++ The Murderers' Call - A Night Lords Community ++

[Psykic_scribe]

Thanks Augustus,  I will definitely start on some rework on the joints, highlights and lightning so that it doesn't look TOTALLY shoddy against Flint's posting today. 

[Wicced]

since the writing of fluff for my warband is far more entertaining than i thought, i finished another piece and put it up in my thread.

 

i hope you guys enjoy it ;)

[Psykic_scribe]

from Augustus

 

He looks good as is: great conversion work on the shoulder pad and the bunny ears. He could use some highlights on the armour stil, as well as some metal and wash on the rubber in the inner joints. :)

 

@Augustus: I have replaced the photo with a revised pic, taking up your feedback.  The Sycorax highlights are a sycorax/mithril mix, with an edge of mithril, and some extra Aliatoc Blue over the Midnight.  The armour joints are now black with Aliatoc highlights but few of these show. Indeed, I'm not sure that my camera work is picking up the changes.  However, I am much happier for the changes.

 

The old photos are still in my gallery to leave me with a comparison.

[Balthamal]

Betrayal is unlike anything else that man has come to make his own. It is unique. The lengths the human survival instinct will push a person, the depths to which it will plumb in their soul, the overriding compulsion to prosper, to advance even at the cost of friends, of kin. It is the blackness inside that every man alive fights with every hour of their existence. Its taste strokes the palette. A delicious mix of bitterness, vindictiveness and fear. Its smell is putrid. Piss and from the betrayed. Its sight is the most powerful of all. The anger and hatred melding perfectly with the denial and the cold clarity of being thrown into the fire. Repellent and captivating in equal measure.

 

You may find it strange that one such as I would speak of betrayal this way. When my life is defined by such foul deeds and a galaxy’s worth of blood sloshing in the dirt around my boots but I feel no shame in the crimes wrought by my hands and at my word. One man’s sin is another man’s virtue and to betray those who have betrayed you is no crime. It is justice. Vindication.

 

Countless fools and liars lay the betrayal of our species at our feet and those like us, who raised our blades and guns in defiance of a false god and his slavery. They castigate us with the betrayal of our brothers and the slow death of the Empire we raised from the mud of a million worlds. And they are right. And so, so wrong. It is not that our darkness has no place in their light. It is that their light never held power over our darkness. We were never chained to their vision like the Broken or the Wolves that are not wolves. We are the reflection they cannot shed, the truth they cannot face and the fate they cannot deny. And the Nineteen Legions were no brothers of ours.

 

Attributed to First Captain Sevatar

The Prince of Crows

 

 

The martial chamber was full of the sounds of metal crashing against metal, interspersed with a sharp keening whistle as the micro folded adamantium blade pierced the air before colliding with half a dozen others of a more mundane alloy. Barbastellan Lasiurius relished the physical exertion required. The practice cage had all six armatures powered up, some bearing large blades and axes, others with paired smaller weapons whilst another swung a modified chainglaive at his bare flesh. None touched him, none even came close. He kept in a constant state of motion, still only long enough to shift his weight on his feet and move in another direction, his blade perfectly positioned to parry two or even three of the weapons and avoiding the rest.

 

Liagond and Muratsash sparred with each other at the other end of the room, its large open space ideal for the large glaives both warriors bore. In the spirit of brotherhood both weapons were powered down, the serrated edges at the glaive’s end still. In contrast to their brother’s silent focus the dull clanging of metal frequently punctuated with curses and insults.

 

The ship gave a titanic lurch, throwing all three from their feet. Lasiurius crashed into the bars of the practice cage, narrowly avoiding decapitation as the armatures followed his movement. He snapped out a command to cease the program and climbed slowly to his feet, the wail of alarms deafening in his ears. Liagond staggered towards him, his face plastered in blood, one cheek laid open to the bone where it had met one of the glaives. Muratsash was busy cursing as he slowly dragged himself to his feet, blood sheeting down his left leg, his own encounter with a glaive ended far worse than his brother’s. Only his enhanced physiology kept him standing as the blood flood gradually subsided to a trickle. Lasiurius quickly appraised his seeker. There was a lot of skin flapping freely around the wound and he could make out torn scraps of muscle amidst the viscera. He could well lose that leg came the unwelcome thought. Snapping his attention back into the immediate situation he snatched up a vox piece and pressed it into his ear. Several dozen voices were shouting, all demanding his attention.

 

“Enough. Ophidius, what the fug is going on?”

 

As was his habit the void master of the Gloom waited several heartbeats before replying. Whether that was his own personal peculiarity or something ingrained from the XX Legion that he had cast aside, Lasiurius couldn’t tell. “We hit something. God’s knows what it could have been though. As soon as the ship started bucking like a broiled Mancean Saberbull Warmacht cut the power to the warp drives and Tulak made a translation. I have no idea where we are though. The instruments are nothing but static right now.”

 

Lasiurius cursed. They were sitting ducks and for all he knew they were sitting above Terra with their breeches around their ankles. “All claws stand in midnight clad. I want to find out where in the ten hells we’ve ended up and who has seen us get there” He glanced at his brother who seemed to be upright through willpower alone now “Urozna, Muratsash is in need of your attention, partially severed femur, be prepared to do whatever you have to, we’ll deal with anything else”

 

The former Iron Warrior’s grating voice came back across the vox “As you wish brother, have him brought to the Primary Apothecarion. I’ll be there.”

 

The Duke of Blades turned to Liagond. “Get him down there.” But the Lord Headsman merely grinned and shook his head “He can manage the forty paces to the concourse and the turbolifts. Besides if there’s any trouble you’ll need me at your side. It’s my natural element after all.”

 

“Fine,” Barbastellan grunted “But try not to do any more damage to your face whilst we’re about our business, its ugly enough to look at anyway and if I really wanted to see bone you’ve got a skull on your helm.”

 

Liagond gave him a mocking salute “You wound me my lord.” He dabbed his fingers in the drying blood on his face, “Almost as well as I can wound myself.”

 

“Nazvun? Kas? Sar Tuum?” He sounded off the remained of the Temnochta’yan but only static answered him.

 

+We have a serious situation my lord+ Althun Ulmaaat’s voice drifted through his mind with the gentleness of a breeze. +You must come to the navigational envelope at once+

 

Lasiurius cursed again, doubly so this time. Tulak Var had been in the Navigator’s chambers guiding the ship. If something happened there they would be left helpless without the means to flee into the Warp.

 

Filthy psykana. If only we could be rid of such filth.

 

He caught himself before the old arguments started playing out in his head. Psychic powers could be useful when used correctly and Ulmaaat had been as true a brother as any in the decades since he had found his way to the Forsaken.

 

No I shouldn’t judge those who were cursed with a genetic aberration against their own will. I will judge only those who have writ their deeds with their own hands.

 

Keeping his blade drawn, the pair of them hurried down the central thoroughfare and made their way to the cluster of chambers that in better days had been the haven of the Navigator and her retinue but now were the haunt of Tulak Var, the sorcerer amongst the XIV Company. He knew it was bad when they approached the antechamber and found Nazvun, Kaspian and Sar Tuum in midnight clad with their weapons in their hands staring deeper into the sanctum.

 

Nazvun didn’t so much as twitch his gaze at his commander, he merely pointed towards the bronzium doors with his blade “Ulmaaat is in there waiting”

 

Lasiurius clenched his jaw and walked slowly in. The footfalls behind him told him that Liagond was following him in.

Liagond. Afraid of nothing. It’s going to be that which finally gets him killed.

 

As he stepped across the threshold into the chamber proper he felt an itch across his mind and fancied he dimly hear laughing echoing around the room. He took in the scene with a single glance yet still found it hard to take in the utter devastation before him.

