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The Rise of the Warmaster


Skirax

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Well I should point this out - it's your story, so you write it if you really want to. Doesn't matter so much about what we think. It's your creative mind at use, not ours. We are merely the audience, not the enforcers (ok maybe nova but ignore him :))

 

 

Story wise I've been following it through from the start. It's getting better with every chapter. I'm definately looking forward to seeing the end of all this, if there is one ^_^

  • 2 weeks later...

Far across the Galaxy, in the region of space known as Ultramar, Roboute Guilliman watched with fiery fury as blind fools came and venerated him as a god. He watched with hatred as stupid mortals lay sacrifices at his feet and bowed their heads in prayer. He would have rolled his eyes, had he control over them. He stewed within his stasis pod, just wishing that he could rise from his false throne and strike down whoever allowed these fools into his ‘holy’ sanctum.

As the last of the tourists and pilgrims left, here was a slight rumble at the side of the room.

Through the metre thick ceramite and plasteel, not to mention beautiful marble, crashed Fulgrim, the Deamon-Primarch of Slaanesh and the Emperor’s Children. He snarled with hate and pleasure at the sound of screaming citizens from outside. He drew the long Learan blade, caked with millennia of slaughtered foes. ‘I’ve come to finish the job, brother,’ spat Fulgrim, his face a vision of pure menace. He roared, bringing the sword high above his head, then brought it down on the glass surrounding Roboute. With a hiss, the Warp’s presence left the vessel and freed Guilliman from his prison. In an instant, the wounds healed as they shone with the light of the Astrominican. He roared his vengeance, in an instant knocking Fulgrim off guard. In this instant, Guilliman threw himself at Fulgrim, crashing through another of the walls and sending the Learan blade flying. He wrapped his great hand around Fulgrim’s neck, slowly squeezing the life out of him. He roared, sending curses at the Emperor’s Children around the sprawling Demi-gods. They fled at the sight of the usually calm Primarch’s fury, fear claiming their hearts and souls. Fulgrim struck out at Guilliman’s arms as they tightened their grip.

‘How do you like it, traitor?!?’ Guilliman spat at Fulgrim. The Deamon-Primarch groaned as his throat collapsed, then released his last breath.

With it, he whispered one last thing, ‘Feel it brother? Feel the power of the Warp. Let it claim you.’

‘I shall never succumb to the Chaos!’ shouted Roboute.

‘You already have,’ gasped Fulgrim. And with that, the breath of Life left Fulgrim and went to join its patron god.

Guilliman raised himself to his feet. He wiped the purple blood on his robes, and beckoned to his brother, his calm composure regained. The survivors of the attack walked slowly towards him, not knowing what to make of their Primarch’s fury. Roboute chuckled, as though what had just happened was merely a game. ‘Do not worry, brothers. An old rivalry,’ A ghost of anger passed over his face. ‘A bitter one...’ Then he turned his eyes to the darkened skies, filled with the power of the warp and sprawling with flying Deamons and defiled warships. Guilliman’s face whitened. ‘Oh dear.’

 

The Citadel of Macragge

 

Guilliman sat at the head of a long table, with Chapter Master Sicarius at his right hand side, and the master of the Macragge Lions, the garrisoned Guard regiments, on his left. Before him were the surviving and loyalist captains, each in awe of the way the Primiarch had managed to kill his nemesis in such a way. Sicarius was giving the briefing to his Primarch.

‘It’s unfortunately true, my lord, Agemann betrayed us once I was declared Chapter Master, taking Tigurius with him, all of the Scouts and the Master of the Armoury as well. We’ve since been fighting a protracted campaign against incursions of Deamons and the full might of the Emperors Children Legion. Half the population has turned against us, and three of the Planets in the sector have been razed to the ground. We’ve sent distress calls to all of the Adeptus Astartes chapters, and we’ve even asked for the help of the Tau. However, ever the opportunists, they have also began laying siege to our Sector. We tried to explain to them that if they allied with us, we would be defeating a common foe, but they see this as a chance to get rid of their main rival,’ finished Sicarius.

‘Wait, you mentioned distress calls,’ boomed Roboute. ‘What happened to them?’

Sicarius looked at the floor. ‘I’m sorry my Lord, but it seems like most of our calls were intercepted by the enemy fleet. He only ones that got through either fell on deaf ears, or our Allies are to far away to be of any immediate assistance. Though we have had word of seventeen Guard regiments being deployed to help us, and the entire Grey Knights chapter is being drafted in.’

‘My Guardsmen have been deployed to our outer defences, and the Imperial Navy have been consistently attacking the Emperors Children, although it seems like there is no end to the Chaos reinforcements. At the centre of their domain, they have setup a massive Warp Gate, which they call Slaanesh’s Mouth. It constantly vomits forth a tide of Deamon spawn and Greater Deamons that we have attempted to whether as much as possible,’ spoke Kistol Hrol, Master of the Macragge Lions.

‘Sir, I strongly advise that now you have returned, you alert the entire Imperium, surely then they shall send reinforcements,’ said Sicarius, and the other captains murmured and then shouted agreements.

‘But you told me that not many calls are getting through?’ said Guilliman.

‘We have banked on one last gambit, my Lord,’ said Sicarius in a hushed tone. ‘We send out a thousand signals on every type of frequency, psychic level, and binaric code possible. We have all of our Librarians linked together through a machine that will send this signal flaring across the galaxy,’ beamed Sicarius.

‘But won’t that drain all of our transmitting banks and kill all the Psykers?’ asked Guilliman. Sicarius’ face fell.

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures, my Lord.’

