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The Time of Ending (Chapter Nineteen up)


Skirax

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All right, I just finished catching up, and I, even with my 13-year-old prodigy brain, I agree with GOW.

And yes, I blagged your madhouse comment. Quite Shamelessly.

And, if I do kill myself, I think I'll do the States a favor and shoot up Wall Street, even if I do live in CA.

I totally love the whole thing, even if some parts are anti-climatic. Could you try and write up something about Creed's final moments?

And, on teh Russ Subject:

FOR THE WOLFTIME BIYATCH!

  • 2 weeks later...
  • 3 weeks later...

Ok, since Skirax isn't updating his latest chapter i have been given the privilege of posting his updated chapter.

 

Chapter Seventeen: The gathering

 

I could remember it like it was yesterday.

A million million men, assembled on the greatest Imperial ship assembled since the days of the Great Crusade.

Their armour was glorious, crafted to the level that it could be considered too precious for the army it hosted.

A block of men so great that it would take from sunrise to sunset to walk the length of it.

And like a great border of gods, a lining of gold on a plate of silver, the Adeptus Astartes of the Dark Angel Legion lined the edges of the block.

Atop a dais before them stood two mighty Gods of war; holding the newly crafted title of Grand Master of the Imperial Military Might and Commander of All Armies Under The Imperial Flag, or simply the Grand Master for short, stood Straken, his flesh glistening with sweat, his mechanical parts shining in the low light.

And beside the Grand Master stood one of similar name, but of lesser importance, Grand Master Primarch Lion'El Johnson, the Lion himself.

I can say, hand held to my heart, I wept at the sight.

-excerpt from the Ballad of War, composed by Kirsten Hirick, first Remembrancer of the Second Great Crusade.

 

[File excerpt from Inquisitor Malachi]

This was the beginning of the greatest Planetfalls in Human History.

May the Emperor bless our souls, for we are truly damned now.

 

 

Dorn paced the length of the assembly, his powerful legs taking him easily towards the dias in a third of the time it would have taken a normal man. His armour had been polished and buffed, the chips in it worn out and any dents removed. It gleamed regally in the light, the gold lining of the copper yellow was glowing a brilliant, vibrant blush. Every step he took rang of importance, and he carried his head high, his pride to bear the Imperial Eagle across his chest easy for every soldier to see. His hair, normally cropped short, was now unkept and scrag-like, the worry of the last few months lining his features heavily, and a light layer of stubble was creeping it's way across his lower jaw.

He was gaunt looking, the shadows below his eyes were a deep black, and his normally strong lower jaw was quivering ever so slightly. It disheartened any Astartes that would have the misfortune to look upon the tortured soul's face.

As he walked to the dais, the last few months worth of news streams were revised in his head; Ultramar under seige, the Necrons ripping apart Mars as they awoke from their slumber, the Cadian gate lost, and of course, the arrival of Horus' Crusade at the last point before the jump into Segmentum Solar. The revised map of the Imperium still burned in his mind; Segmentum Tempestus had been abandoned. Segmentum Pacificus was filled with Xenos that came from beyond the Ghoul Stars. Only in Ultima Segmentum and Segmentum Solar did the Imperial Rule remain.

He stopped, mere feet from the dais, and he looked up. There stood his brothers; Russ, Johnson, the Khan, Ferrus, Vulkan, Corax and Sanguinius. There faces were grim and many had dark expressions wrought with worry, depression and resentment. They knew their jobs, and their reassembled Legions were prepared as well. Guilliman and his forces, still stranded in Ultramar, were committed to the relief force that would arrive in time, but for now eight Legions and countless Regiments would have to do.

Dorn turned his expression to stone, wiped away the sleep in his eyes, and walked the steps to the dais.

 

Upon the dias stood a hooded figure of damnation. Its' hands wrinkly, its' eyes droopy and its' mind wary.

 

Dorn looked up upon the figure hunched there, surrounded by his, brother primarchs, sitting upon a chair with its' eyes fixed on a piece of paper, "My lord, our legions are assembled and our minds are ready" trying to read the figure before him, as he brought his report of the defensive force forward.

