This is the Liber Astartes, PART II

[Olis]

Watches as Aquilanus types his post...

Seriously, his name is in italics at the bottom of the page. I'm camping here for now.

[Aqui]

This is in fact, the third time to send a reply. All I'll say is, that the mobile internet (mifi) device I have whilst visiting family decided to be a complete whilst I was saving and the original (which weighed in at about 4-5K words!) was not saved

This is the first chance I've had to try again since.

All talk of organ harvesting can be discussed once I've warmed up the Fusion Cannon...

I've spent the last hour or so retyping what I could remember, so here it is:

Part three:

"Damn it!"

Ace Debonair was frustrated by the lack of progress finding their quarry. It had taken a few hours to rouse the rest of the Legio, but by now, more and more encounters with the intruder had been reported, more than a few happening simultaneously. Turning a corridor, Ace led his group towards the Chaos section of the Liber.

"Why are we down here? Shinzaren asked.

"Because, if this is who we suspect him to be, then he'd make a bee line to here, or...

"Oh, Feth!"

Turning around and stepping into a run, Ace activated his vox to full broadcast.

"Debonair to all Marines. I think he will...fully manifest in the Chaos Section, not in the Liber one as we first thought."

"Indeed." Voxed Brother Tyler. "The highest concentration of attacks reported in the last five minutes have been there. All Marines are to converge at that location. Tyler out."

Forte was close behind.

"What's our plan when we get there?"

"I don't know. We'll have to wing it, I think..."

The Chaos section of the Legio Bolter and Chainsword was, well, in Chaos. The regulars within we currently trying to attack a yellow blur that materialised and disappeared at random, making it virtually impossible to gain any advantage. Many of the defenders had been rendered unconcious, but no fatalities. The manifestation favoured a large Thunder Hammer held true in a large gauntlet. The rest of the shape seemed to be impossible to see clearly.

Aquilanus had not been able to predict any discernable attack pattern. More than once, any he could work out suddenly changed, resulting in an acrid crackle of ozone and the sight of another hapless body flying through the air.

"Gorram it! We told you guys to stick to the pattern we laid out!" His words went unheeded as another Marine was sent hurtling towards a wall.

"By the plains of Pochutec!" the spectral hammer appeared directly in front of him, the Rainbow Warrior and Bahltimyr Reaver forced their collective body to the floor to avoid the connection. Time seemed to slow, the hammers arc seemed to appear like a comet, the electrical discharge earthing upon his armour. Fortunately, the attack missed. Barely.

"Can you hear something?" Aquilanus turned to see Battle Brother Ludovic. Pausing to strain his hearing over the commotion, the now familiar sound of slay bells and the anguished cries of pain and horror.

"It's getting on our Jhorblocs!" Snarled the many man. The multiple personalities were in agreement for once. The sound would have been mind numbing to a mere human. To a post human, it was annoying.

"If it is him, what does he want?" Ludovic asked.

"A valium, perhaps?" quiped his colleague. "New gauntlets?"

"Well, it is the season to be in peril." Ludovic.

"Wait, what?"

"You know. 'Tis the season to feel peril. La la la la la, la la la, la!"

"Poor singing aside, I think you might have something." Ludovic looked slightly embarrassed at the remark on his singing. Marines weren't known for it, outside of battle hymns.

"I think we are doing this the wrong way. I'm sending a request to the Administratum to cease hostilities. We need to...appease this apparition, not fight it."

"And how do we do that? Throw some Iron Warriors at it?"

"I'm pretty sure that Insane Psychopath might take issue with that." although Aquilanus did see the amusement factor for a brief moment.

"No. If this is Pater Fistmas, then I know just how to stop it..."

+++

"I'm not going into that!"

Olisredan looked upon the construct with disdain.

"Do I look like a Son of Dorn?"

"This isn't going to stop until everyone has had an equal turn. It's no coincidence that the Marines from Dorn's geneline have been left alone."

"But the pain glove? I'm not a masochist!"

"You have the Liber special every Friday. If that doesn't show masochistic tendencies I don't know what will." Cormac Airt chuckled wryly.

Olisredan snorted. Most of the Legio had already taken their turn, the Dornian's were refused entry after the third time in fact as it was holding up proceedings.

"Look, five minutes in it on pain level tertius. It's not as bad as you think."

"I don't know. I once had to listen to Aquilanus talk animatedly about a few things. Five minutes is a long time, at least on that occasion..."

"We heard that."

"Just get in the fething thing. There's something that you should see afterwards..."

