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Guest of Honour


GooseDaMoose

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I am writing this for my army (link in my sig!) to add some more background, characterization and personality to it. Please feel free to comment and criticise! I know structure is a bit weird, copy and paste from Word doesn't work... :unsure:

 

PART I

 

He was lost in the black emptiness of space, his world nothing more than dull, throbbing pain and his own thoughts. The last thing he had seen had been the exact opposite. Bright explosions rocked the earth beneath him, lighting up the night sky and shooting up brilliant plumes of the red earth, showering his red and black armour with rocks and dirt. To his left, Apothecary Lisandro had been granting the Emperor’s Peace to Sergeant Argo, an old veteran who had served under him for the past 200 years, as rounds whizzed everywhere, exploding in the treeline, ricocheting off armour. Just as Lisandro had put the Narthecium to Argo’s temple, he had heard movement behind him, and everything went black.

 

“Captain Raffaele of the glorious Marines Exemplar, is it not?”

 

Raffaele did not recognize the voice, in fact it almost sounded unreal. Rough and harsh, and impossibly deep, but not unfriendly, it spoke to him out of the surrounding darkness.

 

“What is this foul sorcery that is blinding me?” he demanded from the disembodied voice.

 

He was bound; his armour and helmet had been removed and his head felt numb, clamped. His taskforce had been operating on Gontrax III, when the Chaos forces had appeared out of nowhere, their black and white quartered drop-pods hidden from scans through cowardly sorceries until they were right on top of them. His marines, the finest Space Marines descended from the purest geneseed of the Imperium, the Marines Exemplar, had put up a valiant defense, but they had been caught unawares and unprepared.

 

The voice chuckled, “No sorceries my brother,” it said, and Raffaele heard a slight whirring of power armour movement coming towards him. Out of wariness more than any fear, Raffaele moved, or rather, tried to move his head away. With a slight hiss of depressurization, a viewless helm slid off his head and he could see again.

 

“Just a precaution,” the voice said, and chuckled; a deep, rumbling sound like an earthquake.

 

Raffaele’s gene-enhanced eyes quickly adapted to the light and looked, as much as he could manage, around him. Above him, smiling, stood the owner of the gruff bass voice, a deathly white pallor to his skin with tribal tattoos seemingly carved into it and a mass of white hair in the middle of his head styled into a khokhol, flecks of Astartes blood tarnishing its otherwise perfect, pearly gleam. His armour was massive, an old suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armour, entirely black, except for a dirty, white powerfist spattered with gore and a stylized skull in the centre of his chest, halved white and black. Raffaele was at first surprised at his surroundings, being an unadorned room, very similar in design to the interrogation room in his own battle barge, seemingly entirely uncorrupted, though in a state of mild disrepair.

 

Then, as if remembering something, he looked back at the large man and narrowed his eyes, “I am not your brother, traitor!” He felt the saliva in his mouth turn acidic at the implicit heresy of the man’s statement and the sting of his nicked pride from being made to seem weak by his premature outburst.

“I am a Space Marine of the Marines Exemplar, you are nothing but a renegade cur, slave to the Gods of Chaos!”

 

“I am no one’s slave, brother.”

 

“You intend to interrogate me? I know what this room is for, I see your slaves at the door, ready to do your bidding. I will not talk. What have you done with my men?”

 

“Garik and Quarren are here mainly as peacekeepers.”

 

Raffaele scoffed, “you think mere humans would be enough to stop me from escaping?”

 

The pale man seemed to find this amusing and smiled again, turning away, “your men are dead; they died at the hands of my brothers.” He turned around to face Raffaele, hands clasped behind his back, “we have the bodies of your best warriors, and their progenoid glands, as well as those of the rest of your taskforce.” He held up a hands as if to calm the Captain, “do not worry, they will not go to waste. Nor will your brothers’ equipment. All is recycled in the great cycle of life.”

 

“I know what you mean! You will offer them to whatever Gods you worship in some tainted ritual!”

 

“There is so much you don’t know Captain,” the big man sighed, then as if an afterthought he added, “if I release you, will you attempt to escape?”

 

“Where to?”

 

“So you have some sense. Can I have your promise, on the honour of your Chapter that you will not attempt to escape?”

 

“Why?”

 

“I wish to show you. Enlighten you.”

 

“I have no wish to be shown your wicked ways. Be wary the corruption of Chaos,” Raffaele spat, quoting one of Chaplain Sabato’s sermons. He was probably dead now.

 

“I hate Chaos.” The reply was a low bass growl, laden with emotions and Raffaele was taken aback by the passion in his voice. The white giant turned away again, nodding to the two humans at the door. They immediately obeyed and walked over to Captain Raffaele without any sign of trepidation and undid his restraints, releasing him.

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I'm fairly certain Malal- or "Malice," as he was named in the Heroes of the Space Marines anthology- is a Chaos god, though a minor one, unknown to most. (The same anthology has Black Legionnaires swear "by the Four Gods," not "by the Five Gods" or even "by the Four Gods- and that uppity warpspawn that dares claim it's the Fifth.") That means a Son of Malice saying, "I hate Chaos," is equivalent to "I hate myself."
That means a Son of Malice saying, "I hate Chaos," is equivalent to "I hate myself."

 

Hahah! Yes, yes it is.

 

Go read up on Malal :)

 

Edit: Oh and thank you everyone for your comments! It is slowly progressing, but I never seem to be happy with what I've written..

So! 'Tis time!