 

With a mighty hand, the figure placed its hand to its backside and gave it an almighty scratch, relieving a wondrous sigh. Looking down from the piece of paper that is was reading from, it peered downward towards the golden figure beneath it. I wonder

"Ready the coffee machine" his voice slightly croaked as he spoke.

"Aye my lord" turning back down the stairs from the dias as Dorn responded to his lord's command.

"One more thing" spoke the figure of damnation, as Dorn turned towards the figure again as his eyes spoke of obedience, "I require a packet of jammy dodgers, a big mac, a cornish pasty and an ice cream cone; chocolate chip mint flavoured with a flake and a cherry on top. And a very big mug for a very big coffee."

"Aye my lord" responded Dorn once again as he disappeared down the steps once more.

Giving his backside another almighty itch, the figure looked at the piece of paper once more, but this time. It lowered its' hood. To reveal a weary face, a warped face, Skirax's face.

 

I hope you enjoyed it <_<

 

EDIT: I changed it slightly, while making it flow better.

 

The chapter will continue! :P, obviously for Skirax ;)and i am glad someone liked it.

 

 

thanks

antique_nova

Chapter 17.2 preview

 

The time has come!

 

Men round around in circles, catapults were being loaded and machines were giving of a scrumptious aroma of coffee. All were prepared, all was ready.

"Ready the catapults!" Dorn's voice carried across the halls of the imperial palace and up upon the Dais where Skirax sat. The incoming call, the incoming salvation was at hand! Only to be abruptly paused by an earth shattering reminder from Skirax's belly.

Twelve hundred catapults were ready, twelve hundred catapults were in position, each one ready to deliver its delicious payload all into the lord's mouth. A portion at a time. Skirax checked his watch once more and then. Gave the nod.

 

thanks

antique_nova

Well, of course, Antique_Nova got it to a T :sick: But, as the exam season is here, I am yet again putting this on hold. You have no idea how sorry I am, loyal fans. I will one day make it up to you.

 

May the Pen stay Mightier than the Sword.

Skirax.

  • 3 weeks later...
Well, of course, Antique_Nova got it to a T :) But, as the exam season is here, I am yet again putting this on hold. You have no idea how sorry I am, loyal fans. I will one day make it up to you.

 

Exams. <_<. Don't remind us. Higher Latin was the last, the very sodding last exam at my school. Thanks a bunch Scottish Qualifications Authority.

 

Loving the story.

  • 2 weeks later...
  • 2 weeks later...
Exam season over. You write now?

I wanna see a chapter by next week... *sob* please, I need to read this story!!

Indeed, exam season over :lol: with just a few minor exams left in the school year, this story is once again up and running and, by this time next week, I aim to bring not one, but two (yes folks, you read that right) updates!

 

May the pen stay forever mightier than the sword.

Indeed, exam season over :P with just a few minor exams left in the school year, this story is once again up and running and, by this time next week, I aim to bring not one, but two (yes folks, you read that right) updates!

 

May the pen stay forever mightier than the sword.

 

I think I am happier reading this than I was when Bieksa scored in double OT on San Jose to send the Nucks to the finals!

Chapter Seventeen; The Golden King

 

I could remember it like it was yesterday.

A million million men, assembled on the greatest Imperial ship assembled since the days of the Great Crusade.

Their armour was glorious, crafted to the level that it could be considered too precious for the army it hosted.

A block of men so great that it would take from sunrise to sunset to walk the length of it.

And like a great border of gods, a lining of gold on a plate of silver, the Adeptus Astartes of the Dark Angel Legion lined the edges of the block.

Atop a dais before them stood two mighty Gods of war; holding the newly crafted title of Grand Master of the Imperial Military Might and Commander of All Armies Under The Imperial Flag, or simply the Grand Master for short, stood Straken, his flesh glistening with sweat, his mechanical parts shining in the low light.

