The Fallen Saint

[Lady_Canoness]

Here we have it! The 3rd of what I have decided will be 4 installments of the Fallen Saint. This section is more up front than the ones before it - less hidden meaning and more description. I also tackled combat scenes, which have always proven to be the bane of my other 40k writings.

 

*Disclaimer* This section does include a large amount of bloodshed.

 

3rd Insallment of the Fallen Saint

 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

 

“The gods themselves can be swayed by prayer, and with sacrifices and soothing promises, incense and libations, human beings turn them from their purpose.

[Roultox]

Add in that she parried when she was stricken with the bloodthirsters blow, justifying that his seven marine splitting land raider splitting axe had a little more force to ensure that the single power armored individual wasnt split with the blow. (Constructive critisism, dont take it the wrong way ^:^)

 

So far it looks good. Do one on a game you have (and win with her still alive) to add some real-experience background to her. I find those are always fun to write about.

 

Like my 90% bionic-kai gun champion that managed to fall over 3 times during a game and roll 3 6's to get back up during the old 3.2 codex.

 

"I got tired of being knocked over so I walked away" - He ran off after a last man standing check, got knocked over and got back up, then kept on running 6" or less every turn. (as if he was walking)...

[Shiva]

I also tackled combat scenes, which have always proven to be the bane of my other 40k writings.

 

I think you did just fine here - good description of movement, nice flow of writing, and excellent "feel" (nasty, gory, bloody mess! Woo Hoo! Blood for the BloodGod! Oops...sorry...got carried away. :) Ahem...anyway... )

 

Bring on the 4th installment :)

[Lady_Canoness]

Here we are!

 

The last, 4th and final installment of the Fallen Saint!

 

It is longer, but also I believe it will be more enjoyable to the reader.

 

________

 

 

CHAPTER 4

 

 

“For it may be said of men in general that they are ungrateful, voluble, dissemblers, anxious to avoid danger, and covetous of gain; as long as you benefit them, they are entirely yours; they offer you their blood, their goods, their life, and their children…

[Shiva]

Very well done, Lady_Canoness! You've really brought your character to life. Now all we need are some WIP pics of your model! ^_^

[the jeske]

Hmm no "The Block" greatest demons of khorn , am sad? But the story is very nice .

[Lady_Canoness]

Unfortunately I don't have a digital Camera, so pictures could be out of the question for the time being, but I'll try and get my hands on one for the finished work.

[Kommissar Korolev]

Ok, I'm the noob here and this is my first post so sorry if I kinda throw things off. I love the ideas floating around on this page. I'd been giving alot of thought to doing a Khornate Chaos Sisters army myself. I'm with you guys about the Slanesh angle, people are always trying to do the sexy thing, which I fell really isn't all that realistic. (Besides, I have a weakness for strong independent women running around in power armor bashing people's heads in) I imagine one would use the standard Chaos Codex for running an army like this, right? Anyway, keep it up, I love to talk about conversion ideas.

[Panzerkopf]

I'd like to say that the Sisters of Slaanesh idea isn't really so terrible.

Think about it, Sororitas lead horrible lives. Pennance, war, bloodshed, pennance, deprivation, death, pennance, lost youth, pennance, you get the idea. Deprivation is the biggest thing. Tell me if I'm wrong, but your average sister has lived a life of hardship and suffering. First being orphaned, then bludgeoned into obedience at the schola progenium, then sent off to die for some looney ecclesiarch in the Orders Militant. With a healthy dose of pennance in between of course. Their lives are constant perdition. No fun, no sex, no ice-cream cake.

Some may not know that there is anything else but many must have a dim memory of happier times. That would be the main lure of Slaanesh to a battle sister, to know joy and pleasure again.

Not to mention that Slaanesh also embodies perfection, and we all know that Sisters train to a high martial standard. Old Johnny Slaanesh may drop by young Sister Cindy's room one day and promise her that she'll be the best fighter in her order if she'd just do as he says...

So yes, there is a real and viable reason for fallen battle sisters to join with Slaanesh. Not just boobies.

[Sister Kyrie]

I don't think anyone is saying that Slaanesh Sisters is a bad idea. It's just that it's often seen as the ONLY "real" option for Sisters to fall to Chaos (and, in fact, sexy seems to be considered the only "real" option for evil women in general, based off of movies and what-not...). And it is usually done as an excuse to have lots of boobies exposed (I've had someone tell me I should make my Sisters be a Slaanesh army for that exact reason!). Is asking for the other Chaos powers (or even non-sexy Slaanesh) to be considered a valid option for women really that weird?

