “I remember the fire. Everything besides the heat and pain is kind of drowned out by comparison. It feels like when a camera is exposed to a really bright light and everything else goes dark because it can’t handle the contrast... I guess I’ll worry about my emotions returning once I figure out where I am.” His hand brushed against smooth glass. A lamp. He fumbled for a switch, found it, and clicked it on. Light filled the tent. Ajax winced as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Then his gaze was drawn to a glint of metal — a uniform hanging from a stand. Three pieces of gear stood out: a cuirass with a twin-headed gold eagle in the center, a long black greatcoat with red and gold epaulets, and a peaked officer’s cap with a gold skull motif. Ajax froze. Slowly, he lowered his head to examine his chest, praying he wouldn’t see what he feared.Above his heart: the tattoo of the Imperial Aquila. The same double-headed eagle inlaid into the breastplate. He looked around. Next to his cot was a belt with a holstered bolt pistol and chainsword. “:cuss:. I got reincarnated into the darkest fictional universe possible. A universe where there is only war. A universe with literal demon gods thirsting for mankind’s souls. Where aliens are running rampant, murdering each other and humanity. Where humanity has become the unholy love child of the worst possible totalitarian regime and theocratic state imaginable. Where techno-monkeys exist. :cuss:. What did I do to deserve this fate?!” --- [Welcome to the Grimdark Future] [You have been chosen to suffer a fate worse than death. You must save the Imperium of Man.] [You have been made a Perpetual and have been gifted the Anathema System.] [In the grimdark future, there is no hope for Mankind.] [There is only the laughter of thirsting gods.] [You are the last-ditch effort of a mad god to reignite hope in this new, dark millennium.] [You will know no peace.] [You will know no rest.] [You exist to break the rules of the Great Game.] [You must flip the board.] --- Ajax was silent. He could feel his heart pounding. Blood rushed through his veins. A loud ringing echoed in his ears. The weight of the words felt like it was crushing the air out of his chest. He reached for the belt, unholstered the bolt pistol, put the barrel in his mouth — and pulled the trigger. BANG.

++ ECHIDNA’S CHILDREN ++ 1: LAUGHING HEADSMEN Theoretical. A term used by the Primogenitors, and before them, the XIII Legion, a rhetorical device to prepare the mind for action, for the execution of a preferred eventuality. Tirian Mahlo found the latter disproportionately amusing, since it succinctly underscored his current predicament. The chainaxe bit into his shoulder. Scarlet runes in Mancoran Dialect helpfully informed him of the Practical as adamantine teeth driven to a blinding whirr, made contact and began to harrow his alabaster warplate. He couldn’t hear the weapon growling, since Khymara IX was utterly devoid of atmosphere, but he did notice the grey-green dust from the world’s surface clogging where it mixed with Astartes blood from previous victims. He had about three seconds to live. Then again, so did the bastard trying to kill him. With a jarring parry, Mahlo knocked the weapon back with his elbow, provoking sparks and flecks of ceramite to skitter across his visor before pinging off to oblivion in the low gravity. The clack-slam of his Reductor went right through the flexsteel of the Executioner’s neck, aimed at a point Mahlo was all too familiar with. Behind it lay the arteries and meat of the Space Marine’s absurdly well-designed neck, but also the fleshy gobbet of a single Geneseed cluster. The sickening noise as Biscopean cartilage parted for the invading metal never failed to force clenched teeth, when he powered through, severing the cervical vertebrae and the vital nerve clusters. A rune spoiled his vindictive moment with a green pulse to indicate the death-blow, and incidental geneseed recovery, was successful. It was a first. He used the corpse as a shield to hide from supporting fire given by the Scions of Dorn who called the meatbag comrade. More Astartes plate was turned into flinders by the hurricane of fire as they tried to bring him down; just as aware as Mahlo that the man he was holding was dead. This was an utter shambles, the Howling Griffons stationed here called for recovery of their wounded, and Mahlo was forced to leave the protection of his Rhino APC, clearly marked as an Apothecarion Transit, to enter the bunker complex which comprised of four stations, housing an augur array, telecoms units, and a remote surveillance drones. What was left of them. He fought the Executioners with bursts from his Umbra-Ferrox bolter, mindful of ammunition consumption, the bolt hammering a predictable chugging that tallied in his mind along with the cortical-interface in his visor. The enemy were clad in almost as motley a panoply as his own Brothers were, some in gleaming blue-steel, others marked with dark lozenges of Codex disruptive patterns, more still in the blue-white lunar amoeba. His fashion sense was abandoned when his power plant hit the door sill leading to the under-complex. Abandoning his erstwhile, now limbless shield, he banged twice, tossing a krak grenade out with the corpse. A blast of displaced grit and pressure warnings eclipsed as the door opened to admit him, staring into the muzzles of two bolters clasped by Griffons he didn’t know. + Peace, brothers,+ he assured, although it was both hollow and pointless, since his Cerberus IFF would have already painted him as friendly. Perhaps this was the bedside manner Kordus was so keen for him to develop. ++++++++++++ Just a quick blurt that was supposed to launch into another short-story, but I couldn't get my teeth back into it. Can't remember if it's in the Google Drive, but at least it's on the board for perusal.