Inspirational Friday - 26/09/2014

[Tenebris]

Welcome, welcome o sons and daughters of Chaos. Inspirational Friday is back and this time it proved to be one of the most epic adventures. We have read about sacrifice, mind breaking, ship artillery, faithless Word Bearers and mind blasted sycophants. The past week was a sweet one for Inspirational Friday and the quality of the post literally skyrocketed trough the roof. 

 

And who is the one who stood above all this week, whose post was the most memorable? The award goes to Kol_Saresk and his great contribution, The Song. The post was short, sweet and very well done, it spoke volumes about the obsession that come with Chaos and it was quite a nice reading. 

 

Thus Kol_Saresk you have been judged worthy, come forth and claim your just reward.

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/2/friday-award.png

 

Honorable mention goes to Cormac Airt and Midnight Runner. Both of their posts were quite unique and very well done, both great reads too. 

 

 

As for this week:

 

Inspirational Friday - 26/09/2014 - CHAOS WORLD

 

Now we are going to the meat of things, now we are entering in the true fluff madness. This week I present you with the topic Chaos World. A Chaos World is one of the countless world given to the worship of Chaos or affected by the pantheon. Those worlds can be mundane or extraordinary but without exception each and everyone of them was touched by the Dark Gods. 

 

I want you to write about a Chaos World. It can be the homeworld of your warband, a daemonic world, it can be also a broken world or something mystical, legendary. This week's Inspirational Friday is about such worlds, the worlds in the Empire of the Eye or deep in the Maelstrom, but could be as well imperial worlds which have been graced by the attention of the Chaos Gods. 

 

Thus grab your autoquills and sit on your sculpted throne. Skin a few slaves for good quality vellum and bring forth your mindwiped scribe servitors. Write about damnation and marvel, write about destiny and history, write about a world touched by Chaos and describe its creation and ultimately fall to the pernicious powers. Speak of a Chaos World.

 

 

Again I invite also the Chaos Daemons fans and the people of the Lost and the Damned to present us your stories. Inspirational Friday is for all children of Chaos. 

 

Inspire us, I demand it so!

 

 

Tenebris

[Kol Saresk]

Thank you everyone for liking my stuff so much.

[Xenith]

Well done, Kol, well deserved!

[Conn Eremon]

It was an honor just to be nominated.

[Emperors Immortals]

Well done Kol, nicely written story.

 

In fact, they all have been! Great idea Tenebris, im going back to add to the other weeks too.

[Slave to Darkness]

ooo im so down for this :D

[Midnightmare]

Very well deserved Kol, a great read :)

 

Glad mine went down well Tenebris, mucho thanks :D

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Kol.

Well deserved.

 

A Chaos World next?!

[Kol Saresk]

Think about it this way, use all the stories of individuals and groups that we've written so far, and let them "inspire" you to imagine an entire world full of those loonies.

[Slave to Darkness]

wait, how long do we have to do this and how long does our entry need to be? does it have to be a daemon world, or can it be a world that been 'touched' by chaos?

[incinerator950]

Both.

 

I'm not happy writing out pages on a phone, so I'm not going to post my Ash twilight world.

[Kol Saresk]

wait, how long do we have to do this and how long does our entry need to be? does it have to be a daemon world, or can it be a world that been 'touched' by chaos?

Until next friday and as far as I know, there is no minimum or maximum.

[Slave to Darkness]

sweet jesus a week!!! better get me finger out and get writing

[Soldier of Dorn]

+INFILTRATION+

 

  'Khronia was doomed. It had been decided long ago, at the very beginning of the Long War. Now, at the end of the 41^st millennium, ten thousand years of careful planning would finally come to fruition.  

  All this had been accomplished by a single Legionnaire. He had begun from the top, corrupting the Lord Governor, and when the Ecclesiarchy had been established, twisting the words of ordained priests. Most of the populace was not even aware that they were not, in fact, worshiping the Corpse-Emperor, mindlessly slaving to produce arms and weapons for what they thought they knew.