[Panzerkopf]

I don't think anyone is saying that Slaanesh Sisters is a bad idea.

 

I guess it was kind of implied. I don't think exposed boobies are so bad either as long as it's not overdone. My loyalist Repentia are all quite naked (and gore-splattered) and it enhances their general crazy ambience. Plus, when fighting Imperial Guard who haven't seen a real woman in X ammount of years, a little exposed flesh on the enemy might go a long way towards distracting them the big lobster claws, etc. they should be thinking of.

 

The combination of sex and brutal carnage is disturbing. Chaos is disturbing. The two go hand-in-hand.

[Lady_Canoness]

Ok, I'm back to shed a little light on the situation.

 

I agree that Sisters have can of course be corrupted by Slaanesh, but I doubt that Sisters would turn to Slaanesh because they felt like they had been missing out on all the parties that were going on down the street from the convent. Their lives may seem horrible to you, but to them (and all the nuns, monks, and cloistered clerics) it is preferable; odds are that they would be sickened by the idea of excessive indulgence.

I went with Khorne because Sisters are always described as having 'righteous anger', and I'm sure that that anger could be stoked into pure khornate-style-hate by some self-righteous ecclesiarchal slob acting as if he knew what he was talking about and be a :cuss . If you read the story (which I hope all of you have) you'll get more of an idea where I'm coming from with this one.

 

Note that it is also just one Sister in a special circumstance that falls. Other such Sisters who experience such failings would be shipped off to the repentia - or be executed.

 

One should also note that the Repentia are stripped to be humiliated (humiliation is a big part of penance), and that in most fluff the IG are scared sh*t-less be Sisters (Sisters are known to be especially brutual and unforgiving in dealing with those that are deemed unworthy [the codex mentions Sisters dragging off screaming ministorum scribes to be tortured by the Inquisition])

[Panzerkopf]

Ok, I'm back to shed a little light on the situation.

 

I doubt that Sisters would turn to Slaanesh because they felt like they had been missing out on all the parties that were going on down the street from the convent. Their lives may seem horrible to you, but to them (and all the nuns, monks, and cloistered clerics) it is preferable; odds are that they would be sickened by the idea of excessive indulgence.

 

I don't mean overindulgence, but simply enjoying life. I get the idea that one doesn't really get to choose if you join the sisterhood or not. And while some may find the monastic life appealing, others may not be so thrilled. Especially if they were orphaned later in life and got to experience more of the world prior to their induction. A battle sister may simply get sick of doing endless (and probably very unpleasant) pennance and desire an easier life with more of the simple pleasures. Slaanesh isn't just about drugs and orgies, there's a little bit of him in every act that brings us pleasure. Having a smoke with your coffee, holding a cute baby, painting a figure. All have a bit of Slaanesh in them because they bring pleasure. The Liber Chaotica books shed more light on this.

Really, all of the Chaos gods can hold an allure for a fallen sister. Sisters are, after all, human and Chaos is an expression of human desires and emotions. And the Sororitas is a huge organisation which can hardly be so monolithic down to all its individual members. You can't make blanket statements on what or what won't motivate them because there are simply too many sisters with different experiences and personalities to make one.

I'm not knocking the idea of a sister turning to Khorne (it's actually kinda brilliant) but every other god holds equal validity.

[Lady_Canoness]

The only god that would have a hard time in my opinion would be tzeentch. It seems to me that the master of sorcery would have difficulty since all his ideals are lacking amongst the Sororitas (I think we can all agree on that): Psykers, Witchcraft, Change, Knowledge.... all of which most sisters find repungant (then again one could 'technically' turn to tzeentch to look at things from the other angle, but I see little in the way of bait).

 

If you want (in my opinion at least...) a fail-safe mode of determining corruption, just look at the Jedi code and how Jedi fall to the Dark Side.

 

Sisters uphold many of the same ideals as Jedi when you think about it: Jedi believe strongly what they want to believe, but are ignorant of almost every other view, etc...)

 

I'm not suggesting that we start talking about Star Wars instead of 40k, but I think the two can be used in comparison when it comes to corruption and redemption.

 

P.S. I never intended to knock the Slaaneshi Sister, I just wanted to bring balance to the idea of the Chaos Sisters be prodominantly Slaaneshi

[cryptomancer]

Another good installment. Kudos.