 

The previous Navigators of the Gloom had eschewed the immersion tanks and thrones common throughout the expeditionary fleets and had settled for floating serenely in an antigravity field generated by large plates built into the deck, allowing them to move in motion with their ship, bypassing the need for manual course correction from the bridge. Such a way of piloting had not been without its risks and the ship had known more than its share of navigators. Tulak Var had enjoyed it as well even though he rarely used the antigrav plates and levitated himself through psychic means as he bonded himself with the machine core in order to take the ship through Warp flight.

 

All of that was gone. The plates had melted their way through the decking leaving a smoking hole in the floor. Every monitor feed showing the ships exterior had been destroyed and the large armour glass dome that replaced the front wall was simply gone, blown into space. The blast shields at least had done their job and prevented half the deck depressurising. The walls themselves alternated between scorch marks interspersed with what appeared to be gouges made with claws and black ichor that gave off a cloying smell.

 

Tulak Var stood motionless amidst the ruin, although the angle he remained poised at suggested his armour mechanisms had seized up and were unable to relax into a more fluid shape. His gaze boring through the blast shielding that now stood where the porthole into the Warp had previously been. Althun Ulmaaat stood five paces behind him, his staff and force sword poised ready to strike. The hood of crystalline metal crowning his head and where his helm would sit glowed with a pale light and dropped flecks of frost occasionally onto the rich caramel of his skin. When he spoke his voice was calm, yet wary.

 

“I fear that Tulak has done something we shall all regret my Lord. We may have an incursion.”

 

Lasiurius didn’t hesitate for a second. “Bring all the claws to the surrounding decks and have them prepared for Neverborn manifestation,” he called back out of the room.

 

Ulmaaat glanced around “It may not come to that, I’m trying to slowly rouse him from his warp-induced shock. His strength is prodigious so I don’t see how he could have been bested.”

 

Liagond snorted in contempt “Who said anything bested Prosperine? Tulak has hungered for power and Warp lore before ever you were humbled at Nikea. It’s only his usefulness that’s kept us from spacing him into a star before now”

 

Ulmaaat considered the implications of that remark. “But he is your sworn brother is he not?”

 

“Brother or not, if he brings Warp filth onto this ship through greed or stupidity or both we’ll still gut him. Greed and stupidity have killed enough among the Forsaken in the past few centuries without adding more to the tally”

 

“And if there’s a daemon residing in his flesh?”

 

“I’ll cut him down without a second thought for betraying our brotherhood in the pursuit of power none of us in the Legions should ever have known existed, let alone thrown ourselves into,” finished the Duke of Blades. “Now Ulmaaat, can you rouse our brother or not?”

 

Althun Ulmaaat turned back to the still form of the sorcerer and began muttering incantations under his breath. The light emanating from his talismans began to pulse in rhythm with his will and the frost on his armour began to spread down his pauldrons and greaves.

 

“Brother…”Liagond managed to say as he pointed at the walls. The ichor had begun to move, slowly peeling from the ruined metal. As Ulmaaat’s flow of words increased in pace and intensity the filth pooled on the floor then flowed towards the still form of Tulak Var.

 

“Throne in flames Ulmaaat whatever you’re going to do, do it now,”

 

The ichor started to climb up Tulak’s legs, whether he was aware of what was happening or not he still didn’t move.

 

Barbastellan stepped back and brought his sword around to guard; Liagond did likewise with his glaive. Ulmaaat flung out his sword, gesturing for them to remain still.  His voice rising to a cry, he brought his staff down and fire in shades of green and blue wrapped around the slime. It dissolved instantly into smoke and swirled around the frozen sorcerer. There was no mistaking it this time. There was definitely a laugh.

 

That tickles.

 

Ulmaaat threw a look over his shoulder at Lasiurius. The words unfolded in his mind again.

 

+Bad. Really, really bad. Seal the decks around here+

 

That won’t do you any good little warlock.

 

The voice seemed to hiss from every rivet and bolt throughout the room. With an inrushing roar the smoke poured into Tulak Var through the solid ceramite of his warplate itself. Slowly, he righted himself and turned unsteadily towards his brothers. His eyes were blacker than the void between galaxies and leaked faint lines of black smoke. As he opened his mouth to speak his teeth slowly began to elongate into fangs. The voice that came from within was the vilest thing Lasiurius had ever heard. He recoiled and almost vomited as it wormed its way into his head.

 

+This one screams already. All of the brands, the tattoos, the engraving on his flesh to keep out the Warp. And undone so easily. He will scream for millennia to come+

 

Lasiurius couldn’t move, could barely understand what was happening or how it had been allowed to happen. Ulmaaat stood still, poised to strike at the first sign of aggression. Liagond’s chuckle cut through the tension.

 

“I’m sure he screams like a four year old girl. Let’s see if you are just as weak.”

 

He sprang forward, the glaive arcing around towards Tulak’s neck. The sorcerer had always relied on other weapons than a blade and he would never match the Headsman in a contest of might. Yet faster than any eye could follow him, he caught the haft of the glaive, pulled it over his head and then threw the weapon back before Liagond had even processed that it had been pulled from his grasp. The whirring chain teeth tore a savage gash through the left side of his torso. Even before he began falling the voice spoke again.

 

+My kin come+

 

The walls began to shake again and the blast shield started to glow the dull yellow that precedes white hot.

 

Barbastellan threw himself forwards even as he screamed at his brothers outside “Get Liagond and seal the chambers! Get off this whole deck!” They scrambled behind him, not even pausing to argue with his order.

 

+That isn’t going to save them. Nothing is going to save them+

 

Ulmaaat was spitting out a string of sounds that Lasiurius wasn’t even sure were words as he attacked. His only hope would be to distract the thing long enough so that Ulmaaat could unmake it or at least contain it. Or the whole ship would be picked apart. Tulak, no not Tulak, whatever Warp spawned monster that wore his flesh, caught every blow on the bracers and gauntlets of the armour. He knew he was going to die now, he couldn’t hope to match the thing, he was unarmoured and it seemed impervious to blows from a weapon that could slice through adamantium like a hot wind. It caught the blade and locked his gaze with those hideous eyes.

 

+Corruption. You fear the decaying of your flesh and mind. And you claim to be beyond such fear. I shall savour the decades I will spend breaking your apart one cell at a time+

 

Lasiurius said nothing; every fibre of his being was poured into stopping his own blade being forced back towards his unprotected flesh. Ulmaaat’s voice rose to a strained shout, the stream never ceasing. With horrifying slowness the creature slowly pushed the edge of the blade against his skin. Ulmaaat screamed a final syllable.

 

The detonation thundered through Barbastellan’s bones. He dimly felt an impact on his back and groggily realised it was where he’d been thrown across the room. He couldn’t see anything beyond the dark fire of Ulmaaat’s power but then he heard it. Laughter and screaming in equal measure. And the voice belonged to Tulak Var. He opened his mouth to call to Ulmaaat, to check he lived yet all escaped from him was a groan that that rose steadily into a scream as a billion knives of white hot iron tried to claw their way into his head. It was pain beyond anything he’s ever felt, had described to him or witnessed himself. This was his soul being completely cored out of his still living body.

 

A small part of his mind felt his limbs thrashing on the deck and blood pouring out of his eyes and nose and sprayed as it filled his mouth and was promptly screamed out in his agony. The small part of his mind calmly observed the rest of his psyche breaking apart, pulled into a hundred directions by the power his brother had brought aboard his ship. He had seen similar fates befalling those unfortunate enough to have merited such special treatment during the great crusade. He had watched in fascination as Zharost, Altrema, Gharom and Tulak himself had inflicted the most brutal and unyielding mental tortures on their helpless victims and now he was suffering the same end.