 

PART II

 

 

What Raffaele saw was indeed unexpected. No corruption, no filth, no denizens of the Warp, no hidden evils, no insidious voices and muttering lies in his ears, no abominations of fallen and despoiled Space Marines. His captor led him out into the cool, well-lit hallway beyond, Quarren and Garik following close behind, with rifles of alien design slung over their shoulders.

 

“I must apologise, Raffaele,” the giant said, stopping.

Raffaele looked at him, unsure how to respond. Still wary for some, any, indication of the Taint of Chaos in his host, he stayed silent, his body tensing for the first sign of any danger.

“I have forgotten my manners,” he said, a large smile on his face, to the quiet amusement of the two mortals behind them, “I am Batko, of the 7th Company, Sons of Malice,” he said with a deep bow. Raffaele felt awkward at such a large and clearly senior Astartes abasing himself with such humility; his captor, no less.

 

“You are the commander of your warband?” Raffaele could well believe it, eyeing him. The strongest and most powerful always took their place at head of a Chaos warband, and this one definitely had the look of death about him. Batko hesitated.

 

“Ah, in a sense, though our company does not work quite like others.”

 

“You have no leader?”

 

“Do we need one?” Raffaele could not answer the odd question. Of course they needed one, what Astartes chapter didn’t? Though somehow he felt that was not an answer that would satisfy Batko. He wasn’t sure if it satisfied himself. Not waiting for a reply the old Astartes continued, “to the armoury, my friends!” He pointed forward in a mock-dramatic way with his mighty blood-spattered Powerfist, and stamped onwards, as the two humans chuckled.

 

“Why the armoury?” Raffaele asked, finding the ease with which the humans were at around Astartes acutely disconcerting. He had known fear, amazement, trepidation, and even disgust from mortals, but never this sort of familiarity as Garik and Quarren showed towards their commander. Or whatever he was to them.

 

“Know thy enemy,” the giant answered, without breaking stride.

 

“I’m hardly in a position where knowing my enemy will help me,” Raffaele countered, amazed at the agility with which the great man strode in his immense suit of Terminator armour. He stopped at a doorway and entered the clearance code to open the double blast doors, which lead into another hallway beyond, filled from where they entered to the great oak doors at the end of it with stone plinths, evenly spaced along the wall. Atop these sat sculptures, weapons, but most of all, skulls. He paused, and looked down at Raffaele.

 

“True,” he said, and continued walking.

 

“You’re not making sense; heresy has corrupted your mind.”

 

“Life does not make sense, Raffaele, that’s why we’re here. That’s our purpose. To find our purpose.”

 

“An Astartes’ purpose is –“

 

“Is what?” the albino Astartes interrupted, “To serve the Emperor? Forgive me for not agreeing with your Imperium’s vague and anachronistic rhetoric.”

 

“The Emperor of Mankind –“

 

“The Emperor of Mankind is dead!” The sentence hung between them, an ugly, unwanted statement that Raffaele had difficulty reconciling, because in that moment, spoken with such conviction, he felt the truth of it. He had had these thoughts before, wondering how he was serving the Imperium by exterminating its own people for what was deemed heresy. How could these be the wishes of the greatest human to ever have lived, the man who had forged an Imperium of Man in the stars and claimed humanity’s birthright; the man who wished only the best for his people; the demigod who now, in his infinite wisdom, ruled the Imperium through the Council of Terra, a group of elderly men who sat in the safety of their palace. He had of course seen Chaplain Sabato about his qualms who, if it hadn’t been for their age-old friendship, would no doubt have declared him a heretic immediately.

 

The large Astartes continued, “He gave his life to save his people who now slave away in bondage to a superstitious and technologically backward system led by old men who know nothing of their people’s plight.”

 

“It is no wonder you fell from the Imperium’s grace.”

 

“Fell?! We were pushed; thrown out! We were forced by one idiot, ignorant bitch of an Inquisitor who had no right and a pathetic and paranoid Imperium!” Raffaele reeled back as Batko turned and shouted; his fists clenched like angry, balls of hatred and steel, his powerfist flaring up for one instant with a crackling flash of tiny sparks. As the miniature blue lighting storms danced and chased each other over his oversized fist, they seared the blood, and the air between them was filled with the reek of death. Batko tensed, his nostrils flaring as the scent reached them, and bared his teeth, like some primordial predator. Raffaele saw two, long, pronounced canines, like those witnessed in the savage Space Wolves, yet Raffaele had never seen them this long. Batko breathed out slowly, unclenching his fists, and closing his eyes, and turning back, and continued walking down the long hall, towards the oak doors. In his wake he left the smell of blood in the air. Raffaele realized that it was not a leftover smell from the battlefield, but coming directly from Batko’s mouth. His breath reeked of the rich, coppery smell of Astartes blood.

His breath reeked of blood? Hmmm... That's not so good for someone who isn't too big on Chaos. Especially when he specificly said that he wasn't going to use them for some foul ritual.

 

But please, continue, I wish to read more... :tu:

His breath reeked of blood? Hmmm... That's not so good for someone who isn't too big on Chaos. Especially when he specificly said that he wasn't going to use them for some foul ritual.

 

But please, continue, I wish to read more... :D

 

the sons of Malice are Cannibals, doesn't mean they have to ritualise it.

 

Darkchild

His breath reeked of blood? Hmmm... That's not so good for someone who isn't too big on Chaos. Especially when he specificly said that he wasn't going to use them for some foul ritual.

 

But please, continue, I wish to read more... :)

 

the sons of Malice are Cannibals, doesn't mean they have to ritualise it.

 

Darkchild

 

Well mine do, but hush now :) all shall be revealed in the story.

 

Well not all, but more anyway.

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