+++

Olisredan followed Ludovic and Aquilanus to the Legio's main hall. The doors were closed, which was unusual. They were normally left open, to make it easier for the myriad of Serfs entry and egress, the better to bring the vast amounts of food the Legio consumed on a daily basis. On this occasion, they were decorated with two dismembered fist holding a prickly green plant. On opening, a light that blinded the Marines. Taking a small step back to reorientate themselves, their enhanced sight took in the massive structure in the centre of the room. It was conical shaped, in yellow hues.

"What the..."

Olisredan's hand went instinctively for his bolt pistol. The structure was an armour bastion in miniature, bristling with every weapon imaginable. Meltas, Missile Launchers, Grav guns, all training on the Marines below, every movement tracked, every Marine observed.

It was truly malevolent.

"It's a Fistmas tree."

Olisredan realised that his mouth was open. Shutting it, he started to ask a question, but it was answered by the sight of what was at the bottom.

The weapons were guarding the parcels below. There were hundreds, thousands even, or every shape and size.

"They are Fistmas presents." Aquilanus replied to the unasked question that still hung on the Moderatii's lips.

"They are for everyone who does not succumb to Heresy."

"I'll bet that's made more than a few of our Brothers and Sisters mad."

Aquilanus smiled briefly.

"In fairness of the situation, I think that the main requirement for receipt of a present has been relaxed."

"How do you know that?"

Ludovic pointed to a smaller group of the Legio's dedicated Chaos worshippers. Each was eagerly tearing the wrapping from the gifts.

"That does not look good." The Moderatii mused as he saw the contents.

"We can worry about that some other time." Messor laughed as he joined them. "Here's yours."

Olisredan looked at the parcel. The whole concept was new to him, but curiosity soon got the upper hand. Tearing the paper from his gift, Aquilanus suddenly lurched back in true horror.

"Oh, Fething hell! Oh, Fething Hell in a hand basket!"

Ludovic shared his Brothers' terror. Seeing the weapon in his hands, they dived for cover as the safety was released and a roar was heard across the hall as the trigger was pulled.

A Volkite weapon.

Olisredan let out a whoop of delight as Marines, Guard and Adepta Sororitas jumped for cover.

"Merry Fistmas!"

And for the final time that year, the sound of slay bell and screaming could be heard...

Ps. Olisredan - no one likes a camper

[Olis]

Ps. Olisredan - no one likes a camper

I dunno, if I stay in this bush long enough, people will forget I'm here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zekiZYSVdeQ

Anyhoo - I like the conclusion VERY much, Aquilanus. I'm going to assume it's a Serpenta and run around yelling PEW-PEW-PEW taking pot shots at unruly Liberites. :P

Edited December 28, 2013 by Olisredan

[Dosjetka]

It was well worth the wait :lol:

 

However, I do strongly believe that we will need to confiscate Olisredan's fething Volkite weapon, lest he get carried away during his bouts of Moderatii-joy... :ermm:

[Aqui]

It was well worth the wait

However, I do strongly believe that we will need to confiscate Olisredan's fething Volkite weapon, lest he get carried away during his bouts of Moderatii-joy...

Perhaps a quick mini story stating that because of a quirk of its machine spirit, it only works in months that begin with the letter X

[Olis]

Perhaps a quick mini story stating that because of a quirk of its machine spirit, it only works in months that begin with the letter X

I will find one, even if it takes me longer than Emperor to vacate the golden WC. ;)

[Conn Eremon]

Xanuary

Xebruary

Xarch

Xay

Xune

Xuly

Xugust

Xeptember

Xovember

Xecember

 

The ten-month Imperial Calendar as followed by the Legio. :p

[Aqui]

Xanuary

Xebruary

Xarch

Xay

Xune

Xuly

Xugust

Xeptember

Xovember

Xecember

The ten-month Imperial Calendar as followed by the Legio.

I didn't think it was possible to decimalise the Calendar!

Love of Primus, what next?

[Ace Debonair]

So, what did everyone else get for Fistmas?

And be sure to speak up, I can't hear any muttering over the sound of my brand new Jarl-Davisson Attack bike, fresh from the forges of Fenris.

Those space wolf jokers, though, they've made me a bike that actually runs on Fenrisian alcohol, presumably so they can loot it for booze when they next visit.

In any case, I'm off to my workshop to make some upgrades sure this conforms to STC approved mechanisms and the like.

[Conn Eremon]

I, uh . . . I got a Dreadnought. Contemptor chassis, assorted armings.

 

It is completely devoid of identifying marks, except for a ribbon upon the chestplate that spells out 'S O O N'

 

And it is empty.

 

Rather, uhm. Rather ominous, wouldn't you say? :sweat:

[Ace Debonair]

Hmm.