 

+Such fear and agony. You could yet serve+

 

He didn’t have the strength to resist, he had nothing, and he was nothing before a violation like this. He saw in his mind’s eye the daemon mentally stroking it’s claws up his chest, reaching inside to puncture his three lungs and tenderly pull his jaws open wide to complete his utter desecration. Ulmaaat’s voice seemed to come from the far side of the universe.

 

Not quite yet brother. One thing remains. Tulak.

 

With the last reserves of his sanity, Barbastellan watched Ulmaaat’s incorporeal form clench a clawed gauntlet of carnelian and bone armour, just like his physical self, and rip away Tulak Var’s soul.

 

The pain in his head dropped away instantly but the hurts throughout the rest of his body remained. He struggled to drag air into his ruined lungs and almost laughed when he realised that Ulmaaat had saved him from damnation only to suffocate right after. Tulak’s body was going through trauma of its own, thrashing and convulsing. The screaming sounded more primal now and babbled in tongues he had never heard of. The oily cloud of darkness made a last desperate lunge for the stricken captain but Althun Ulmaaat extended his hand and spoke four words. He looked down at his brother and smiled sadly. Lasiurius tried desperately to get a word out but none came. He was out of air, it was the end.

 

+Forgive me brother+

Ulmaaat released his weapons and kept them floating in front of him and brought his hands together with a sharp slap.

 

Fresh pain exploded through Barbastellan. This was even worse than what the daemon had done to him. Even had he working lungs he couldn’t have screamed his torment. This was agony unknown to mortal men. His mind frantically tried to claw its way free of his body, of sanity, anything to escape the overwhelming pain of his soul being freshly immolated.

 

+Focus upon the sound of my voice Osirio. It will keep you tethered to the material universe+

 

Ulmaaat’s voice pierced the red fog of blinding pain slowly yet it was only the name he had spoken that found purchase in the captain’s mind.

 

Osirio. He called me Osirio. I never told him my given name.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain began to recede. He dimly recognised that he was panting through the aftershocks of his ordeal

 

I can breathe, how?

 

With a monumental amount of effort, he opened his eyes. Blackness greeted him. He tried to twist his head to look around but found he was weaker than a new born babe. He tried to speak but couldn’t make his lips form the words.

 

Am I truly dead?

 

+No brother you live. For now. Much work remains to continue that however+

 

Althun Ulmaaat sounded tired enough to lie down and die. That was not like him either. He had once stayed awake all eight months of sailing from Ultramar to the Western edge of the galaxy just by minimally sustaining himself through the Warp. What had reduced him to this?

+I saved your life brother. And the life of Tulak although what he will make of the situation if he ever regains consciousness remains to be seen. +

 

Barbastellan didn’t realise he’d formed the question in his head.

 

+You didn’t brother. But that is a matter for another time. For now, slumber, Urozna and I have many long weeks ahead to restore you to health+

 

The blackness swallowed him at Ulmaaat’s command before he could even wonder at the import of those words.

 

Barbastellan’s eyes snapped open at the rushing pain in his head. For a breath second he feared he was being devoured from the inside by the daemon again but this time he was greeted by the sight of the Apothecarion. Urozna walked slowly over from the gene vault and eyed his lord and brother.

 

“Barb. Welcome back. It is good to see my efforts have not been in vain.”

 

The Duke tried to prop himself up but found his arms lacked the strength even for that.

 

“And what did your efforts entail brother?”

 

Urozna met his eyes, his own particular trait. He believed in always keeping eye contact when discussing matters of import. That way it would be harder to disassemble and conceal intentions. Night Lord though he may be now, the paranoia of Olympia ran deep.

 

“Nothing less than dragging you back from death. Between me and Ulmaaat we managed to stem the cranial haemorrhaging, the bleaching of your retinas and the fact your lungs were worthless. Actually I only did the first two. Ulmaaat repaired your lungs with sorcery, even kept you alive long enough to get here by forcing oxygen directly into your blood. Judging by the thrashing, it hurt.”

 

Barbastellan let his gaze drift back to the ceiling. “Hurt doesn’t even begin to describe it. If I didn’t owe him my life I’d kill him for putting me through that. Like our dear brother Tulak.” He paused and looked back to the apothecary. “He lives?”

 

Urozna stared back in his unflinching way. “He does. He’s currently bound in a special cell. We’re waiting for you to give the word he is to die.”

 

“How special is the cell?”

 

Urozna scratched his scarred chin. “The walls have been etched and branded with just about every incantation, spell or blessing to ward against daemonic manifestation and there’s enough silver inlaid into the doors and his chains that it could be mistaken for a heathen god’s tomb.

 

“It probably isn’t enough but it’s a start. Where is Ulmaaat I have a lot to speak with him abo-“

 

He stopped abruptly and felt around his forehead. The metal was cool to the touch but he could feel the ridges and indentations of the band nailed to his skull, “Silver?”

 

“Yes. Ulmaaat can explain it. He lost me within thirty seconds the first and second times”

 

“What of Muratsash? Liagond?”

 

“Muratsash had an augmentic leg attached; the damage to the muscles and ligaments was too severe to warrant naturally healing.”

 

“And Liagond?”

 

“Ha what do you think? Bastard strolled out of here with his face cut to the bone and his ribs hanging out of his torso. Claimed it was a scratch. Of course when he collapsed and Kas and Sar Tuum dropped him back on the table I made sure he didn’t try it again. Don’t ask him about the scar on his arse”

A chuckle from out of his field of vision made him turn his head. Althun Ulmaaat strode towards the table where Barbastellan lay, his expression of cheer and peace not reaching his eyes. Those were full of meaning and suppressed violence.

 

Hardly a surprising turn of events, given what almost happened to him came the wry thought.

 

Urozna gave the Thousand Son a long look before walking towards the doors. “Give him the whole truth Ulmaaat. Or we’ll kill you” he called over his shoulder as he left.

 

Barbastellan met Ulmaaat’s gaze. “So the truth. All of it.”

 

Ulmaaat folded his arms across his chest.

 

“I’m sure the Olympian has made you sufficiently aware of the physical injuries and recovery? Then we must discuss the not so physical”

 

“What’s there to say> I appear to be in good health other than the fact that I can barely move. How long have I been confined here?”

 

“Something in the order of five standard months I make it. And I’ve worked on you every day during that time.”

 

“Doing what? It certainly hasn’t been to offset the muscle degradation.”

 

That brought a smile to Ulmaaat’s features. “No I fear you’re in for a punishing year ahead, building your strength back up to your peak. Our brothers won’t be tender in their efforts to ensure you reach your previous peaks.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken a beating in the practice cages. Now stop prevaricating and tell me. Everything.”

 

“I was only able to unbind the daemon by ripping it out of Tulak. All of his….precautions were aimed at preventing a manifestation getting into his flesh. They were ineffective for getting something out. So I pulled the daemon out. Unfortunately Tulak’s soul came with it.”

 

“I saw that.” Barbastellan’s voice was soft, almost haunted. “I watched you pick him apart.”

 

“I did, I took no pleasure in it but I saw no other way to get rid of the thing.”

 

“Wait. Urozna said Tulak still lives.”

 

“He does, hence the reason the old arming chamber on the seventy-eighth deck is now plastered in runes and silver.”

 

“But his soul? How can he still be living without a soul? Surely the daemon dragged it back into the Warp when you cast it out.”

 

Althun Ulmaaat took a long time to answer. “I pulled the daemon and Tulak apart once they were free of the flesh; it wasn’t so difficult after the trauma of banishment. The daemon was intent on you and Tulak was prepared to throw every part of him into being free of the thing”

 

“So you put his soul back in his body?”