  In 998.M41, the Legionnaire activated the pseudo-conscious triggers implanted by the Scholams, and across the galaxy, Khronians revolted. Entire regiments of Imperial Guard tithed from the planet declared their dedication to the Four, and mobs of Chaos Cultists descended from Khronians mobbed the streets. Many were punished by the Inquisition with mass executions and other such extremes, and Khronia itself was subject to Exterminatus, by order of Inqusitor Javert.

  But the true objective had been achieved. Unbeknownst to anyone, a single Khronian, had been entered into the Schola Progenium, and made his way through, all the way to the Inquisition. His programming was to be a mole, and when his home revolted, to destroy all evidence of his home.

  You ask me how I know this? I will gladly tell you. I was that Legionaire. I am Morcaea Tasatur, and I am Alpharius.'

 

+END+

 

I like this. Probably my best work, though it drifts a little from the main subject.

Oh, and anyone that can figure out what "Morcaea Tasatur" references earns a virtual cookie.

[Midnightmare]

GORESWIRL

 

Despite the harsh wind buffeting them, the dense crimson fog stayed roughly 20 metres away in all directions. The fell winds themselves clawed at his helmetless features, carrying daemonic whispers of warning on the blood soaked air.

"Turrrrrn bacccck"
"You are not welcommmme here"
"Weeeee will feasssst on your bonesssss"

He payed them no heed. Mere parlour tricks. Though their vision of the landscape was severely limited, they pressed on. With each of his footstep, the bones and skulls underfoot were crushed by his hulkingly ancient Tactical Dreadnought Armour, bringing him closer to the quarry. He could feel the hatred in the air swirling all around them. The planet itself wanted them gone. The pang of freshly split blood was all he could smell, warning of what was to come. Again, mere parlour tricks. He was here for a reason, and nothing would dissuade him from his task. There would be no parlay. Blood had to be spilt.

"Welppppp, take your warriorsssss from here"
"Your soulssss will be ourssss"
Daemonic cackling.
"You musssst defeat his eightttt-fold championssssss"

The fog remained, though he could pick out a large shadow just inside of its bloody cloud. As they advanced it drew back it revealing a huge totem of the Blood God, burning braziers flickering at odds with the daemonic winds, the ground running red between the sea of bones. Droplets of bloody rain began to fall from the miasma that was the crimson cloudless sky.

Almost the instant structure came into full view, the ground began to shake, the sound of huge striding footsteps coming towards their position. An inhuman bellow wrathfully calling his name. The blood that had ran surround their armoured feet began to boil and bubble, as the planet itself raged. As he gestured his troops to form up, the beast appeared from the fog surrounded by it's red underlings. It stood there for a moment taking him in. Bedecked in brass and skulls, tattooed with unholy Khornate runes, two black horns protruding from a hairless head; it was a red skinned, fanged vision of death. Twice his height, even in his formidable armour, the slab muscled Daemon again bellowed his name, pointing with one of his bloody axes as his minions spread around him, their tongues flicking like hellish snakes. Bolters barked into life, the Bringers of Despair and the mighty Justaerin reacting instantly around their leader.

Drachn'yen shrieked in his left hand as he tested its weight, on his right hand was the mirthlessly crackling Talon of Horus. Loosening his neck and rolling his shoulders in his plate Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of the Black Legion, Champion of Chaos braced to receive the charge. "The first of the eight" he smiled darkly as the Goreswirls fog enveloped them all "this is going to be a long night...."

[MaliGn]

Humble Shrine.

 

At its heart, this was a humble place, although to the unenlightened witness this may not have been the obvious description. After all the entire planet had been transformed into an elaborately vast shrine. Towering cathedrals, looming basilicas, and incomprehensible ziggurats crowded each other, in a constant state of flux as apostate cardinals vied for power within the hierarchy of the corpulent Church of The Word. New spires were grafted to architecture already overburdened with an abundance of crenellations, misericords, gargoyles and bas relief work. Yet even the most elaborate, most ornate edifice was nothing to the majesty of the holy pantheon in whose honour they had been erected. So yes, a humble shrine to the gods of chaos, for they were truly more magnificent in their maleficence than any mortal creation could ever be.