[Lady_Canoness]

*snaps a salute*

 

She is in the painting process right now (blimey it is hard to get a good skin tone...) and she should be hitting the field of battle in the new year. Get Alexandra ready - she'll be in for the fight of her life ;)

 

As for the rest of you, I'll try and get some photos up when she is feeling up to it.

[ikik]

very nice background story I love it, can't wait for the mini ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

Greetings once again!

 

I have here the Fifth instalment of the saga of the Fallen Saint (how many there shall be, I do not know) for your reading pleasure.

 

This focuses on what oocurs after she has fallen to Chaos and has had her revenge on the Inquisitor. Now however, she finds herself trapped upon this terrible world with no forseeable means of escaping.

 

This section involves character development as well as furthering the plot line as to how she manages to get to Imperial space and wage her bloody wars.

After having have red Milton's Paradise Lost, I have attempted to make this instalment suitably more epic than the previous four, while retaining the usual writing style.

 

Enjoy!

 

-------------------------------------------------

 

The Fifth Instalment of the tale of the Fallen Saint

 

Under the roiling red sky of fathomless insanity the scorched crimson of the nightmare land stretched ever-onwards to the horizon – where earth and sky clashed on the peaks of titanic mountains in a burgundy mist calling to the damned heavens high above. The Warp ravaged this land (if one could still call it so). Its oily streams spouted poisoned fumes into the air breathed by diabolical predators and cackling fiends – no man nor savage beast could survive here – for here was madness, here was death, here was all hope turned to despair. Here she was trapped.

 

She sat, her knees to her chest, with her back against a jagged rock-face – her enormous wings wrapped around her as if a shroud. All the while she glared directly ahead – ahead at the futility of it all. No sooner had she grasped true power than she had had it stripped from her by the unyielding land. There was nothing for her here, nothing but the red of the Blood God’s world. She cursed his name for the last time – why had he left her here? Why had he left her with nothing? No glory. No bloodshed. No battle. No food. No water. No life. And death drawing ever closer.

A tear crept unbidden into the corner of her eye – the last shred of her life past. She banished it upon the fist of her gauntlet – turning to stare once again towards the horizon of eternity.

Many dawn-less days before she had returned to the sight of her massacre and scavenged what little flesh remained on the dried corpses that were her victims. For a moment she had questioned whether she would do it – eat the flesh of another – but her stomach was rent with hunger, and she was far beyond the point of caring. Woman – beast – mortal fiend? What was she again? Too long it had been, too long to tell.

 

She rose, her wings unfurling before resting atop her shoulders, and strode off. Where she went she did not know, for there was nowhere to go on this barren world – all there was were her iron-shod greaves pounding a grim beat across the wasted earth. A slight breeze lifted her matted mane of black hair from her shoulders and face, revealing her once fair and gentle features that she had worn in her life past – she had been beautiful once, and it echoed still across her face – though her stern venomous eyes and cracked blood spattered lips betrayed the evil within her heart.

Down toward the stream bank she walked – little critters scampering away before her. She had tried to feed on them before, but they offered naught but leathery skin and fragile bones. Down to the oily edge she walked – the brackish fluid trembling at her approach. Kneeling at its bank she cupped her hand and scooped some of the black liquid towards her. It smelled revolting – her every sense commanded that she toss it back to whence it came – but she was quenched for thirst, and she needed to drink. Pressing her hand to her lips, she sucked it down.

 

… and regretted it instantly.

 

Sputtering and chocking she coughed the liquid back into the stream, before rising and furiously smashing her foot into the chuckling brook. The water stilled, but the chuckling remained. Slowly, she turned her head and glared at the source of this insulting noise – an old cripple sat perched atop a crumbling pillar that stood but a little ways away.

 

“Why do you laugh, you worthless old rag?!” she roared, her chest rising and falling with growing rage. He looked back at her – a grin playing across his lipless mouth underneath a swollen eye – his wrinkled face a stark contrast to her dark splendour.

 

“Oh but my dear!” he protested, spittle dribbling from his ruined mouth, “my dear,” he said again, “are we not of equal worthlethnesh on thish here most worthleth of worldth?”

 

She turned her back on him and made to leave, “Speak to me again, worm, and I will kill you.” she spat. There was little to be earned in this thing’s death – he had little flesh to sustain her, and little blood that might quench her.