 

“Now that I could not do. Tulak’s warding’s and talismans were effective enough to keep me from reuniting the soul with the flesh. So I had to put it elsewhere.”

 

“Where?”

 

Ulmaaat broke eye contact and didn’t answer.

 

“Where dammit! Where did you stuff Tulak’s essence if you were too weak to just throw it into the Warp with the rest of the diseased creature?”

“After what I’ve seen of the Warp, I’d never throw a soul into the maelstrom on whim. No man deserves such a fate.”

 

“Billions do for their countless sins. Where is he?”

 

“In you.”

 

Barbastellan stared in dumbfounded shock. He had a million questions and couldn’t breathe a single one.

 

“I dumped him into the silver shrapnel that was lodged in your shoulder from Istvaan and then once you were stable enough to survive the procedure I removed it all and crafted a vessel to hold him in.”

 

“So you hold him chained up and keep his soul in a box?”

 

“Box is an ugly word. It’s a tetrahedron actually.”

 

“Whatever it is it’s an abomination” Snapped Barbastellan. “I’d kill him for bringing this down on us but that would be the end of it. I won’t have his essence dangling on a chain of my armour.”

 

Ulmaaat stood unfazed by the outburst. “That’s exactly what you’ll do. It’s what we’ve done. He is the only man capable of taking this ship to Warp flight. Without him we would have been cut to pieces. Indeed it nearly happened whilst we waited for him to recover sufficiently enough to harness his powers.”

 

“You let that bastard touch the Warp again!”

 

“We’re hardly in a position where we can pick and choose brother. The V Legion was going for our throats as viciously as you can imagine. It was let him Navigate the ship or die.”

 

“I still don’t like it. But that’s a problem for another day. Now tell me why I have a metal band riveted to my skull.”

 

“Binding Tulak’s soul to the shrapnel in your shoulder had…consequences.”

 

Barbastellan tried to claw his way up and at his brother. “What kind of consequences.” He hissed.

 

“Tulak’s soul was still touching the Warp and when he slipped into your flesh, the Warp went with it.”

 

This time Barbastellan did get himself up, the fury and fear lending his limbs desperate strength. “You touched me with the Warp! I’ll kill you! You put that filth in me and left me as diseased and unclean as the rest of you vile XV Legion bastards!”

 

Ulmaaat weathered the outburst without changing expression. When he responded, he did it psychically.

 

+I’m sure you remember the incredible pain in your head. That was the Warp blooming in your consciousness. I’m sure you also remember my voice anchoring you on a tiny island of sanity as the rest of your mind broke apart+

 

+I NEVER WANTED THIS YOU STUPID WHORESON! I NEVER WANTED TO COME WITHIN A LIGHTYEAR OF THIS :cuss! +

 

Ulmaaat winced at the strength of the unstrained telepathy before speaking normally again.

 

“I know brother believe me. The silver I’ve nailed to your head has done a satisfying job of keeping the power down to a manageable trickle. I’ve probed you’re mind whilst you’ve been unconscious, testing the particular gift you now have. I can teach you the basics but my strengths lie in other directions. I’m no Athanaean telepath.”

 

“Is that what I have? Telepathy?”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to manifest a few of the more basic abilities of the various disciplines but from what I can sense, yes, telepathy is likely your strength”

 

Barbastellan was silent for a long, long time. Eventually he looked back to Althun Ulmaaat.

 

“Make arrangements with Urozna for this plate to get removed from my head. When it’s safe for everyone else to do so of course. And get Ophidius to take us somewhere quiet and dark. We need to disappear until we can resolve this.”

 

“Barb-“

 

“Enough. Leave”

 

“Osirio.”

 

“Do not utter that name again. Now get out. Before I have the rest of my brothers kill you.”

 

Ulmaaat walked slowly away without a further sound.

 

Barbastellan looked once again to the ceiling thinking on what he had gained but dwelling always on what he had lost

[Wicced]

nice work brother

and here i was, not wanting to spam this thread with a wall of fluff, silly me...

Edited April 28, 2015 by Wicced

[Psykic_scribe]

That's a beautifully unexpected twist to the story line.  Thanks for a great read.

[oxskull]

Just seen the new Execution force models in last weeks WD. I think they'd look cool done in Night Lords colours.

 

What you think any assassins hid away in the Night lord chapters?

 

bound to be some assassins to answer the call of Chaos

 

 

[Wicced]

hey y'all, because my shoulder is getting better, i tried some conversion work today. I got a Stormwolf kit off ebay for a small buck and have spent hours thinking about how to cover up those pesky wolf symbols on the side fuselage and today i found my solution.

here's a pic of what i've been up to.

the cover next to the melta obviously needs some more tweeking, but i'm quite happy with it, after scraping and sanding for hours and then sawing the cover for the big gun (which i won't use) in half to use on the meltas on both sides.

so, what do my midnight clad brothers and sisters think?

Edited May 1, 2015 by Wicced

[ThatOneMarshal]

Just seen the new Execution force models in last weeks WD. I think they'd look cool done in Night Lords colours.

 

What you think any assassins hid away in the Night lord chapters?

 

bound to be some assassins to answer the call of Chaos

Considering the way our primarch died I don't think night lords think very highly of them.

[ThatOneMarshal]

Hey night lords. So recently because of my seeming hobby ADHD I can't focus in just one legion at of time and have been attracted to the iron warriors legion. I was wondering but do you gust think that night lords would ever work with the iron warriors? Maybe the night lords help with siege operations by conducting reconnaissance?

 

Also small question but did the night prods ever have a beef with the imperial fists? I have some fallen does I need to paint so I'm tryingto to figure some legions that hate us just a little but more than usual.

 

Also @ flint13 I don't mean to be a stickler but I don't think I'm up their in the roster.

Edited May 16, 2015 by ThatOneMarshal

[Kol Saresk]

Yes. As long as the Iron Warriors gave them some sort of compensation or the warbands had some sort of alliance or pact to help each other, absolutely they would do so.

 

Well, Dorn was the Primarch who tried to arrest Curze and Massacre certainly adds some speculation that he may have been working with Ferrus Manus to orchestrate something against Curze at Istvaan V. Pre-Dropsite Massacre of course.

 

So it isn't out of the question.

[Flint13]

Sure thing Marshall. Pm me your company details and I'll have them up right after work ^_^

[Corsovitt]

I've been considering adding an Iron Warrior warband as an addition to my Night Lords as a remnant of a IV legion company who got cut off from their legion during the retreat from Terra...

 

This allows me;

 

A) Use the limited edition Iron Warrior I picked up from Salute 

B) It fits my perception of the fluff as to why my company have access to daemon engines (I've always played my Night Lord's as dismissive on the whole of daemon worship with the exception of the remnants of the companies terror squads which have fallen to the worship of the blood god)

C) For some reason I really want to try and paint some hazard chevrons

[ThatOneMarshal]

Strange, I watched Avengers:Age of Ultron and now I want to do my Night Lords again instead of Iron Warriors. Thats really strange, weird.

 

Also did anyone see these beuties yet? 

 

http://i162.photobucket.com/albums/t272/m_r_parker/Heresey%20Weekender%202015/9C191D93-9E3C-40A7-BF4E-69C67DECCC01_zpsq7hxzvqz.jpg

[Augustus b'Raass]

Wow they look awesome! Im definitely going to pick me up that transfer sheet! But I'll probably still freehand the angel of death on the side of my Typhon regardless.... :tu:

[Wicced]

those transfer sheets look great :tu:

 

but they are not released yet, right?

[ThatOneMarshal]

those transfer sheets look great :tu:

 

but they are not released yet, right?

 

The transfers haven't been released yet unfortunately. I like it, the only thing I'm unsure about is the reaper with with skulls.