 

These were the thoughts of the priest as he leant on the ornate parapet, wrought of meteoric iron into shapes that tricked the eye, giving the illusion of movement, his perch was high on the sheer side of a spire rising nigh on a mile in height and overlooking a great eight sided courtyard fed by an avenue lined with gibbets, statuary and icons.In the skies above huge clouds roiled in the turbulent air, black with the smokes of countless censers and tinged a firey orange by the billions of flames that burned endlessly, fuelled by slaves, worked until they dropped, and then hurled into the fires themselves.

 

He smiled as he surveyed the scene before him, hundreds of warriors filled the plaza, each clad in baroque power armour, stained a deep crimson and inscribed with verses and litanies of their faith. The high walls ringing the congregated host reverberated with the rhythm of the hymns chanted through their twisted vox grills. United in faith the dolorous cadence of the throng's recital further inspired the preacher, and he began his sermon.

[Conn Eremon]

An audible crack followed the legionnaires’ steps. Not upon the heavy impact of their armored tread upon the thick ice, but as each Marine lifted their ceramite boots. The cold welcomed them, and the ice stretched to embrace them. Even the momentary contact that accompanied each stride was just long enough for the frost to begin to encrust. So the Marines, their wildly colored armor clashing violently with the environment, stepped lightly as they ran, like dancers pirouetting about in a maddened rush. One legionnaire stumbled as the ice cracked underfoot, catching him about the ankle. The delay was costly, as the freeze rushed up nearly to his knee. The helmet grill let loose a static-ridden growl as the trapped Marine gave a quick jerk to clear his leg. The ice shattered with ease, leaving nothing but a blue-tinged stump just below the knee. With a cry of rage rather than pain, the Marine collapsed upon the ice. He thrashed, his curses filling the cutting wind. Then he was still, and within seconds, just an icy hill that gave no evidence of the soul buried alive.

 

The scenario had played out before, when the cold world suddenly rose up in revolt of their presence. Some turned their sonic weaponry upon the landscape, blasting the ice. None aimed their guns overhead when ice stretched over them. They had all seen that falling shards of ice was a surer path to death than simple delay. One of them, mutated more than his brothers, glowed with a literal internal flame as he forced his body to burn hotter. It aided him little, a lead of mere seconds. The Marines pounded their way into the clearing where their planetary transports waited. Two were aloft, hovering meters off the ground. Below, the third’s outline could be just barely discerned under a heavy layer of ice. One of the gunships flared its engines as it turned about at the squad’s approach. A deep, resonating crack echoed across the small valley, and a geyser of liquid burst free. The ship veered to the side to avoid the jet, but it passed through a sheet of mist that solidified upon contact with the hull. Its engines coughed black smoke and the plane dipped sidewise as a frozen wing pulled it down. Another geyser erupted, freezing back into ice as it rose, spearing the falling gunship through and halting its momentum. Immediately, the other gunship rose and fired its engines, leaving the Marines to their fates.

 

Clicks sounded from the still running legionnaires as they attempted to hail their brothers in orbit. The ice shivered around them and began to recede, leaving them stranded upon the cold, hard earth beneath. As the survivors turned their backs to each other and scan their surroundings for threats, they were suddenly no longer alone. Another Marine stood scant meters from them, appearing as if he had passed into existence from the cliff of ice that his light blue and gray hues faded into so elegantly.

 

One of the Emperor’s Children pulled off his helm and tossed it to the ground in anger as he shouted at the apparition.

 

“Why Moghan Nuor? We came under pledge of brotherhood! You would deny the Warmaster? You would deny our father?”

 

“No, no. I would never deny either of them. My brothers and I will join their cause with all haste.” As the arrival spoke, his blue lips cracking as they stretched, he cast his vein-popped eyes behind him at the cliff face, and caressed it with the hand of a lover. “I have done this because I am offended.”

 

“At what, High-Born?” The sergeant spat the last word out, disgust and fury plain upon his features.

 

Moghan Nuor’s hand penetrated into the ice without resistance. When he pulled it free, it gripped a blade of ice that appeared as if carved by a master of the craft, its design reminiscent of a weapon once provided to III legionnaires as marks of honor to those most skilled. “They didn’t come to ask me themselves.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±

 

That one was kind of fun, and I actually can't wait to get to fluffing out the High-Born, a host of self-entitled swordsmen who think giving others a perfect death is about the biggest blessing one can get.