 

“That you will not.” he croaked, “for my death ish your death, jutht ath my life ish your life. I am the drum upon which the Great Godth beat. Who are you to turn your back?”

 

Aribeth, the Blooded One - the Fallen Saint, looked back at the pathetic cripple sitting atop his pillar, and smiled. The cripple returned her look with his own idiot grin. She turned and strode purposefully back in his direction, brandishing her sword – the sword that was broken, and then remade in the fiery pits of Hell – shining now with scarlet flame – eager for the fool cripple’s life to be stolen away upon its keen edge. Like its mistress – like her – it thirsts.

“You die now, vermin – gods or no gods, they cannot save you from me!” With a terrific leap her wings carried her into the red depths of the bottomless sky – soaring, like the terrible Bloodthirster itself, until she cast him into shadow – bringing down the flaming blade in a single unstoppable arc – death close by its side.

The old cripple raised a gnarled wooden stick in his defence – so utterly helpless was he before the wrath of the Blooded One – fate would carry off his soul into the maelstrom of the warp this very day.

But fate has a will of its own, and no mortal – no matter how mighty or mere – can stand defiant as fate descends to deliver upon he his certain doom. No mortal can deny fate. And when the sword wreathed with the scarlet flames – truer than none to steal a man’s doom – struck that most pitiful of sticks carried by that most pitiful of men, fate would decide that the sword – the sword that would rip the souls of men down and down into the swirling realms of the Fiendish Gods – would be repelled this once for the first and last time, and that its wielder we be smote from the air to plummet down into the dark waters of the brackish stream.

Like a god cast from heaven she fell with a great crash into the flow – the dark murkiness enveloping her form in its sickening caress. For a split second, she slid completely underneath the water, before thrashing back to the surface – enraged by the daring of the cripple. She rose again from the water – wings forcing it from her form like black shards arching outwards.

The old cripple – all but defenceless before her wrath – struck out once again with his crude baton – striking her between the eyes – and sending her crashing back down.

 

Mocking her with his idiot smile, the cripple looked on at the warrior floundering in anger in the water below.

She rose again, dragging herself from the water, sword in hand: if she could not strike him down, she would damn well topple the pillar upon which he sat! With blood pounding in her ears and rage playing across her mind she drove herself at the stone pillar before her, bringing the flaming blade to bear in one mighty stroke. She struck with the force of a thunderbolt – sparks flying from the point of impact – and impact so massive that the force of the blow rebounded the sword free of her grasp in a sickening crack of her wrist as bone jarred and broke underneath the resolute strength brought to bear by the ancient pillar.

 

Like the man perched atop it the pillar was not as it appeared to be.

 

Freed from her hand, the blade skipped out across the bloody earth down along the bank of the stream. She – her wrist badly broken, and stunned by the sudden influx of pain – stumbled back before losing her feet and fall backwards into the darkened stream.

 

“Damn you! DAMN YOU TO HELL!” She cried, anger flooding her senses. “Damn you – you bastard! I’ll see you dead before me!” She struggled to free herself from the oily water, but only succeeded in tumbling back into it.

The cripple, all the while, sat atop his pillar and swung his legs about merrily – quite oblivious the murderous curses from the woman bellow. “My lord,” he whispered, “she is too unstable for the task. She cannot find him – she will only succeed in her own destruction.”

 

Across the land, a voice chill as death rode upon the wind. “Play your part… She will come before our Lord… He is to judge… We are to guide…”

 

The cripple nodded, and looked down at the woman below – her spite, her hate, her contempt – perhaps he had been right, perhaps he had been wrong.

 

We shall see…

[Panzerkopf]

This is getting to be really cool. I'm definitely compelled; kepp at it!

[dark_melancholy]

It's great to see servants of Chaos presented as twisted humans instead of flat, soulless stereotypes! :P Humanity is so crazy you don't really need to crank up the demonic powahs and monstrous creatures to portray evil. So, I love how you contrast her very human feeling of hopelessness with her (perhaps equally human?) insane rage. It does the setting justice.

 

...too bad about the Inquisitor, though. He was awesome :)

[Lady_Canoness]

Here is the sixth installment of the Fallen Saint - 6 of 8.

 

This section focuses primarily on the characters of cripple and Aribeth, and shows the relations between the two characters - putting both into perspective by juxtaposing (sp) one to the other.

 

Hope you enjoy this one!

