The Laughing Warrior

[astartes88]

haha yeah should be an interesting sparring match.

[calgar101]

I like except thatRuss sounds Scottish -not thats theres anything wrong with the Scots its just that(atleast in my opinopn)- he wouldnt' sound like that. However keep up the good work!

[Jonas Stromclaw]

I like except thatRuss sounds Scottish -not thats theres anything wrong with the Scots its just that(atleast in my opinopn)- he wouldnt' sound like that. However keep up the good work!

He sounds Scottish because for me thats an easier accent to write than Norse and I want him to sound different. Thanks for the comments, here is the next entry.

 

 

The Wolf King leapt at the Laughing Warrior, bringing his ancient blade Mjalnar down in a murderous arc. Tarroc parried the blow, his halberd screeching as it encountered the rune-etched frost blade. He could feel the power of the weapon, the raging fury of the winter cold bound up with hatred for all daemon-kind by the rune priests of Fenris. Truly this was a weapon forged to slay gods. Tarroc laughed; glad to have a worthy opponent.

 

Back and forth they sparred, each blow containing enough force to shatter mountains. The immense cavern rang with the sounds of conflict and millennia old rock formations were torn asunder. Leman landed the first cut, a deep gash in Tarroc’s shoulder. The god laughed and his skin knitted itself back together instantly. His counterattack drove Russ back several paces and took a chunk out of his snarled beard. The Wolf King’s roar of outraged caused the stalactites to quiver in the rocky ceiling.

 

They continued like this for some time, each landing several blows upon the other. Tarroc had never been so challenged even by the greater daemons of his adversaries. The Corpse-Emperor would make a formidable ally.

 

The Relentless One exerted his full power for one instant and blasted Leman back against the far wall. The Wolf King was instantly back on his feet, growling and ready to renew the fight, but Tarroc simply leaned on his halberd and laughed.

 

“A good fight! Truly you do honor to your Emperor and your Legion, Leman of the Russ. But this sparring match in no way proves my healing abilities or my commitment to crushing our mutual foes in the warp. Come with me, let us find your brothers who remain alive, and I will prove to you all that I am in deadly earnest.”

 

The Primarch seemed to mull over this for a moment, then spat out a broken tooth and replied, “Alright laddie, I’ll come with ye. But the first sign of trickery will see this fight renewed.”

 

The two clasped hands, hand to wrist, to seal the pact and Leman asked, “Where to now?”

 

The One against the Many remembered the trails of power, the one leading into the darkest depths of the warp. This trail was nearly as wild and ferocious as the Wolf King’s, but possessed of greater hatred. This primarch had not come into the warp in search of a cure, but for revenge.

 

“Commorragh.”

[astartes88]

a bit short but good none the less

[Skirax]

I'm loving where this is going.

[Nacho Wolf]

Love it! And the fact Russ can land a few blows on a god makes it even better, keep it up

[Dark Apostle Thirst]

'chokes and dies'

[Firepower]

Top quality work man. The premise of it all is something I've mentally toyed with a number of times, but you've definitely outclassed any musings I ever worked up :tu:.

 

I'm not quite sold on the Scottsman Primarch, but for the life of me I can't think how a Norse accent would really read ;) . Still, it's just one small misgiving over a consistently impressive body of work. I look forward to reading about our new God's rampage through evil-space-elf land!

[Jonas Stromclaw]

Brothers, I apologise for the unforgivable delay in this next post. I deleted it and restarted several times. Truth be told I am still not quite happy with it, but oh well, no one is paying me to do this. So, without further ado, the sack of Commorragh.

 

The webway of the eldar is a curious construction. To those traveling its myriad paths it appears as a silver hallway glowing with ethereal runes carved in the walls, a haven of reality within the seething chaos of the warp. To the entities outside the wall, however, it is a hateful lure, promising great feasts in the souls that traverse it whilst in truth it holds great pain and eventual destruction for any warp beast that stays in contact. No daemon has ever dared to try to breach and lived to tell the tale.

 

In the deepest, darkest depths of the webway, the dark eldar hold sway. Here the ethereal walls, for want of care and renewing by warlocks and farseers, have thinned, weakened. The dark eldar, too caught up in their debauchery, have long forgone maintenance to the wards of the webway, caring only for the shield over their city. This mistake is about to cost them.