Never heard of any Brother Soon.

I just hope he doesn't come along to take it off you or anything.

[Conn Eremon]

Well, if he is in a position to utilize the Contemptor I have a feeling it will be easy to fight him off.

 

Overcoming the massive public backlash and suffering as a social pariah for beating up a crippled hero might be a tad bit more difficult . . .

[Nomus Sardauk]

Sadly I don't know what I got for Fistmas as I'm still MIA due to that thrice-cursed Blink Shield I accidentally nicked from the Armourium (I'm sorry Moderati! I swear I'll return it just as soon as I find out where I am! No Moderati, please no, not the Meltagun! NOOO-*BLAM*), but hopefully any presents for me will still be there by the time I return...

Oh who am I kidding, you gitz have probably already looted them faster than a Mekboy on a undefended Forge World.

[Olis]

Ah, you'll be fine, SanguiniusReborn. Just fill out this requisition form, sign it in your own blood and I'll, ahem, overlook the continued custody of the item by yourself. And there's one present left under the Fistmas tree. It's not exactly impressive in size (it's tiny) but by the way it rattles when I shake it, I think you might like it. ;) 

[Ace Debonair]

That sounds like a grenade.

Keep your guard up, SR. Pater Fistmas has a peculiar sense of humour.

[Conn Eremon]

That sounds like a grenade.

Keep your guard up, SR. Pater Fistmas has a peculiar sense of humour.

Indeed he does . . .

Or ol' Pater Fistmas' definition of "presents" is more along the lines of what we would call "plot hooks."

Maybe it's a translation error. You know, some say that despite his name he has his origins on Fenris of all places. Some kind of wild hunter, if you would believe it. All nonsense, I'm sure.

[Olis]

Messor leaned closer as his fellow Moderati spoke. What he was talking of could only be nonsense, none of the Dornian Liberites had ever mentioned a 'post-festivity' duel before. Sat in the Culinarium with other regular Liberites around them, they had been ruminating on what to do after Fistmas, since no-one had any immediate need of their presents - sharp, shooty or otherwise. 

 

"What is this 'Boxing Day', you speak of? Surely such a name would involve, well, boxes." He asked, slopping the remains of his drink inside his mug while he gestured without enough care. A little of the brown liquid spilled onto the canteen table with a 'slop'. A forearm brushed the spillage aside.

 

"You would think, brother. However, the ancient traditions as described in that tome I read specifically stated - "

 

"The Stefan Apocrypha?" Cormac Airt chipped in.

 

"Yes, the Stefan Apocrypha. It specifically stated serfs and man servants would be expected to box with their masters on the day after festivities. A later iteration of the ritual - "

 

"Wouldn't that have been a bit unfair?" Came another interruption, this time from Cambrius. Other Liberites nodded at the question while others, Aquilanus included, smirked to themselves. A mutter accompanied the nods and smirks. 

 

"What?"

 

"Wouldn't serfs be at a disadvantage to an astartes?" He continued. He leant closer, much like Messor was doing, as if to better converse with the Moderati.

 

"Well yes, but - "

 

"So wouldn't it be fairer for serfs to box serfs, or astartes to box astartes?" The logic was sound. It prompted Olis to raise an eyebrow.

 

"I'm getting to that." 

 

"Oh. Er, carry on." Cambrius slouched back into his chair, noting exactly how far that eyebrow had risen above those shades.

 

"Anyway, the point is, it's not a serious contest and you can only use your fists." The Liberites looked at each other.

 

"Sounds like fun." Piped up Ludovic, from the kitchens. He leaned over the counter. "Who gets to go first?"

Edited December 31, 2013 by Olisredan

[Conn Eremon]

Oh. Oh, I do believe it is time for my Knight of Sovereignty to come out and play. *mildly diabolical chuckle*

[Dosjetka]

Well, if you can only use your fists, I'll just bring my powered-up fist (like good ol' Calgar)

Edited December 31, 2013 by Battle-Brother Ludovic

[Conn Eremon]

Bekar Garnmist slowed his breathing as his lifelong training kicked in. It was far from immediate. The idea of combat was far from new for him, and by all accounts, this was expected to be a bout of show violence. No harm, no foul.

 

But by the Lords of All, a fight with one of them. A lauded Sovereign Knight. Even a scion of royalty such as himself was short of breath in their presence, struck dumb with awe and terror at the sight of them at war. Composure was bred into him. When Bekar was in his more honest moods, he would sometimes think of those traits as no different to that particular curl of horn indicative of those short-hair manoths he fancied so in his youth. He was nothing more than a collection of positive elements shaped into being by others no different from him. Or was he? Was the truth for his servitude to their Astartes lords because of some fault they wished to remove from the pool? Was his life dedicated to the pursuit of violence and death simply because he was determined inappropriate for communion? Ill-suited to continue the strong line of the House Garnmist?