 

----------------

 

The Sixth Installment of the Fallen Saint

 

Blackness… all was dark and quiet. The room around him was cast in the impenetrable shade of night – though with his enhanced eyesight he could still discern every last detail. The alter in the middle of the circular room, the mirrors around the perimeter, and the familiar stench – just as he remembered it. He glanced towards the obsidian double-doors – beyond them, down the hall, someone approached. He looked back around the room, and waited in silence.

 

The doors parted – a dim red light crawling in – preceding the man that followed into the chamber.

“Maelekor!” he exclaimed, his drawling voice dripping with false surprise, “You came! How… thoughtful of you.”

 

Maelekor stepped away from where he stood and approached the other man, begrudgingly nodding his head in a sign of respect. “Aye,” he said, his scraping voice barley more than a whisper, “You wished to speak with me, brother. Speak then. I have more pressing matters at hand.”

 

The other man chuckled to himself, before continuing onwards to the very center of the round room, before stopping and gazing about – appreciating all he took in. A minute passed in silence, neither man moved from where he stood. Maelekor folded his arms expectantly – the other man took no notice. Finally, he spoke.

“Yes Maelekor, I did wish to speak with you.” He paused. “She is progressing, though admittedly slower than I had predicted.” Maelekor snorted with contemptuous laughter – earning him an angry glare. The man continued: “Scoff if you will, friend, but mark my words – mark them well – this project of mine will succeed. I guarantee it.”

 

Maelekor shook his head and turned to walk out. “I hope you are right,” he said as he passed the threshold, “for if you are not, there will be hell to pay.”

 

* * * *

 

“Go away! Let me alone!” she snarled for what seemed like the umpteenth time, but the cripple – persistent at the last as it was the first – continued to follow her, demanding that she listen to what it had to say.

Aribeth had retrieved her sword and left the banks of the stream, for she wanted nothing to do with it or the infuriating little man – if the crippled thing could be called such – that had proved all but impossible to murder. She had left it atop its pillar and walked back into the red barrens of the land, but it seemed determined to follow her no matter where she went. Thrice she had turned on it with her sword – yet each time the cripple had blundered out of the way of her killing blow. Angry and aggravated she had given up trying to kill it – let it and its thrice-damned little stick rot for all she cared!

 

“Wait!” he gasped, barely able to keep up with her long strides, “You have to lishten to me! I know a great many thingth!”

 

“Go away!”

 

“Pleash – I am tryingh to help thee!”

 

“You could help me by dying, you pathetic maggot!”

 

He sighed and mopped his brow upon the back of a three-fingered hand – he would have to try harder if he were to succeed for the Master.

Struggling as fast as he bow-legged gait would allow him he followed her – across the wasted flatlands, down through craggy ravines, hobbling over razor-edged rock – all this he did for the Master – all of this he did because of her. Though there was still hope in his heart, still a chance that he might earn her patience and that she may see reason by his words – after all, she could have just flown away.

The cripple smiled as he pushed himself ever-onwards, for though his body pained him it was a little price for what was to be gained.

 

Just a few meters ahead, Aribeth onwards – not caring where she went – all that mattered to her was that the creature behind her was still sucking down air. She despised it– everything about it: how it looked, talked, walked, breathed – enough to make her quake with growing rage – rage so terrible, yet in the face of this thing so futile. Like the planet upon which she walked, this creature mocked her. How she hated it; her mind was bent on hating it. Her wrist throbbed as she walked – a reminder of its defiance - a reminder of her defeat by that miserable thing.

 

She stopped walking.

 

The old cripple came up beside her – panting, weezing, bent over double by the exertion upon his ruined form. She looked at it, repulsed by the quivering flesh and deformed muscle before her – such a thing did not deserve to stand beside her – such a thing did not deserve to live. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. As if sensing the motion, the cripple turned: first to look at the sword, then up at her menacingly beautiful face – he then smiled, and winked with his one good eye.

 

She snapped.

 

Screaming with rage, the sword arched upwards into the air – scarlet flames trailing it like a comet of the heavens – and back down towards the helpless creature, the blade leaping out once again to claim the life that had as of yet been denied to it. But once again dumb luck intervened – the cripple stumbled – and the blade missed, splitting the earth in its fury.

The black armoured boot, however, did not miss.

Connecting with a sickening crunch, the ceramite greave snapped misshapen ribs and pulverised horrid vessels. He fell to the ground – pain igniting every nerve in his fragile body. Crying out, he tried to curl his malformed body into a ball – anything that might help him escape this horrid pain.