And beside the Grand Master stood one of similar name, but of lesser importance, Grand Master Primarch Lion'El Johnson, the Lion himself.

I can say, hand held to my heart, I wept at the sight.

-excerpt from the Ballad of War, composed by Kirsten Hirick, first Remembrancer of the Second Great Crusade.

 

[File excerpt from Inquisitor Malachi]

This was the beginning of the greatest Planetfalls in Human History.

May the Emperor bless our souls, for we are truly damned now.

 

 

Dorn paced the length of the assembly, his powerful legs taking him easily towards the dias in a third of the time it would have taken a normal man. His armour had been polished and buffed, the chips in it worn out and any dents removed. It gleamed regally in the light, the gold lining of the copper yellow was glowing a brilliant, vibrant blush. Every step he took rang of importance, and he carried his head high, his pride to bear the Imperial Eagle across his chest easy for every soldier to see. His hair, normally cropped short, was now unkempt and scrag-like, the worry of the last few months lining his features heavily, and a light layer of stubble was creeping it's way across his lower jaw.

He was gaunt looking, the shadows below his eyes were a deep black, and his normally strong lower jaw was quivering ever so slightly. It disheartened any Astartes that would have the misfortune to look upon the tortured soul's face.

As he walked to the dais, the last few months worth of news streams were revised in his head; Ultramar under siege, the Necrons ripping apart Mars as they awoke from their slumber, the Cadian gate lost, and of course, the arrival of Horus' Crusade at the last point before the jump into Segmentum Solar. The revised map of the Imperium still burned in his mind; Segmentum Tempestus had been abandoned. Segmentum Pacificus was filled with Xenos that came from beyond the Ghoul Stars. Only in Ultima Segmentum and Segmentum Solar did the Imperial Rule remain.

He stopped, mere feet from the dais, and he looked up. There stood his brothers; Russ, Johnson, the Khan, Ferrus, Vulkan, Corax and Sanguinius. There faces were grim and many had dark expressions wrought with worry, depression and resentment. They knew their jobs, and their reassembled Legions were prepared as well. Guilliman and his forces, still stranded in Ultramar, were committed to the relief force that would arrive in time, but for now eight Legions and countless Regiments would have to do.

Dorn turned his expression to stone, wiped away the sleep in his eyes, and walked the steps to the dais.

He stared across the assembled men, a stony expression on his face, and his jaw set firm. His eyes betrayed his emotions however, as they began to wet and tear over. His heart was breaking at the words he was preparing to say, and his eyes were now bleeding out that feeling.

He closed his eyes, squeezing out one tear that ran shortly down his cheek before the heat of the great hall caused it to dry up. In closing his eyes, his mind ran through the reports he’d heard over the last few months. They flashed through, running like a movie in fast-speed.

The first was the War on Macharius.

 

“Get down you dogs!” roared the sergeant, shortly before his head was torn clean off by a flying piece of debris. The rest of his squad fell to their knees as the ground shook with the movement of a million aliens, before collapsing to their hands, blood pouring from every orifice on their faces. They roared as shrill psyker-screams ripped through their brains. They reared back, their hands clapped to the side of their heads as their helmets began to tighten on their heads.

Suddenly, as one, their heads exploded in a spray of gore and thick blood, their dead decapitated corpses falling limp on the battle scarred world.

So far in the battle, not a single shot had been fired by the advancing Cythors, who came in waves of armoured insect-like creatures, two prominent fangs jutting from their mouths, yet they marched over a sea of crunched up and mauled Imperial Soldiers.

The only thing that stood before their murderous advance was a thirty foot wall, a wall as grey as the landscape of Fenris with markings as glorious as Macragge’s Palaces. Constructed in the combined forges of Medusa and Nocturne, the wall spanned a continent the size of Mundus Planus’ own deserts, the wall roared far above the dusty copper-coloured desert, upon which stood a group of soldiers with armour that gleaned even in the dark light of the starless night.