 

In a small webway conduit connecting to the underbelly of Commorragh, a wave of iron flesh strikes the wards. The Stone Devils of Tarroc strike again and again, worrying away at the ancient wards like a dog at an old bone. The walls glow with hateful energy and the lesser daemons are swiftly consumed, only to be replaced by another wave of attackers. Unlike the gibbering hordes of the other gods, these warriors do not run, do not falter. They will complete their god’s will, or be destroyed in the doing of it. This second group falls and a third takes its place. As they fall the Laughing Warrior notices a seam beginning to open. He orders forward a greater daemon, Torikar. The daemon strikes the rift once, twice, thrice. On the fourth blow the wards in the immediate vicinity grow hot and explode, destroying Torikar and opening a portal into the webway proper. The army of the Unyielding pours in.

 

Like a silent tide Tarroc’s warriors sweep through the under city of Commorragh. Dark eldar are cut down in the streets or blasted from balconies before they can raise the alarm. Buildings are sacked, cleared of all life. At the head of his host the Laughing God runs, an arrowhead of five greater daemons behind, a loping, lupine figure at his side. Leman swings his frost blade through an eldar wych, then sniffs the air. He smiles and says, “Horse leather, bike fuel, and dried blood. I’d know that scent anywhere. An old friend is nearby.”

 

“He is close?” The Wolf King nods to Tarroc.

 

“Then lead on. The rest of you, scatter, cause as much destruction as possible, and leave. While I enjoy butchering these pets of the Dark Prince I am loathe to leave our territory open to attack for so long.”

 

The greater daemons depart to follow their orders and the Laughing Warrior follows Russ. They sprint down back alleys, not even stopping to slay the dark eldar unless the effete creatures try to stop them. Not many do.

 

Tarroc can sense the blood trail of this son of the Corpse Emperor, but it is confused, overlapping. He has spent many years, if not decades, in this cesspit, killing from the shadows. Russ, however, is certain of his course. Like a hound on the hunt he zeros in on the freshest scent, treading ever deeper into the heart of the city. They sprinted past dark, impossible architecture and vast murals depicting disgusting deeds of depravity and torture. As they ran Tarroc could feel his hatred for this degenerate race growing with every step. He would have to return, one day, and oversee genocide of a like not witnessed since the necrons bestrode the galaxy.

 

Leman finally skidded to a stop, crunching an eldar passerby’s head to pulp with one hand and pointing up at the arena-like building directly in front of them with the other.

 

“He’s in there. Must of used the distraction we created to assault one of the more prominent wych cults.”

 

Tarroc took a few practice swings with his halberd. “Then let’s go give him a hand.”

 

 

 

 

Jaghatai Khan disemboweled another wych and rolled to the side, evading the long sweep of a power glaive. He came to his feet and relished the sensation of giving open battle once more. True, it was not as satisfying as when he fought mounted, but it beat the endless skulking and ambushes he had had to execute over the years in this cesspit. The arena he had assaulted was already coated in blood, mostly from old fights but not a little from the foes he had already slain. The cult that inhabited this place was nearly extinct, the last dozen members encircling him on the sandy killing ground. While Jaghatai respected courage, these last few did not run due to chemical induced frenzy, and so earned only disgust. He raised his sword to charge when two more figures burst into the arena.

 

“Starting the party without me, eh lad? Tis’ bad form, almost as bad as that time on Magratha, or was it Megara?”

 

Not missing a beat, the Khan disemboweled a surprised wych and replied, “The planet was called Morgra, and you were too drunk to stand, let alone swing your sword straight.”

 

The two primarchs laid into the rest of the wyches, slaughtering them without mercy or pause. They embraced as brothers, and Russ said, “It’s good to see you again, lad.”

 

Jaghatai nodded and asked, “Who is your friend? He smells of warp taint, but I have not seen his kind before.”

 

Tarroc could hear the tension in the primarch’s voice, and spoke quickly. “I am Tarroc, and I would be your ally. I have made a pact of peace with your brother Russ and given my pledge to heal the Emperor. All you know of my kind has come from the Dark Gods, the Four who are my foes. I swear to spend every ounce of my power to heal your father if you will help me destroy our mutual foes. Will you aid me, as your brother has done?”