In a reverse stroke, Aribeth’s foot stomped down onto his swollen right shoulder – an audible crack informing her to its dislocation. The thing was writhing on the ground – the weakling – it knew NOTHING of true pain. It knew nothing of the torments she had endured, and here it squirmed under her foot like the helpless worm that it was. She yanked her sword free from the red earth and raised it, blade downwards, above her hapless victim.

“Now,” she hissed, “you die, on the ground, at my feet, as you should.” She drew the sword back – both of them eager for the death that had been taunting them for so long – and prepared to drive it through the hunched back and out the chest of the thing beneath her. At the last moment, she smiled – truly smiled, like she had not done so in weeks – she had wanted this moment for longer than she knew.

 

“WAIT!” he squealed. “Wait! I beg you! I can help you I promithe! I can get you off of thith world. Ish that not what you want?”

The old man wept openly: he was truly terrified. Terrified of the woman standing above him. Terrified of the world around him. Terrified of the mission upon which his masters had set him. Terrified of the death that stalked him.

 

She didn’t move – the sword trembling in her hands; its spirit begging to be unleashed upon this mortal – but she didn’t move. She wanted to kill it – most certainly she did – but she couldn’t do it. Was it pity that stayed her hand? Perhaps a shred of her old life resurfacing? No, it could not be, that woman was dead. Then why did she stop? Her own life, her own mortality stayed her hand. Though she hated to admit it, she needed this excuse for a man – for now at least. His death could mean her death, and this barren planet was not where she intended to die – she would not rot away here, with critters gnawing on her bones – that would not be her fate, that could not be her fate, she would not let that happen… even if it meant that she had to spare this wretch’s life.

 

She lowered the sword, and removed her foot from the cripples shoulder.

 

The old cripple opened his eyes – he was alive… he didn’t believe it. She had seen reason.

 

“How can you get me off this planet?” she demanded. “Speak, or I will kill you here and now!”

 

Realizing that now was the critical moment in which he would either succeed or fail for his masters, the old cripple slowly and painfully rose to his knees. “My Lady…” he began, trying to speak clearly despite the pain. “My Lady, I have been shent here by my mashterth for they know you to be great and powerful…” he chose his words carefully, knowing that a slight slip on his part would cost himself and his masters dearly. “They wish to empower you and honour you, for only you are strong enough to accomplish what they need.”

 

“Get to the point, worm. I don’t want to be here longer than I have to.”

 

“Y-yess of courthe! F-forgive me Mistreth! I am not worthy before you.” he stammered, wiping the spittle from his mouth with his one good hand. “My mashterth witsh to take you from thish place – to grant you your freedom and vengeance.”

 

“Who are these masters that you speak of?”

 

“The mashterth are of infinite withdom and power, though I have never met them – for I am unworthy in their presence. I sherve them with my life – jusht ath I would sherve you, should you allow it.” He bowed his head, waiting for her reply.

 

She did not answer at once, but rather stood considering what she had been told. She wanted to meet these masters, but she had been deceived before, and knew not whether this cretin or his masters could be trusted.

“Get up.” she ordered.

 

“I cannot shtand.”

 

“Then crawl. Take me to these masters of yours, now, before I change my mind.”

 

The cripple shook his head, “I cannot take you to them. All I can do is sthow you the way, for I am unworthy in their prethence.”

 

She glared at him. Slowly he turned away, pointing out across the barren lands, and crawled forwards – the Blooded One following behind.

 

Above them the crimson sky twisted and snapped with the power of Chaos…

[Shiva]

*applause* :D

 

I'm so glad you've shared more of this amazing story you're writing with us. As always, your descriptive writing style is growing more and more impressive with every installment, and your character development is fantastic as always. I almost feel like I'm watching a movie in my head, you do such a good job describing the atmosphere and actions. Keep up the great work, and I'll be anxiously awating your next installment. B)

[Lady_Canoness]

Thanks everyone for your comments so far! The feedback really helps keep me motivated!

 

Cheers!

[cryptomancer]

Coolness, as usual.

[Lady_Canoness]

I am pleased to present the 7th installment of the Fallen Saint to you now.

 

In this installment we finally learn of her purpose within the Warhammer 40k universe - the goal that she is to achieve.

 

I would like to give a shout out to a buddy of mine, Mr. Hopkins, for allowing the use of his character in furthering this story.