 

So one thing those heretics at the heresy forum have been telling me is that every legion could do any tactic if it wished. So one thing I've been thinking is a night lords siege force. Hear me out. In sieges the goal is to make the enemy give up right? Well scare tactics are pretty good at that and we have a few ways of doing that. Maybe sending small terror squads into the hold to become serial killers, intercepting their vox casting to use ours. Send decapitated heads over the wall of the peoples defenders. How would that work out? Legion rules wise I think it could work, we gain benefits from out manning the enemy and sending phosphex medusas sounds fun. Could it work?

Edited May 24, 2015 by ThatOneMarshal

[Balthamal]

Honestly the Legion rules suit us so well it's painful looking at the Chaos Dex. There's just so much to choose from if you wanted to put together an armoured vanguard (and let's face it the models are a million times better than anything in the 40k range) from the rapier batteries to the Typhons and Vindicators with the awesome Laser Destroyers. Everything is fair game and works brilliantly because it's balanced and above all, fun.

 

Aside from the the armoured units the infantry fit in really well too between infiltrating Terror Squads and Night Raptors (proper ones, not the diet coke ones 40k chaos are stuck with) and jetbikes landing on the ramparts.

 

Besides the VIII, like all the other Legions, had dedicated armoured companies full of super heavy tanks and artillery batteries. You've got very solid ground to stand on.

[Balthamal]

And so the tale of the Forsaken draws to it's close...

 

I have long known this day would come. That is not from any fickle prophecies clawed from the blood of the dead or stratagem of warcraft. That is from the years as an infant in a prison and being a ranking officer in an Astartes Legion. Eventually, kill enough men and your name becomes known by those who would exploit such a talent. It matters not whether you wield the weapon yourself or command others to do the deed for you; live long enough, shed enough blood and the apex killers will seek you out. Murderers, sergeants, captains, Primarchs. It has always been thus in the Legions.

 

But this is different. This is defining. Inevitable. A new apex predator swims the galactic ocean and his Legion grows ever more powerful though he is no Primarch. The Legion Wars are dying down to embers under the black and blasted bronze boots of his host. Neutrality is worthless now. Only the masters of the old Legions still command enough strength to stand alone. Eventually all who dwell within the Great Eye will bow before the new Warmaster.

 

His name is Ezekyle Abaddon. And he has come for us.

 

The world spinning lazily in the void below us does not look remarkable to my eyes. It’s single copper coloured continent sitting in the middle of a tempest in blues and purples and other hues I have not the skill to put words to. I know not what oceans that ebb and flow almost by the second is made from, it could be the very rare stuff of the Warp for all I know or care. Likely, given that this deep in the Great Eye reality is a treasured memory from a happier day. Worse, we don’t even need to be here.

 

As near as I can make it, we have sailed the tides of the Eye of Terror for a little over one hundred and forty three standard years. Whether that is the same time that has elapsed in the material universe is for those more curious than I. To me it has been almost a century and a half and that is enough.

 

All for the oath given to a dead brother.

 

Althun Ulmaaat met his end at the hands of the V Legion. They had caught us completely by surprise, busy as we were butchering some of their thin blooded descendants. But there were still those among the newly birthed Chapters who remembered the old ways, who held to the war lore of Jaghati Khan, Kyrmoriau Sevthsa ksashush thaulsiz, High Hunt-Lord of Chogoris, Murder Eagle of the False Emperor. Of all the Legions of old I confess it is only the V, The White Scars that give me pause. Unlike most of my kind I am willing to acknowledge that the Throne-slaves are far from the easy pickings we enjoyed at Istvaan and on a hundred worlds since. On their favoured ground and in their mien of war they are more than capable of bringing us low. It is only the V Legion I fear to face in battle. The others, I know their doctrines, their strengths, their philosophies and I can engineer events to play to a bloody retreat if not outright victory. But not the white wave of the V Legion and their proclivity for speed above all else. Fighting them is akin to standing before a tsunami and commanding it to stop.

 

No sooner has it broken against you than it is churning you in its currents and crashing into you again and again and again. Running away isn’t even an option. They are simply faster.

 

It was on the end of a Chogorian tulwar that Ulmaaat died, buying us precious time to flee with his blood. He reached to me at the end, requesting that the relics he possessed be returned to his Legion. A task which proved more than vexing given the seeming limitless array of warlocks, sorcerers and petty warlords who claimed to represent the XV Legion in the name of Magnus, Crimson King of Prospero. Eventually however, after killing several of them and amusing ourselves with their pain, a name presented itself – Sortiarius, Planet of Sorcerers. That voyage cost us something in the order of seven years and at least a dozen fresh blood feuds with the XII, XVII and our own brothers of the VIII Legions.

 

I did not set foot on that cursed world’s surface. The unbearable pressure in my head just from being in orbit was the most exquisite agony I’d felt since the encounter that left me touched by the Warp.

 

A further hundred years fighting for survival, for spoils and for sport followed. We burned scores of worlds during those years, venting our savage splendour on the dregs of the Nine Legions. We took the third of our Pauper Lords and make him our plaything for a thousand nights of torment. We ran from the cursed XIV their damn plagues. We even fought at the pyre of the XVI Legion who we despised though in truth we shed little blood that night. I simply wanted to be there to spit on their ashes when the other Legions were done with them. We needed that back then, to be strong, to glory in breaking our enemies. That and knowing full well who awaited us on the journey out of the Eye kept us fighting for that century.

 

And throughout this time the whispers began, and become shouts in their turn of the new power rising in Hell. Of the Legion clad in the darkness of their sins against humanity building their power and bleeding loyalty from other warbands with their boots at the throat.

 

Kill enough men and superior killers will seek you out. And now they have.

 

 

We took a Mechanicum lander to the surface. Whilst a Stormbird would have been a more prudent choice I was reluctant to risk one of the ancient machines. In the likely event we were all butchered, losing the craft would have been another deep cut to the Forsaken. Gal-Korious accompanied us, his reasons for doing so never really ringing true despite his insistence that he desired word of several of his fellow Mechanicum Lords who had sworn fealty to Abaddon and his rising power. Warmacht Lott remained on the Gloom however Ophidius had also joined us. Fitting that the three Legions among us were represented at this gathering.

 

We stood waiting for hours in the blood rain of that worthless world. The thick blue moisture falling from a cloudless sky made my gums itch every time a drop pattered off my helm. It was only a sudden pressure against the back of my eyes that offered the slightest clue of the impending arrival of our “brothers”.  The hole that opened in the air fifty feet in front of us showed seething madness on the other side but that did not seem to matter much to the warriors who emerged from it though. Some of them wore ancient suits of plate, marked by the Warp’s touch to one degree or another. Others bore armour of a unique style, it’s forging taking place in the Warp itself. Again others were clad in massive suits of Terminator armour, towering above those around them. Lastly came Ezekyle Abaddon, his topknot marking him clearly among his followers.

 

My psychic talent is impressive certainly but I would not consider myself as the most powerful, even within my own Legion, let alone those who have actively sought out forbidden knowledge and arcane power. Even so I could not manage to meet Abaddon’s eyes for more than a brief second, the psychic backlash pushing hard against my skull. That barest instant of contact showed me my death in the burning gold of his gaze.

 

One of his warriors stepped forward, a painfully beautiful mask replacing the faceplate of his helm. Placing his hands on the low slung hilts of his blades, he looked us over condescendingly. At least that is the aura that bleed from his mind and the familiar pinpoints of heightened emotional reaction flaring within his psych in the manner of many of the III Legion I had met. I almost smiled at the thought of being lectured by Telemachon, whilst resisting the urge to draw Arianyr and remind him that it was I who had stolen one of his Legion’s prized relics. His voice was certainly beautiful I’ll give him that though. In a kind of naïve and powerless way at least.