 

I might do another, if that is okay. It won't be a canon universe world, but one born of an alternative heresy.

[Conn Eremon]

That didn't take me long. Let me preface this by saying that this is a part of the Guilliman Heresy project. If you have no interest in such projects, feel free to disregard the rest of this post. If it intrigues you, please follow the link above and in my sig for more information and discussion. Otherwise, I hope you guys enjoy something a little different.

 

 

 

Simulacra

 

The iron-crusted world claimed by Gabriel Santar and the fell Iron Hands is as rough and harsh as long forbidden Medusa ever was. Technology reigns upon this world, as evidenced by the immense foundry-engines that burn endlessly in the mountainous ranges like volcanic hearts. But the touch of Chaos is everywhere, and pervades all. Where flesh ends and machine begins can be blurred, like the fusion of a slave to its workstation. Nothing shows this more than the titanic clan-behemoths. Once, these serpentine crawler-machines had prowled the rocky world of Medusa itself, testament to Mankind's dominance and shelter to its colony. Now, these roving monstrosities were as much beasts as machines, devouring the iron cores of mountains and clashing with rival clans in primal duels that would crack the very earth. Their weapons were more than just their size and ferocity. Their spines were lined with spikes, dotted with turrets and gun-towers. Heavy cannons stripped from claimed ships of the line, rotated above mammoth shoulders. The shimmer of powerful shields coated them, like ripples of oil upon water.

 

And within these great metal beasts, the Iron Tenth live still, though far more vacant than days of ancient past. Hundreds of thousands of thralls slave within the veins and arteries, keeping the great forge-hearts pumping. Aged and revered seers, their souls wholly given to the machine and bereft of flesh, link together to form the minds. But one stands greater than the rest. Its iron skin shines with iridescence, and its form becomes increasingly draconian. The Avernii is the apex predator, whose dominance none dare contest. Its roar shakes the mountains, the thundering guns hidden by its immense maw capable of tearing through even its lesser ilk with ease, as it has so thoroughly proven time and again. The regent reigns in the name of the High Lords from his throne behind a dragon’s eye, and the Imperium will quickly learn to rue the day its engine-cluster wings develop enough for the leviathan to take to the void and sate its eternal hunger.

[Majorbookworm]

Euxinius

 

Euxinius is a massively fortified world on the fringes of the Mardaille Sector, ruled by the 157th Grand Battalion of the Iron Warriors. Originally settled during the Great Crusade, after being cleansed of Orks by the IVth Legion, it was a backwater virtually unknown to the wider Imperium, especially after  the chaos of the Horus Heresy. Taken over by the 157th at the end of that terrible conflict, the pre-existing population was enslaved, and the world resettled by the Thorakatai auxiliaries who accompanied them. Much of Euxinius is now a polluted industrial wasteland thanks to the presence of the massive Dark Mechanicus manufactorum, inhabited by wanderers and mutants, as well as beasts afflicted by the chaotic energies that occasionally leak from the more experimental and esoteric parts of the forge. The forge produces the weapons, vehicles and daemon engines for the 157th and the Thorakata, and is guarded by and army of Adesculari, battle automata and daemon engines, as well as twisted renegade tech-priests. Deep within the manufactorum is a contained (as much as such a thing can be) warp rift, the energies of which power the esoteric machinery of the forge, and from here the Warpsmiths draw the daemons required for their creations. The other major landmark is the colossal Fortified Zone. A huge area enclosed by thousands of miles of prebuilt trenchlines, walls and fortifications, it encloses the main Iron Warrior citadel, and the outlying cities inhabited by the freeborn nobility. The area is garrisoned by millions of professional Thorakatai soldiers and Jannisary slave-troops, helped by great defensive gun emplacements.