 

Jaghatai looked at Russ suspiciously, wary of any contact with warp creatures. The Wolf King shrugged and said, “He’s been true to his word, so far.”

 

The Khan looked down, considering it for a moment. “You are a creature of the warp, and as such I can never trust you. I should not even be speaking with you, but trying to rip your heart out. But if there is even the slightest chance you can bring our father back to us and restore the Imperium…” He looked up, his gaze hard and unflinching. “I will agree to aid you, but if you so much as consider playing us false, I will take your head and mount it on a trophy pole.”

 

Tarroc laughed, “I would have it no other way.”

[Nacho Wolf]

Very nice, and I like the way neither Russ nor Kahn completely trust Tarroc, cant wait for the next part

[astartes88]

bravo

[Jonas Stromclaw]

Brothers my most sincere apologies for the delay in update. This school semester has been brutally busy. However, this is the longest post yet, so I hope you aren't too disappointed.

 

The figure runs, sprinting through the dark, billowing halls of the labyrinth. Silver peals of laughter haunt his footsteps down the billowing avenues and taut archways, the architecture impossibly crafted from silk. He glimpses dark shapes from the corners of his eyes, female forms of intense beauty, but when he turns there is only smoke. The scents of rich perfumes and mind altering toxins permeate the air. Hidden blades within the walls and floor cut him as he passes, creating an artwork from his torn skin. He runs, trying desperately to escape, to find a way out, but his every attempt is only met with more impossible architecture, more half glimpsed shadows, and more hidden blades. The voice speaks to him, as it has since he arrived here.

 

“I can give you all you desire, if you will but submit.”

 

“Never!” swears Corax once again.

 

 

 

 

Within the warp distances and relationships between places is relative. One may travel from the foot of Khorne’s throne and to the Plague Garden of Nurgle in a single step, if one has the will. As such no place within the kingdoms of the chaos gods is truly safe from attack. Any border drawn is merely to represent quantity of territory, not its actual position. However, this mode of attack is rarely used to assault the fortresses of the Four, as any attacking force would face terrible casualties. As such this is only used when the reward is worth it, such as when Nurgle captured Isha from the Dark Prince’s clutches.

 

Tarroc deems the reward worth it.

 

Summoning every ounce of his power, the Laughing Warrior enters into a gambit the likes of which have not been seen in over ten thousand years. Leaving his territories and holdings completely open to attack, the Unfaltering unleashes a massed horde against the palace of Slaanesh. Foot soldiers, leonine quadrupeds, and every greater daemon he has take part in the assault. At the vanguard is Tarroc himself along with the two primarchs and a phalanx of greater daemons. As before, they will lead the way, searching for the lost son of the Emperor while the rest of the force causes as much destruction as possible.

 

Arrayed against them are the forces the Dark Prince can muster on short notice backed up by the traps and entanglements of his palace. Halls of mirrors confuse the eye to who is friend and foe, endless fields of immaculate gardens conceal poisonous thorns and hidden pitfalls, and an enchanting moat about it all is in truth filled with acid. These are but a few of the dangers the invading forces face before they even come to grips with their foe.

But come to grips they do. After suffering grievous casualties Tarroc’s warriors enter the inner courtyards and halls of the palace where they engage the she-daemons of Slaanesh, the wiles and quick blades of the foe no match for the relentless advance of the uncaring Stone-devils. The main force of the Dark Prince sallies forth, engaging at will. Greater daemons duel, trampling their smaller cousins under foot. Walls are crushed and impossible artwork destroyed in the upheaval.

 

Slaanesh watches from his tower, fuming. The antics of the upstart god had entertained the Dark Prince with their daring, but this was too much. Without a sound he leapt gracefully from the tower, descending on ethereal wings. The forces of Tarroc shuddered as one when the arch-daemon entered play, but still refused to give an inch. Slaanesh slaughtered his way through their ranks, always looking for the upstart. Where was he? Surely he would have come himself.

 

In the depths of the palace the ‘upstart’ was setting fire to the silk labyrinth. The architecture writhed and screamed as it was destroyed; the entities bound within its cloth annihilated by the purging flame sweeping from the Laughing Warrior’s halberd. The smoke coalesces into a greater daemon of Slaanesh, the guardian of this infernal prison. The beast screams its fury and advances on the young god. Russ and the Khan leap forward, eager to spill blood. The battle is quick, ending with the creatures heart carved out and its head severed. Onward they push, Tarroc creating a path as the primarchs slay any foe to come within reach. Near the center of the labyrinth they come across a figure, bloody and broken. Through drug glazed eyes the primarch of the XIX stares back at them.