 

“My Lord Abaddon would speak with your commander whoever he may be.”

 

My smile did come then at this worthless posturing. I think it’s that more than anything else that has irritated me since the first night we broke Terra’s chains around our necks. Petty posturing and stupid egotistic bravado have probably killed more of the Nine Legions than any of the other Legions combined. I waved the rest of the Temnochta’yan to stand at ease whilst I paced forward towards them, Abaddon waiting until the last moment to step aside as well. When he spoke, his words were reflective in tone. So different to the brutish killer I had seen at Terra.

 

“You know I require something of you don’t you Osirio.”

 

A statement not a question and his knowledge of my name didn’t particularly surprise me. Given the thrumming of the Warp around him and some of his inner circle they had probably plucked that from my thoughts within seconds of arriving. I replied anyway.

 

“I do. Although I am intrigued that you requested a meeting rather than made it a demand at the end of the….weapon.” It took all of my willpower to keep my psychic senses dulled and away from the snarling that thumped against my mind. If my psychic potential had been greater I doubt I’d have been able to get off my knees as the Talon’s presence clawed at me.

 

“Horus made all of his demands at the edge of a blade and see where that took him. This is a new dawn for us Osirio. The dawn that will see we rule the Imperium we built with our blood.” He wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t expected. What I truly did not expect was the burning fervour in his words. I had heard the tales of his wandering around the Eye, everyone had. Evidently the fire that had driven him to such glory in the Fool’s Crusade had been replenished with interest.

 

“I am no stranger to the idea of ruling the dead Imperium. What I want to know is why you think you’ll succeed.”

 

“Because we will do what the Imperium cannot, not now that it’s teeming billions are in thrall to the idea of a dead god ruling over it. We’ll become new. Adapt. Evolve. We tried conquering through anger and spite. And we failed. Brotherhood will see us stand at Terra at the dawn of the last day, our weapons bathed in the dust of the False Emperor’s corpse.”

 

It was tempting. Oh so tempting. But I had killed scores within my own Legion, never mind the hundreds or thousands from among the others to preserve the Forsaken as I had built them. We had our brotherhood, what did we need from casting that aside and taking on another bond. I said as much.

 

Abaddon nodded as if expecting the response but not accepting of it, his eyes took on a more feral glow, the golden iris’ becoming more intense. It genuinely scared me at that moment.

 

“I can respect a warrior who is willingly to lay down his life for the brothers he has and the bonds they share. Do I not do the same for my brothers here?” He gestured around them. “Each would die for the others. Some hate and despise one another but fraternity and loyalty require no love, only honour. Do you find us lacking in this?” I was on dangerous ground now; his temper was slowly starting to crack through his façade of patient humour, exposing the molten rock beneath.

 

“I can respect your desire to forge a unified Legion to take to Terra. I will even fight beside you when the time comes to fight in Sol’s light again. But you ask me to cast away the very thing I have fought for centuries to preserve. I killed and butchered men from within my own Legion while you were busy fighting the Great Crusade in the white of the Luna Wolves. I will not cast that away to embrace something different. We fought and killed to remain free and now you want to chain us just as the Emperor chained us. Just like Horus chained us in the end.”

 

I couldn’t stop myself. I had to make him understand. Throne in flames though I should have stopped myself. I should have realised that he understood all too well and that even if he played the humble herald of a more prosperous future he had still been the first captain of a lauded Legion. He knew how to win his battles without a shot being fired in anger if he needed to.

 

“For all that you play the honest warrior you’re just as proud and just as blind as Horus. Like father like son isn’t it Eze-“

 

I didn’t feel the blow that struck me. I didn’t see it start and I certainly didn’t see it connect. I recall only seeing Liagond leaping over me, his glaive roaring. Abaddon’s swing had knocked me at least forty feet away. A backhanded swat, nothing more. If he had actually meant to use the Talon’s claws he’d have killed me where I stood. The Temnochta’yan sprang forwards, they hadn’t heard our words but they had heard the blow and that meant blood was to be shed.

 

Tulak was already weaving his arms in the air, the inrushing roar of the Warp sounding overwhelming to my numbed mind. I resorted to pulling some of the Warp into myself, its touch bringing renewed feeling back to my deadened limbs. Abaddon’s warriors were running to meet my brothers although the captain himself stood back, molten anger still in his golden gaze. One bearing the honour markings of a World Eater veteran jumped at Liagond and was thrown back, his glaive lancing out for the killing blow.

Another of the black clad warriors clapped his hands sharply together and Tulak was pressed to the ground, his armour smoking. I thought in that moment that he was dead. Telemachon and one with the ornate crest of the XV Legion had taken no part in the brawl so far but as I slowly stood they both eyed me with predatory hunger. Telemachon I could feel yearned to match blades, the Thousand Son was less clear, the only distinct impression I gleaned from him that of a polished blade wielded by the strength of a meteor. Clearly his psychic might was formidable.

 

Telemachon was fast, so, so fast. I can say with blunt honesty he was the best swordsman I had ever met. Every blow breath-taking in their dexterity and the way they flowed effortlessly back into parries and guard stance sublime. If I had fought him for longer than a few heartbeats he would have killed me easily. But I am of the VIII Legion. I have honour, of a kind. That doesn’t extend to dying a heroes’ death. Using Arianyr and one of the knives chained to my armour, I caught both of his swords at the hilt, drove my knee into his sternum and stamped my boot hard into his ankle before he could recover. I added a mental slap as well, just to stagger him a couple of paces backwards a pace, enough for me to plant my fist hard against his mask.

 

As he fell backwards I looked at the Thousand Son again. He had drawn his sword and I could feel the power radiating from the metal. Instead of moving to attack he raised his hand and splayed his fingers as I made to leap at him. The telepathic power he threw at me was strong, yet almost distracted. Evidently he had thought that his superior strength would overwhelm me and leave me helpless before him. But Ulmaaat had been a good teacher to me. Despite having no mastery of the mental powers practiced by the Athanaeans of old Prospero, he knew more than enough to useful. I shredded the wave of psychic force my opponent tried to drive into my skull and brought Arianyr round to decapitate him.

 

The way I had broken his attack surprised him, I could feel it misting sharply from his mind, yet he was still warrior enough to bring his sword around to parry. As the blades clashed I could almost hear a faint screaming in the back of my head, its despair disconcerting. He made no mistake the second time. He brought the full power of his mind down upon me and squeezed with as much force as he could muster. I confess that he very nearly killed me in those first few seconds. The pain was incredible. My resistance crumbled and blew into dust barely a heartbeat after he threw the strength of his psychic might upon me. I crashed to my knees, I didn’t drop Arianyr, my hands were spasming so much that my gauntlets seized up, locking my grip upon its hilt. I managed to glance around and saw my brothers were in much the same state as me; kneeling, weapons held slackly at their sides. Dimly I could perceive the psychic power shackling them coming from another member of Abaddon’s cadre but I didn’t have the strength to see them out, much less fight them.

 

Abaddon himself walked slowly towards me, the ground shaking under the tread of his armour. He was smiling again now, his anger not spent, merely taken in hand to be unleashed on something more deserving of its bite.

“Khayon,” he said “See that he does nothing regrettable”

 

I didn’t manage to hide my surprise as the pain slowly subsided. I was still kneeling but I could at least think. That’s not to say the one called Khayon didn’t take precautions. I knew he would have crushed me at the first sign of aggression. I also knew that name too. Khayon. Captain Khayon of the Tlaloc. Ulmaaat had spoken of him in a mixture of sadness and anger. Something to do with the death of his Legion as I understood although I had never pried further. Now he had me kneeling before Abaddon with the power of his mind alone.