Guilliman thought for a moment, and then spoke. ‘Do it.’

nice nice ^^, although Guilleman would think of alternatives. he should of thought of thinks before they explained it to him. and the story needs a clean up ^^. very good.

Well, let's not forget here that Guilliman has been in a stasis tube for 10,000 years. He will not have a good perceptive of what's going on at the time he returns. I think I gave him some good moments where his raw combat power, combined with his anger, allows him to defeat a Deamon-Primarch without even getting a bloddy nose.

 

Could you please quote or at least give ideas on where the story needs cleaning up?

first of all the laeran sword was given to Lucius at the end of the novel Fulgrim so he doesn't have it anymore. second... I can't believe Guilliman killed Fulgrim like that. third Fulgrim's entrance was a bit messy not very coherent with the background.

 

I suggest using the Anathame instead of the Laeran sword because as I mentioned Fulgrim doesn't have the Laeran sword anymore.

you should edit the storys into your first post, its rather hard to come in and read all of them without knowing wich one you read alst, i readthe first couple then came in today and just reread the whole thing since i couldnt find were i had already read to. Great story though, i love how youve done horus

The Beast and the Devourer

 

On the lost world of Charadon, the Waagh! without End draw to a close. The Tyranid wave had retreated, the world stripped of all biomass. The world was left a barren rock, and the Orks quickly began infighting and across the planet, barbaric war raged. Eventually, the Orks, bored of each other's company, left to ply the stars.

 

Two years later, the Tyrinads returned, only now their mutations were taking on a more barbaric scene. Were once, there was thickened carapce, there now was sinewy and leathery hide, ripped with muscles. Their claws were replaced with high calibre pistols, and their already powerful psychic prowess was bolstered with their mutations' sheer mentality.

It soon became apparent that the Tyranids had absorbed Ork Spores into their gene-pools.

As soon as the Tyranid-orks broke out from the confined space around Charadon, an Imperial Crusader force was prepared to invade Charadon once and for all.

 

Bullets exploded as they hit the sandbags atop the trenches and shrapnel rained down as it burst just over the thin line of protection. Duras sprinted down the trench-line, holding his helmet and clutching his lasgun as he went. The xenos had began an offensive on the eastern front, and just as the Guardsmen were amassing for a large infantry charge on the western front. The Tyranid mentality, combined with the Ork race's ingenious mind, had allowed them to develop living artillery that hurled conscious shells at the defenders, shells that bit and tore once they had hit. These new chemical weapons were damaging Imperial morale badly, and now it seemed like this war would never be won.

Duras reached the lines, and took cover behind a small crate. The xenos had penetrated the defences, and were now running amok in the trench lines. He aimed carefully down the sights as he heard screaching and high pitched wailing coming from round the corner. Suddenly the trench exploded with action as roaring aliens came charging round the corner in a flurry of limbs and claws.

The sight was unbelievable. There was hundreds of them, and none were the same. Some had large calibre guns built into their carapaces’ that rattled as powerful bullets roared along their barrels. Others had faces that were split with elongated teeth, and fangs that stretched upwards, threatening to burst their eyes. Snarls and roars were heard from the tangled mass of limbs and leering faces, and bullets followed them, exploding on the cover that Duras and his squad were now so desperately hoping would protect them.

Duras snapped off a couple of shots as the remainder of his squad comes up behind him and takes up positions. Las-bolts exploded as they hit external carapace's, and several xeno's died under the heavy volley. A Commissar behind them yelled, 'The Emperor Protects!' and ran at a sprint into the xeno's, snapping off two shots from his pistol and bringing his sword down on the encircling aliens.

Duras, sensing his squad's reluctance to engage the enemy, gave a short cry of, ‘Follow me, brothers!’ and ran back to another crate further behind them. They sprinted back, narrowly avoiding some stray bullets that whistled past their ears. Just as Duras crouched behind his new cover, a Tyranid-Ork creature that had strayed from its pack, came sprinting at them at what seemed like the speed of light. His face split in an ugly grin as he roared at the Guardsmen. Every one of the teeth in the beast’s mouth was glistening with newly spilt blood, and in his left hand came was the gruesome head of the dead Commissar. The thing leapt into the air, a small pouch in its stomach belching forth living shrapnel. The small organisms latched onto the humans, sucking their life force out of their twitching bodies. Duras couldn’t move; time seemed to slow down as the menacing thing rocketed through the air at him. The horrible and mind-numbing slowing of time allowed him to pick out horrible traits of his killer.

It’s face was covered in blood-red eyes, a thin dot of white at the centre of each one, roaming the land before it, already looking for who it would kill after it devoured him. The beasts hands were more human like, thin digits that ended in vicious claws from which dripped the viscous blood of the Commissar; It’s abdomen was covered in external ribs, but not the stiff bones that housed the human organs; these flowed and bent, allowing the creature to twist into any form it wished. Finally, the legs were sinewy things, covered in flowing muscle, black blood flowing through the thick veins. They ended in feet that were more akin to that of a psyber-eagles clawed foot.

As the beast came roaring through the air down at him, a stream of bullets came flying from the left, over the back of their own trench. The beast was ripped apart as the bullets hammered into him and ripped his body limb from limb. Duras looked for the source and saw a great Dreadnought standing atop the trenches. The hull was covered with a thousand battle honours, and the metal was lined with gold. From behind the visor, a dark green light shone. But the most striking thing about it, was the cold black colour of the hull, and the odd stripe of blue that split the dark hull.

‘The Legio walks!’ cried the veteran, and just as he did, out from the smoke came three lumbering brutes, emblazoned with a fanged skull across it’s metal work. Glorious blue shone where the cold black dared not stray, and huge weapons glowed with glorious light. Unable to do anything else, Duras swore.

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