 

“More phantoms of the warp, more figures to tempt me with promises of power, more torturers armed with pain and pleasure in equal measure? Begone, for I will never submit to your bastard lord.”

 

“Nay lad, we’ve come to free you.” Russ says, kneeling by his brother.

 

“Leman?” Corax asks, “No, it isn’t you, hasn’t been you for ten thousand years. Just more hallucinations, brought on by this cursed place, this damnable prison.”

 

Leman shakes his brother, but Corax pushes him away. Jaghatai attempts to reason with his brother, but the Raven Guard Primarch simply ignores the Khan, muttering more about phantoms and “this accursed labyrinth.” Finally Tarroc tries his hand. He leans down and rests his halberd in Corax’s lap, flame still guttering from its tip. “If it is this place that holds you here, then burn it to the ground.”

 

The prisoner looks down, bewildered. No phantom has ever before given him a weapon. This must be a trick. But, what if? What if it wasn’t?

Corax snatched up the polearm, hefting its weight experimentally. As the feel of good steel in his hands sunk into his brain, the light of battle returned to his eyes, a hard-bitten, vengeful look. He swept the halberd about him, the sorcery of the warp forged weapon spewing flame not unlike the great inferno cannons of the Imperial Titans. The labyrinth began to twist and scream once more under the flames, and Corax laughed in time with the sound. He turned, standing straight and tall, and handed the weapon back to its owner.

 

“A good weapon, stranger, I thank you for its use. Now, brothers, let us leave this place.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

As the primarchs and their ally returned the Laughing Warrior’s fortress, one of Tarroc’s lieutenants strode over to them. His voice was deep and monotone, like the tread of a marching army.

 

“My lord, we have fallen back in good order. We inflicted great casualties and destruction upon the foe and have returned units to their original stations. In the army’s absence Tzeentchian forces have made inroads into our territories. I have dispatched units to deal with them.” The creature hesitated for a moment. It was one of the most powerful entities of the warp, but the being it was speaking to could unmake it with a word. “We have also taken a prisoner, one of Slaanesh’s lieutenants. Its essence has been captured and trapped awaiting your appraisal.”

 

Tarroc frowned and leveled his weapon at the daemon. “I gave orders for no quarter and no mercy, Morrikar. Why have you defied me?”

 

The lieutenant pointed to the primarchs at Tarroc’s back and said, “This creature is like them, lord. I thought you would at least like to inspect it before rendering judgment.”

 

The young god nodded and, lowering his weapon, said, “Well done my servant. Let us inspect this daemon who poses as a son of the Emperor.” Ignoring the murderous looks of the primarchs, he strode after Morrikar.

 

In the end they did not need Morrikar to lead them to the prisoner. Shrieks and curses emanated from the under levels of the fortress, directing them to a chamber engraved with arcane runes of entrapment. Inside, surrounded by five greater daemons of Tarroc, is a beast out of the worst nightmares of humanity. Though its human origin is evident, the creature now has far too many eyes and legs for one of Adam’s race. Artfully twisted horns curl from its forehead and intricate tattoos cover every exposed inch of its perfect alabaster skin. A perfumed essence emanates from the creature and its voice is so beauteous one feels it tug at the soul. This is a favored servant of the Dark Prince, a greater daemon of Slaanesh. And it is trapped.

 

It rages at its bounds, slashing its elegant talons at the silvery shield that entraps it. Any perceived weakness in the ward is immediately struck by its powerful, scorpion-like tail. It turns as Tarroc enters and grins at the figures following him.

 

“Greetings brothers, it has been too long. How is our father? Rotting, I hope.”

 

“Fulgrim you scum!” roared Jaghatai. He and Russ leapt at their former brother, weapons raised, but Tarroc blocked their progress with his halberd.

 

“Hold.”

 

“Why?” Corax asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “This swine is responsible for the deaths of untold millions, including our brothers Ferrus and Roboute. Why should we not take his head right now?”

 

“Because this is not your brother. Now lower your weapons and I will explain.”