 

“You see how this is such a waste Osirio? We were meant for better than such as this.”

 

So he wanted to play the patient warrior again? I was not going to indulge him this time. As I drew breath to speak, Khayon’s voice sliced into my head

 

+You are not permitted to speak the Warmaster’s name+

 

A warning. One I took heed of given what had happened the last time I had tried to utter that name.

 

“So? It still amounts to the same thing. Kneel or die. There is no neutrality now, no room for those who will not bow before you.”

 

Abaddon’s expression never changed, it was as if I had never spoken. “You are right. It is the same. But it is far easier to play proud and strong when you do not have a loaded bolter pressed against your skull and the lives of your brothers are balanced delicately on your tongue.” He must have noticed some of my surprise at the truth being so bluntly put. “I will not honey words for you Terran. A man staring at his death deserves the truth one last time”

 

So this was really going to be it. We were going to die here on this worthless unnamed world deep in damnations heart. But the VIII Legion has always understood the value of a tactical retreat where no victory can be won. Ironic that if the loyal Legions had half of the same understanding they’d have wiped us out by now. And I had one card left to play.

 

“You’re not going to kill us Abaddon. We’re far more use to you alive than dead.” That elicited a chuckle from the Warmaster.

 

“Bold indeed. I respect your willingness to defy death but that does not mean it will prevent it from claiming you. You were given the choice to kneel or die. You kneel only because we have made you kneel. The choice is not offered a second time”

 

“Perhaps. But we, I, have something that will cause you to reconsider.”

 

Khayon answered this time “There is nothing that will make us reconsider”

 

“Not even a stable Warp route out of the Great Eye”

 

That caused quite a stir. I could feel the curiosity thrumming in the air around them all. I could almost put words to the auras. Finally, they could leave this hell and get out into the galaxy again. Finally they could bleed the Imperium instead of each other. A new crusade across the stars. Abaddon, Khayon and Telemachon shared long looks between each other; the fact that there was a way out of the Great Eye was more than they’d dared hope for at least that was what I was counting on. After much silence Abaddon spoke.

 

“What is to stop Khayon reaching into your mind and ripping that knowledge out?”

 

I had my answer ready, the only one I had certainly, but also the one that would likely find the most purchase in their minds. They understood well the value in denying resources to the enemy. “I will reach into my own mind and crush it like a rotten sack of :cuss before I let him take anything from me”

 

I felt rather than saw Telemachon’s smile and Abaddon’s amusement was a faint glimmer behind his eyes. I dared not allow any exultation to lace through my senses. Abaddon pointed at Telemachon before speaking.

 

“As much as I desire such knowledge, you have drawn Black Legion blood this night. Our laws demand nothing less than your heads.”

My last gamble, the only thing I can say to try and get under his skin. “Then no matter how much you wish to posture about being nothing like Horus you still bear his flaw; hubris. You would throw away information that would likely lead you to Terra itself to stroke your pride.” I almost felt I’d pushed too far. The anger that he had so briefly unleashed at me threatened to flow outward from his eyes again. But this was the new Abaddon. The new Warmaster. He reigned in the volcanic temper and smiled.

 

“You offer something of great value. Yet it is not enough to meet the price of your lives.”

 

“What more would you have? You have demanded my brothers’ loyalty and I will not yield that.”

 

The smile on Abaddon’s face became cunning. He had prepared this well in advance of us ever arriving.

 

“Your tech adept controls a large world here in the eye does he not? Is it no raised in mockery of his lost holdings on Mars?”

 

I didn’t bother keeping the contempt out of my gaze. He saw through the lenses in my helm to the burning hatred beneath. Telemachon and Khayon obviously shared the same perception. The former from the way my breathing hissed through my vox grill, the latter through the fury bleeding into my aura. I barely noticed Gal-Korious stepping forward.

 

“What is it you wish of me Warmaster?”

 

The predator’s gleam in Abaddon’s eyes made his reply laughable.

 

“I want the resources under your control. Your munitions factora, your shipyards, your battalions of automata, all will serve the Black Legion.”

 

Gal-Korious, traitorous bastard that he was, didn’t pause.

 

“I accept Warmaster. In truth I have been keen to conduct more research into Warp-forging with my creations.”

 

“You shall be well provided for Gal-Korious. Make whatever preparations you require. You will depart with us on the Vengeful Spirit.”

 

Gal-Korious bowed his head and then said something that almost cut me apart.

 

“I have a boon to ask however Warmaster. Given the efforts of the VIII Legion to see to the defence of my holding, not to mention taking me with them during the retreat from Terra, by my complex calculations I am still in their debt.”

 

Abaddon snorted in amusement. “And what, honoured adept, would release you from any obligation you may feel you owe them?”

 

“That they be welcome to supply and refit at any port I come to control under your aegis for however long that may be”

 

I stared at Gal-Korious, almost in awe. First he saved our lives and now he was bargaining with Abaddon to give us whatever supplies we wished? Emperor’s balls the nerve on the Martian was incredible. Abaddon must have felt the same as he smiled, the etchings on his teeth doing nothing to dispel the image of the good natured barbarian king he was playing himself as.

 

“Very well Gal-Korious. They may supply at any port under the flag of the Black Legion and may leave unharmed, providing they do nothing to provoke the rest of my Legion. But I think such a small company hardly requires the services of such a mighty ship. I shall take that in payment too.”

 

I felt that gut punch feeling of betrayal all over again. Worse it was all my own doing. I had gambled everything and I had lost. I had lost a significant portion of our armed strength in Gal-Korious’ automata and Skitari. I had lost one of the most potent ships ever to sail the galaxy. And I had lost any chance of standing on Terra at the end of the Long War. Abaddon might joke and bluff amongst his own but I would never forget the power in those golden eyes. He would never settle for having let us live this night. And he would never allow us to share even the slightest taste of vengeance on the False Emperor. Everything we had, everything we were, ashes, in just a few words. And still he wasn’t done.

 

We hadn’t been allowed to rise yet, Abaddon had his sorcerers keep us kneeling, displaying his power over us. Pathetic. Grandstanding without an audience and just another way of pissing on our bruised pride.

 

Telemachon was looking hungrily at the sword still clamped in my fist. I could see nothing under the silver of his mask but his thoughts were coiling around me like an unclean mist. His own ego and pride demanded satisfying; Abaddon’s display of dominance obviously didn’t sate his appetite.

 

“That’s a very pretty sword. I think I’ll keep it. Khayon, make him release it.”

 

Khayon looked at me and then back to Telemachon several times. Finally his gaze settled on me and I felt my fingers slowly forced open. I fought him with everything I had, I take some small measure of satisfaction from the fact that, in the end, Khayon had to claw my hand open through brute telekinetic force rather than simply making release my grip on the hilt through telepathy.

 

The last words I shared on the surface of that damned world were with Gal-Korious. What he said made me wonder just how long Abaddon had been planning his little display and also what the tech adept had known about it.

 

“I believe I have found a satisfactory replacement ship among the Warmaster’s fleet your grace.” Using my title now, a bad joke.

 

“Hardly satisfactory honoured adept given your offer to Abaddon is the reason I’m left with needing a new ship, one that is never going to measure up to the gloom in any way, shape or form.”

 

“I detect anger in your voice your grace but I need not remind you that your own outburst initiated confrontation. My calculations based your survival chance at less than four percent so to be leaving with your lives is highly unorthodox.”

 

“Enough with the arithmetic Gal-Korious. How long have you been planning this?”

“I’m not sure I unde-“

 

“Do not play simple with me or I’ll gut you, saving our lives or no. How long have you known this was going to happen and made your preparations for it? That’s why we used your lander isn’t it. The war-units inside, the tanks, you wanted to be prepared to demonstrate your use to him.”