 

The freeborn noble population is relatively small, but contributes heavily to the Thorakata soldiery, seeing service as an honour and a duty to their overlords. In return they govern their own affairs for the most part, and enjoy relatively privileged lives. Thorakatai are well-trained. well-equipped soldiers, armed similarly to many Imperial Guard units The clear bulk of Euxinius' population are the slave caste, or helots, who toil in the Dark Mechanicus's forges, the minor industrial plants, business' and houses of the nobility, or serve as Janissaries. Janissaries are the greater part of the military forces available to the 157th, millions upon millions of expendable cannon fodder to be thrown at the foe, undertake minor missions, or man the warbands fleet. The rest of the people are metics, who to some degree live normal lives in cities along the fringes of society, but only because they are simply beneath the considerations of the Chaos Marines, but have equally no rights in Euxinius' society, likely to be enslaved into work-gangs, pressed into Janissary service, or even reduced to Sevitor-hood en masse for the mechanicus. Ruled by petty-kings and tyrants who have sworn loyalty to the world true rulers, they suffer regularly from repression and during the frequent uprisings, which are put down with extreme brutality.

 

Religious worship is varied across Euxinius. Many metics and nobles worship the Chaos Gods, but no real religion is enforced across the planet, the Iron Warriors having little time for such things, at least officially, although some do worship the dark Gods, and they consider what mere mortals do with their time to be utterly beneath them (unless they are making obeisance to the damnable False Emperor, or follow an out of control blood cult). Most cities have temples to one or more Chaos Gods (or perhaps to Chaos Undivided) and the wanderer and mutant clans of the outlying wastes regularly swear themselves to the service of a God and fight other groups in their name.

[Tenebris]

Two days have passed and we are already in full gear, awesome people. Let none doubt that we of Chaos are a maelstrom of creativity. Keep the good work. Let us be inspired!

[Loesh]

Arumia

 

In the far, far, farthest edges of the Imperium there was a small Paradise World by the name of Arumia, largely isolated from the greater civilization around it. Great mountains poked into the highest clouds beneath a bizarre violet sky, vast seams of silver covered those gemstone studded mountains, vast forests with plentiful game and fruit lay beneath, exorbitant tithes were given to the Imperium every few years to leave them alone and for the longest time the people who lived there were in harmony, for so great was their wealth and so endless it seemed that those tithes seemed a pittance for the autonomy they were given. Content with their lives, they noticed not the war and terror swirling around the world they called home, blissful ignorance enveloped them all.

 

And then, one day, the Imperium found those tithes were slightly short...a rounding error really, and yet that was excuse enough. Those people played out their peaceful lives, gazing at the sky lazily until...something strange happened, ships flied through the sky, troops landing near them and trampling the foliage beneath, people who asked about the strange folk either vanished or were simply told that everything would be fine, even as stranger people still with mechanical tentacles and robotic arms began to shuffle out of the ship. There, those folk found ancient technology wired into golden cities and vast somehow self sustained villages, these folk prized the devices above everything else and had few scruples about taking it for themselves.

 

Below great engines brought trees low and dug into the ground, ripping out every resource they could find. Slowly they began working their way into the mountains and the extensive tunnel networks within, what they found there amazed them: Jewels, jewels of every color imaginable, jewels that seemed to set their bodies alight with strange sensations they had never known. These they coveted above all, unbeknownst to them they didn't realize they had stumbled upon the place where all the souls on the planet eventually came to rest, by some quirk of magic they didn't filter into the sea of souls and solidified within the mountains recesses.

 

Countless gems were harvested by these visitors and the people of the world began to feel a growing unease...always they had felt happy, but now a strange sense of sorrow and pain filled their being, the less 'favored' gems with unplesant effects tossed to the ground where their spiritual essence seeped into the earth. Night terrors plagued the peoples dreams, some collapsed to the ground in painful seizures, others simply sat outside their homes and looked to the mountains...seeing something that no one else could see.

 

The rumbling was quiet at first, but then grew louder and louder, as if something under the earth had awoken...and soon there was a psychic scream so loud it could be heard in space, there were no cries of help from the strange folk, no attempt to resist, they just experienced pure unending agony.

 

Then....nothing.....

 

Creatures poured from the mountain tops, many of arm and horned of head, bizarre amalgamations of man, woman, and beast when they simply weren't masses of flesh and tentacles too impossible to describe. The jaded emotions of the people stirred once more, and they prostrated themselves at these creatures feet as they brought back the pleasure those people had so long been denied.