 

This section reveals the as of yet unknown human side of the Fallen Saint, showing that even though she is devoted to the Blood God, that doesn't mean that she has been tranformed into a (complete) psychopath.

 

I hope you enjoy this installment, and I look forward to bringing forth the 8th and final (at least for now) installment soon.

 

With no further delay!

 

-------------------

 

The Seventh Installment of the Fallen Saint

 

The 31st Millennium, the Age of the Great Crusade: A time famed for its Heroes and Villains alike – a time of conquest, glory, and discovery. Many worlds had been discovered and rediscovered by the Emperor’s advancing armies. Where man conquered, man would often settle – adding another planet to the Emperor’s realm.

Though it was a time of glory, it was also a time of tragedy: much was lost in the Emperor’s name – peoples, armies, civilizations – and eventually nine of his most favoured Primarchs. Civil war visited the Dominion of Man, and war ravaged many of his worlds.

One such world was the backwater planet Tarris Phadreos, an insignificant place on the galactic rim for all intents and purposes – and so it would remain until the end of time. A small colony lived there once, living off the land and harvesting crops, livestock, and foodstuffs for export through the void to a planetary depot that has since been destroyed. Indeed, Horus’ uprising may have passed it by unnoticed had not cruel fate sent murder its way. A Grand Battalion of Imperial Army soldiers under the command of the Astartes Legion of the World Eaters was sent off course in the warp, and emerged near Tarris Phadreos. The commanding officers of the traitorous battalion, seeing the mishap as an opportunity for conquest, ordered that the planet be razed in the name of Lord Angron and his master, the Blood God.

Every settler was hunted down and murdered.

Yet one betrayal deserves another, and the Supreme Commander of the Grand Battalion was left stranded on this world by the ambitions of his second. Never again did they leave that place. Their descendants lived on for 10 000 years, while the attentions of malign deities twisted both the world and its inhabitants into cruel, murderous mockeries of the soldiers they had once been. Until one day, Inquisitor Galtman, with Palatine Aribeth d’Allsaice of the Order of the Ebon Chalice at his side, arrived to purge the world of its tainted populace – neither of them knew the significance of this place… and only one would live to find out.

 

* * * *

 

His hands were torn and bleeding - he had tried to bandage them, but that proved pointless – the red earth drew his blood no matter what he did, as if the soil itself thirsted for it. He managed to smirk at the irony of it – that was what was happening, why would it not be? Was this world not claimed for the Blood God? He didn’t know for sure, his masters had never let him know, but it would make sense now that he though of it. Why else would the whole damn world be red?

He paused and raised his head to survey his surroundings: it had to be around here somewhere?

A sharp kick to his backside sent him sprawling to the ground – his misshapen face grinding against the hard, sharp surface. Of course it didn’t help that the woman he was sent to find was very impatient.

Once again he slowly hauled his bulk forward across the ground. It had been like this for hours: unable to walk, he was forced to drag his crippled body along the earth by the strength of his hands alone. His throat was parched, and his spirit broken in reflection of his body, but he had to carry on – he must – the masters had willed it.

Aribeth’s footsteps crunched across the broken ground behind him – her face wearing nothing but contempt for the thing in front of her. Passion-less hate smouldered within her darkened heart – as it always had since she had slaughtered the Inquisitor – she yearned for the glory of battle so long denied to her – furious that she had to rely on the incompetent beast to lead the way. Yet while she hated him, she also appreciated his company, simply because she was sure that she would go mad if she had to focus the hatred on herself or this unyielding planet – it was good to have company again, even if it only served as a release.

 

“Where exactly are you leading me?” she asked, hinted impatience betrayed in her unusually calm voice.

“There ish…” the cripple wheezed, trying with difficulty to speak while continuously dragging himself forward over the painfully sharp earth, “there ish… a shair… you… you may have been there before. A shair that… that…” He swallowed with difficulty, his crisp dry throat making every syllable agonizing. “… that leadth to th-the nether realm…” he gasped – every breath felt that it could be his last

“Speak up!” she snapped, “I can’t hear a damn word you’re saying.”

He gulped down more dust laden dry air. “The shair…” he repeated as loud as he could, which was pitifully low due to his exhausted condition, “… leash to the nether world. Through… through there, you musht… musht go… mas-mashterth be… be on the other thide…” He went silent, his voice all but spent.