 

Gal-Korious averted his four eyes. Strange, I’d never have expected him to feel any emotion regarding our dealings over the preceding centuries. Even when he had supported us taking control of the Gloom that had been a case of calculations and probabilities; for him to have an emotional investment was just another absurdity in this day of the absurd.

 

“I have studied what we know of the Black Legion’s journey around the Eye. The outposts, fortresses, ports that either fall silent in their wake or bend the knee before them, it is inevitable that they will achieve ascendancy here sooner rather than later. I am a genius with the machine. I have no tools or knowledge that can alter the fact that this army will be unchallenged in the millennia to come. Survival always comes down to probability your grace. I have not lived for a thousand years because I miss out a few decimals here and there in the name of sentiment or expediency.”

 

Truly I didn’t know how to respond to such a statement. I found it telling however that one of the other reasons for his defection had not been broached.

 

“You want to experiment with the Warp as well Gal-Korious. You want to taste its mysteries with the machine and see just how far you can push the boundaries between insanity and outright stupidity.”

 

“I will not lie and pretend otherwise your grace. We must each look to ourselves and what is valued most. You value the brotherhood you have built over centuries with your men. They do not really like you but they respect you and what you hope to achieve. Such parameters have no value I can calculate against and I am unable to reduce such concepts into stable value to base any further projections on. “

 

Blunt, brutal and utterly logical, so much so that it is easy to see why most of us who have conversed or spent any amount of time with a ranking tech adept wonders just how much humanity they had to begin with before coring themselves out and replacing flesh, blood and marrow with metal, cables and lubricant.

“There is one last matter however your grace. I will not be returning to the ship at this time. The Warmaster has requested I board his ship and provide analysis of some of the technical improvements he is seeking to make. There is something you may wish to see in my private armourium. I have updated the locking mechanisms with your biometrics and you will need the code; Rho-Kappa-One-Four-Eight-Delta-Sigma.”

 

I should have given him my thanks, I should have told him that I understood what he had done to spare our lives from Abaddon’s wrath and that I would value such loyalty for however long I lived. But I said none of that. I said nothing at all. I merely looked long at my former ally, for I could no longer even consider him as such, before walking towards the Storm Eagle waiting to take me back to my ship, for the breath period of time it was still mine.

 

 

It was several hours before I finally found the time to heed Gal-Korious’ request. I had been shown my new ship and listened to the bitter complaining from the whole company of the sacrifices made. Some even said they would have taken the Warmaster’s offer. I could not find the strength to be angry, nor to refute everything they were saying. As with most things in the long sorry history of the VIII Legion, it was a case of managing the consequences. I will admit that I was surprised at the quality of the ship being given to us; I had expected a decay ravaged hulk, held together by nothing more than the corroding metal dissolving slowly within her decks. She showed little obvious corruption although Tulak was less than pleased with the disposition of the navigator suite. Silencing his protests was easy enough. I still carried his soul ward and held an iron grip around his throat.

 

As for the name of my new vessel, I knew neither what she had been called nor who she belonged to, nor did I give any thought to the name she would carry from this night forwards. I begrudgingly admitted that she was certainly capable but I’ll not hide from the fact that I would miss, and still miss, the sheer power of the Gloom.

 

Gal-Korious’ personal armoury was somewhere I’d never visited before. I had trusted that he would bring anything of attention directly to me, and now I was bearing the bitter fruit of my misplaced trust. Indeed most of the more delicate tools had been removed, clear evidence that the adept had been planning to relocate his operations elsewhere and again I cursed the inattention that had led to this. As I walked around I noticed that the only armour and weaponry scattered around were Legion issue, everything that could have been given to the Skitari or placed on automata units was gone.

 

Finally I found myself standing before his vault, its massive portal locked down by several seals and a potent array of sensory apparatus. As I submitted to the scanning and entered the code the adept had provided me, I privately admitted to myself that this was a blow we were unlikely to recover from. We had been gutted here, and no amount of triage would set us right again. The vault slowly opened, the pressurised air escaping keeping the contents shrouded for the time being. As the last of the gas vented away I looked at Gal-Korious’ last gift to me. The suit of armour looked old but was clearly recently forged, the paint freshly applied. I unclipped my gauntlet and stroked my bare fingers across the ceramite, all the while letting my psychic senses since into the metal. I could feel the overwhelming purpose that had gone into the crafting of this suit, despite the appearance of an old MK III set of armour, this was verging on a work of art.

 

Silver scrollwork decorated the breastplate, detailed deeds earned in blood against Terra. A cape of rich purple weave hung down from the back of the cuirass and the right pauldron was carved in the shape of a rearing Nostramon Lion, symbol of the Atramentar, the left the winged skull of the VIII Legion. The silver trim around the greaves and bracers highlighting their lethal grace, even as I looked on the arcing generators flared into life, lightning dancing across the warplate before morphing into skulls and other symbols of fear. Finally my eyes rested upon the helm, one that I could never forget, as it had belonged to the brother I had aspired to emulate throughout the years of my service, a brother who had never sought brotherhood but had inspired it to such levels of ferocity amongst those who served under him that when he died and left his men to follow in his footsteps they had chosen to disperse rather than be led by any lesser warrior. The crest that had been imitated so much in the centuries since by lesser man carved from Cobalt, black veins marbling the metal, the skull on the faceplate perfectly representing the contempt for the galaxy its wearing had felt.

 

I knew full well that this was not the original, how could it be? That was lost centuries ago but the labour that had gone into constructing this, a masterwork of a smith’s art. And then I beheld the final item left for me. Standing on a weapons rack at the very back of the vault, an ornate chainglaive, the metal pitted and worn, the brutal spike at the base of the glaive’s head stained with what looked like dried blood. Again, this could not have been the original. Sevatar would have sooner been parted with his armour than that weapon.

 

The data slate mag-locked to the rack told its own story.

 

“Your Grace. I believe that my work here will prove most adequate for you in the battles to come. I regret that I was unable to finish work on the weapon before events overtook us. However I have provided detailed instructions to Warmacht Lott as to how the constitution and composition of the weapon may be enhanced so that it is fit for the purpose you are about to embark on. Whilst I cannot truly fathom the value you place on events or individuals that have gone before I trust that you have sufficient ability to finally rise to what you always aspired to be, a leader who inspires loyalty in those beneath, who inspires terror amongst your enemies and who leaves an indelible image upon the minds of those who bear witness to your coming and somehow survive. Fare thee well your grace and die proud, in midnight clad”

[Wicced]

Brothers and Sisters, please have a look at this thread and donate if you can, so we can keep the B&C running

 

every flayed mortal and every crown counts!

Edited May 27, 2015 by Wicced

[Amornar]

...wow amazing piece of writing there Balthamal! I vote GW or FW do an Osirio model in that armor! Also, what is the ship's new name? Gloom needs a hearty successor.

[Balthamal]

...wow amazing piece of writing there Balthamal! I vote GW or FW do an Osirio model in that armor! Also, what is the ship's new name? Gloom needs a hearty successor.

 

I'm currently in the process of modelling him. Going to be a bit more challenging than the current one as this isn't a kitbash

[Larkyn]

I've heard mixed results about this stuff:

 

http://imagizer.imageshack.us/v2/xq90/673/dnL4VI.jpg

 

And the range in general, but I'm going to try it out. I will eventually be picking up an actual airbrush, but for the time being, I'm gonna try and brush it on, and see what happens.

[ThatOneMarshal]

I'm actually really interested in the airbrush paints. I just got my own airbrush though if the night lords paint ends up like the forgeworld paint scheme I probably won't get it.

[Kol Saresk]

Why wouldn't it be like their paint scheme? It's probably the color they used as a basis.