 

The bewildered primarchs obey and Tarroc points to the snarling, hissing creature as if he were a professor lecturing a class.

 

“This creature is a denizen of the warp, a greater daemon who wears your brother’s flesh like a cloak, shaping it to his will. I suspect your brother was tricked into giving control over, perhaps by your brother Horus in order to win Fulgrim’s legion to his cause.” At this point the daemon unleashed a flood of curses at the young god, who merely smiles.

 

“Do I hit close to the mark, foul one? I thought so. Anyway, with daemon possessions such as this, it is usually impossible to save the host. However, your brother is more… robust than the usual subject. And I am a little more knowledgeable than the usual exorcist.”

 

At this the daemon in Fulgrim’s body hissed and spat, “I will kill him first, you fool! He chose this, chose to let me in! You may banish me, but I will leave you only a smoldering corpse!”

 

The Unfaltering leaned in close, his voice flat and dangerous. “Kill him, you worthless sack of excrement, and I won’t just banish you, I’ll rend your very essence into a thousand shreds and scatter the scraps throughout the mortal universe. This galaxy will have burnt itself out before you even begin to coalesce.”

 

The daemon only snarled. Tarroc reached into the shield and grabbed it about the throat. It thrashed and struck at him, opening a few rents in his iron skin. Power began building around the young god, manifesting as silver lightning. This struck the daemon with a resounding crack. The daemon screamed and began to thrash, but the Laughing Warrior held it steady in spite of its massive bulk. The watching primarchs could, between the flashes of light, see the outline of a screaming man within the daemonic form. This went on for some time, the daemon’s shrieks rising in volume the whole time. Finally, it decided to leave. The daemon flesh leapt from the primarch’s form and began to coalesce into a Keeper of Secrets before the watching greater daemons of Tarroc leapt upon it and ripped it to shreds. The Laughing Warrior released the smoking form of a naked man. He dropped to the floor, weeping. One side of his face was a picture of perfection, an ideal for all humanity to aspire to. The other half, however, paid the price for his freedom. It was crisscrossed with burn scars, horrendously damaged beyond repair. Tarroc knelt by the man and said, “Welcome back, Fulgrim.”

[The Thirst]

since i heard about fulgrim's plight ive been mourning

 

awesome work

 

now make angron turn lol

[Hubernator]

Very interesting. Although for a new God I would've left him nameless personally, adds a bit more mystery and secrecy to him. Tarroc mind you isn't bad but a tad off :P No matter, continue

[astartes88]

Dude that was just pure awesome!!!

[Firepower]

I liked this one a lot more than the foray into Commoragh, doubtless. The one thing that doesn't sit right is the hold Taroc has over his primarch cronies. Khan and particularly Russ are not very forgiving fellows. Even if Fulgrim was 'simply' possessed, I wouldn't see either one forgiving him regardless. Russ would likely kill him anyway, if only for being so weak as to allow himself to turn in the first place.

 

But this series depends on suspensions of..er, suspended disbelief (double suspension...hmm) in that it is bending firmly cemented notion of the 4 Gods etc. etc. so no major worries there. I would simply suggest keeping conflict/distrust/animosity among the new God's growing entourage lively throughout the rest of the project, instead of the "Oh, well, no harm done" approach. It might be a fun plot device to have Corax continue to constantly question the reality around him, too. 10,000 years of insanity doesn't fade easily.

 

That, and be more prompt with the updates! There's a limit to the value of suspense :lol:

[Gree]

Interesting, the concept has my interest peaked so far. I'm going to assume that Vulkan the Lion and Guilliman are next?

[Nacho Wolf]

Yay! Its back on, I loved this part. but I do think you need Kahn and Russ to still want to rip Fulgrim into itty bitty tiny peices, mayby have Tarroc and Corax manage to hold them back until Fulgrim manages to regain some sanity

[HandOfDorn]

Any news on the next installment?

[Jonas Stromclaw]

I am sorry, my brothers, for my failure to continue this story. I managed to squeak the last installement in and then school got completely insane. Monday I will turn in my college term paper, and after that I may be able to resume this story, if anyone is still interested?

[The Thirst]

I'm interested!

[Gree]

So I am.

[Nacho Wolf]

As am I mate, keep it coming!

[Rummy]

Loving this!!

[Dorns Padawan]

Absolutely!!!!!!!