The Cythors came to a halt before the great wall, their heads straining to see the top of the wall. They chattered, clicked and squawked, the noises a form of communication that rushed between them and sent small sparks flying between their fangs. Psychic charge began to fly between them, and the curse that afflicted normal humans started to charge up, when like a wave the curse flew at the defenders.

It hit them like a tsunami; a wave of focussed energy crashing over them and drowning them in warp energy. Cracks appeared down the wall, and dust flew from the ground for miles around.

But the wave didn’t drown them. The wave crashed over them, breaking at the mighty psychic barriers that each warrior had erected about them.

Seeing their main form of attack fail at the hands of these mighty warriors, the Cythors roared in guttural disdain, before leaping to the air on blackened wings and using their psychic might to fly onto the huge platform of the wall, cresting the crenulations and landing with enough force to crack the wall beneath their feet.

They roared at the defenders, spit flying at them in a flurry of saliva.

The acidic spit spattered of their ornate and ancient helms, fizzling on the thin force field that surrounded their armour.

Silently but no less glorious, the warriors raised their mighty halberds above their heads, their leader roaring silently through the warp.

With a force beyond their mortal shells, the Emperor and the Custodes charged.

why would a Primarch be lesser than a mortal? When a Primarch is second only to the Emperor?

I assume you're referring to Straken becoming Warmaster, well there will be justification soon, and that will be part of the story.

 

I know I've been gone a while, but wow, I hoped for a better response :P

sorry, its a great story, but I was running late on the forum, so I only had time for my one criticism ;-)

 

Keep up the good work! Although I still think Lion would pulverise Straken....let alone Dorn or Guilleman

  • 4 weeks later...
1. Yes, you will make it up to us(please note, Im a psyker).

2. Antique, THAT WASN'T VERY FUNNY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

:HQ:

Platbut

edit:

P.S. You need to do a part were the Emperor runs into Kaldor Draigo.

 

Don't worry, i will pick up the crumbs every time Skirax leaves them too long in the wind :). So Skirax, must we catapult more jammy dodgers before your steady hands can begin to type your plan for galactic domination? :P

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18 is up! :P

 

Chapter Eightteen; The Curse of the Bood God

 

In the far reaches of the Emperor's domain, a space marine was covered in extacy as he was riddled by catapalt after catapult of bloody heads. "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" his blood curggling cry could be heard withiin all four realms of the warp as Khorne's attention was fixed elsewhere.

 

Skirax, he watched Skirax as he skillfully caught and gobbled the flying donuts, the strawberry wafers, the custard tarts and the silly sausages covered in chilli sauce. His mouth drooled as he contemplated upon his throne of skulls. "I need jam!" he raged and suddenly an idea sprung into his mind as he roared across all realms, both warp and real space.

 

"JAM FOR THE BLOOD GOD! JAM FOR THE BLOOD GOD! JAM FOR THE JAM GOD!" and suddenly all blood within the universe, known or otherwise, turned into jam. Space marines turned into skin tight cocoon packed with sugery; acidic strawberry jam and servitors became fruitful atomotons - while Skirax's hands became rectangular sponge cakes, filled with delightful raspberry jam - swarming with extasy and rage.

 

Skirax looked at his soft hands, his spongy hands. He wondered and pondered upon hour after hour and came to a decision, he bit his finger and chewed upon it merrily until not a piece of his left hand remained. And then he looked down between his legs, "Oh great, not what i am i going to use my left hand for" he exclaimed, but he had a idea; a wondrous idea popped into his exquisite mind.

 

" FULGRIM! SANGUINUS!" He bellowed upon his potty chamber. Seconds later his two sons kneeled before him, eyes cast down and head respectfully pointed towards the floor.

" Time to give help daddy Skirax" he smiled and his son's heads flew up to meet his head as there eyes interlocked and their tongues stuck out in anticipation of what was to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For all you dirty buggers who thought that this was going to end sexually. Shame on you! Shame on YOU! :P, don't worry, it shall be updated soon enough!

 

But on another serious note, when will you give up our two chapters Mr.Skirax?

 

thanks

antique_nova

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