 

No, Bekar thought. Irrelevant wanderings of a mind too terrified to think on what is happening. Laughter caught his attention, back to the ring. Ace had turned his duel into a lesson, teaching the serf before him a certain block and counter. Bekar frowned and shifted his focus more fully. It wasn’t something he had ever seen before, but now that he had it seemed . . . like a natural response, the most obvious one. Bekar watched Ace go through the motions more carefully, intent to practice this =][= DELETED BY THE INQUISITION =][= as soon as possible. But the bout was close to ending, and his was next.

 

He looked to where the Sovereign Knight sat, wearing the simple robes they wear when out of armor, and his breathing sped up once more. He had served Cormac for nearly a decade, and had long ago grown accustomed to their physique, their dynamism. The prospect of facing such a being, even in such a staged affair, undid all that work in an instant. Once more, he was that callous youth confronted with an Astartes, for the first time doubting his own place in the Emperor’s sight. Realizing what it truly means to be superior to someone, by being the inferior. He remembered that, before he had met Cormac, he had known the Knight had been raised from the Ranclides, those swine who wrongfully felt themselves equal to the High Houses. And the stories he had heard of this one, of the sheer number of serfs he went through. True suffering is what he thought he felt when he had learned this. Such disdain, such disgust. To serve a Ranclide, even one ascended in the Lord’s name? He had railed against his fate, was beat unconscious, and unceremoniously dumped into the servant’s quarters. Bekar remembered the indignation that burned within him as he awoke and stormed from that thin closet to confront his new ‘liege’ and lecture him on how to properly treat his betters.

 

Bekar winced as the memory progressed to its inevitable conclusion. Damn, but it was easy to let his mind get lost on anything but the present. Blinking, he focused his eyes once more where his lord sat, only he was not there anymore. The laughter had ceased, and all eyes were on him. The three bells that were rung to begin and end a match, he must have missed them. Cormac was in the ring already, tying the robes off at his waist to show the overly-muscled torso and chest. Their eyes met briefly. As ever, the Knight showed no emotion, not even the slightest recognition. But Bekar had served his harsh master long enough to know there was anger lurking behind those eyes. Bekar had insulted him. Punishment was a certainty.

 

Bekar stood, hoping that he didn’t appear as shaky as he felt, and entered the ring. The spectators were whispering among themselves, quite likely having sensed the tension and wondering how it would play itself out. Bekar once more tried to calm his breathing, with moderate success. He adopted the posture years of training had made instinctive, his legs spread and slightly bent, his arms up and hands curled into fists, knuckles facing outwards. Cormac adopted no such posture, and instead calmly stared at the man with the bell.

 

The man raised the rod above his head and brought it down upon the bell twice with enough force to make a resounding ring echo from it. While customary, the third ring was unnecessary, as by the second ring Bekar had already been reduced to a broken body upon the mat.

[Olis]

That poor serf, Cormac, I hope he isn't (too) severely crippled... 

 

I, uh, had intended for you to box other astartes but this is indeed an interesting insight into the dichotomy between Ace and yourself in the Liber. ;) 

[Conn Eremon]

Oh. I thought it was serfs vs masters, but in a nonserious or competitive light.

[Ace Debonair]

Ha, I'm a Liberite to my boots - instead of going all gung-ho with the beatdown, I'm taking time out to show a serf a different way of doing things.

Not, of course, that I'd show anyone any moves not thoroughly endorsed by the Codex Astartes. My word, no. Perish the thought. I'd certainly not make a point of practicing the Kagaran art of Ga'rask Savaz, or 'inflicting a relentless agony' for at least twenty minutes a day. Or make sure I can still effortlessly perform what the Asharans call 'the wheel of hate', a complex unarmed discipline which might be enough to get a man sanctioned by the inquisition if used on non-heretics.

I don't think I'd do terribly well at a boxing tournament, to be fair. I don't have the patience for all the rules and limitations.

[Olis]

Oh. I thought it was serfs vs masters, but in a nonserious or competitive light.

 

 Meh. I've always considered 'This Is Liber...' as sort of improv work. No biggie, Cormac. It works for me - hell, why not challenge Ace? :devil:

[Ace Debonair]

Because I'm not much of a boxer.

I'd last longer than the serf, of course, and I might get one or two good shots in.

But if Cormac stays on the form he's been on recently, I'd probably only last a couple of rounds.

Unarmed fighting with rules isn't my strong suit.