 

She was about to kick him again, when over the crest of the ridge, she saw it – the stair, the dais, the archway – it seemed like it had been a lifetime since she had seen it last. Many times she had tried in vain to locate it again so that she might return to the realm of Khorne to partake in the endless battle, but never was she able to find it – until now. Abandoning the cripple to his fate she took to the skies born aloft by her terrible wings – soaring over the barren red earth – gliding low over the sands – feeling the harsh breeze rush against her face and pass through her hair – it felt… good. She felt good. Calm – like somehow she knew that whatever happened here she would find a peace of sorts – a peace with her own troubled soul. She felt that the galaxy could die before her very eyes, and she would not suffer by it. She landed on the dais - marvelling that it was here, unchanged – she had been a different woman when she had passed across it – torment – following the fiend. She looked across its smooth surface, unblemished save for the traces of blood that dried on its surface – her blood. Then she saw her bolt pistol, and moved to pick it up – turning it over in her gauntleted fingers – ignoring the dull throb of her wrist. One shell was still loaded in its chamber – the shell that was meant for her – to save her soul. She chuckled at the memory of it – how she had wished to die, never having felt the swell of pride in her chest, glory in her heart, and blood on her tongue – all of that could have ended with this one shell.

 

Gasping for air, the old cripple finally reached the top of the stair. Bloodied and broken he allowed himself to rest upon its smooth surface. Aribeth walked over to him, “This is the place then? The place where I will pass to meet your masters?”

He pushed himself into a sitting position and stared past the archway, as Aribeth walked slowly past him to the stair – looking over to the blasted surface.

“Yesh,” he breathed, “thith ish the place.” Aribeth nodded her head slightly from behind him, though it passed unnoticed to the cripple. “Blood for the Blood God…” he, intoned…

 

He never finished the sentence, his deformed head exploding from his hunched shoulders as the flaming sword claimed his soul at last with a single mighty stroke. Blood gushed forth from the stump of his neck and drenched the dais in a torrent of gore – his head bouncing and rolling until it slipped of the side and fell to the ground far bellow with a muffled thump. She lowered the weapon – satisfied at last – and kicked the headless corpse from the dais – only the blood deserved to be there.

“Skulls for the Skull Throne” she finished, and marched through the archway into the realm beyond.

 

* * * *

 

It was a rich, potent aroma, yet very pleasing, and when he levelled the goblet to his lips the wine tasted as it smelled – excellent. Setting the goblet back down on the table before him, and looking back across it at his companion, Maelekor frowned – he was still critical of what he had just heard.

“Tell it to me again.” he said – his voice low with an appropriate hint of interest so that his companion might embellish his plan, and possibly reveal more than his intention.

The power armoured figure across from him sighed irritably, and leaned forward – dark eyes tracing the face of Maelekor for an indication of what went on behind it, naturally though, Maelekor was a mask. “Very well,” he said, drawling voice concealing perfectly the urgency within his mind “the first part is complete: the slave did its job to my satisfaction. Now however, it is up to her to reach us – that is partially beyond our control as we cannot have someone there to guide her – she must do it herself. Remember that that which is given is worthless, and if she thinks that our aide is worthless… then we both know what will happen.”

Maelekor grinned, “Indeed, but that may be wishful thinking on my part. Go on.”

The man across from him pressed his hands together and tapped his fingers, before placing them palm down on the table. “I have placed three tests upon her path – tests that will prove to us that she is indeed the one we have been looking for.”

“And if she fails these tests? What then? We can ill afford to waste more time upon another – gifted or no.”

“She won’t fail.”

“But if she does?”

“She won’t: I can tell.”

Maelekor rolled his eyes, and took another sip of wine. “Why is this woman so important to us anyway? One of our own could surely do better!”

The other man rose from his seat and leaned menacingly over the table, thought the effect was completely wasted on one such as Maelekor: “He knows of this place, Maelekor! This mortal – Hargrove, whatever his name is, it doesn’t matter – what does matter is that he knows of this place – no one else, but him. Now do you think that if a Black Legionnaire were to barge into his base and kill the fool that no one would discover where our brother came from? We cannot afford to let them find this place. If they do, the whole company is endangered!” he paused, sat back down and had a drink from his own goblet. “Besides,” he added, “She is expendable, and our brothers have larger matters to deal with.”

Maelekor smiled, downing the last of his wine, “I knew there was more to it than what you had originally told me.”