 

When the Lash of Loesh came to the planet, they found a Utopia once again built above the skies, hovering over a vast dead world below. When they attempted to contact the radio was filled with screams of ecstasy and roars of anguish more then anything coherent, the glimmering gems beneath radiating some energy that had, once again, isolated the planet from most. Upon landing the Emperors Children were greeted by the people of the planet, now fanatically devoted to Slaanesh with scarred and tattooed skin, amongst countless body enhancements, even some of the Imperial survivors of the cataclysm came to greet them...their folly having changed them in unalterable, unspeakable ways.

 

Arumia had returned to being the Pleasure Planet it's populace always wanted it to be, and the Imperium would never take advantage of it again.

[Son of Carnelian]

Once, a flower had bloomed on Drejj. 

 

No one knew where the flower came from. Some claimed that a forgotten saint had brought it to the world as a sign of her favor. Others claimed that the flower grew naturally on Drejj, merely in such slight numbers that no one had ever noticed it. Regardless, it had found itself at the base of the alter of the Cathedral of Furious Penance, the largest place of worship in the sub-sector. Thousands came each day, seeking forgiveness under the whips of the preachers. Their blood flowed down them in crimson veins and across the cathedral floor. The flower drank in the blood and with every drop, became more and more magnificent. Soon, the people of Drejj stopped coming to the cathedral for the sake of their souls and instead came for the sake of the flower. They made up false crimes and transgressions for themselves, so that the preachers might whip them and continue feeding the flower. Soon, the pedals had grown from fingernail size to massive thick things, nearly as big as a man's torso. The stalk had similarly expanded, growing larger and sturdier until it had pushed aside the alter and become the central focus of the cathedral.  

 

Where once the people of Drejj had seen the flower as a gift from the divine Emperor, now they had given up all pretense and prayed directly to the plant itself. They fed those who did not believe to the flower's roots, bleeding them dry and strengthening their new god. By the time the Space Marines of the Sons of Orar had arrived, the flower had grown through the roof of the enormous cathedral and stood the full height of a Titan. The Sons of Orar fought through the worshippers of the flower, cutting them down with ease, all the while not knowing that even their cleansing fed the flower. At the height of the conflict, the flower writhed high above and finally opened its pedals to the dark sky. 

 

Traitor Space Marines poured forth from within the flower, emerging like ghosts from the plant itself. The screamed their devotion to Slaanesh, their master's dark gambit revealed. The Sons of Orar pulled back, retreating to their ships and roaring their hatred at so dishonorable a foe. With righteous anger, the bombarded the planet with every weapon at their disposal, scorching it of life until nothing but ash remained on the surface. 

 

Once, a flower had bloomed on Drejj. 

 

Now nothing would ever live there again. 

[Slave to Darkness]

+++ AUTHORIZATION ACCESS CODE CORRECT +++

+++ CLEARANCE LEVEL - =][= +++

+++ SEARCHING +++

+++ BUFFERING DATA+++

{-------------------------------------99%-------------------------------------}

+++ BUFFERING COMPLETE +++

 

The last known recorded entry in the journal of the heretic Inquisitor Haydon.

 

All planets cast a shadow in the warp, a dark mirror of their own physicality, both exit either side of a thin veil of reality. Sometimes, through accident or design the two merge, part of the shadow realm fusing with our reality, Helvette is one such planet.

 

 Out on the fringe of Imperial space lies the long forgotten planet, ruined durng the Horus Heresy. As the warp raged the veil between realspace and the Immaterum split and Helvette was merged with its shadow self. All over the planet Chaos ran rampant, warp energy flowing into everything, changing, mutating. All natural laws defied,  blood rained upwards, crops decomposed overnight, livestock gave birth to rotten offspring, children born wth the heads of animals. Then as the warp storms calmed the split between realms sealed and the touch of Chaos left Helvette. 

 

Now where once stood proud cities are ruined spires clawing at the sky like twisted bony fingers, stone crmbling away to dust, steel pitted with corrosion.  What used to be forests of massive trees the size of scout titans are now nothing but lifeless trunks slowly falling apart under their own weight as they rot away from the inside, the very soil they stand in green with mold. 

 

Even now mankind tries to survive in the ruins, though years of hardship has changed them, what is left is so far gone its hard to even call them human. Some have wasted away to nothing more than skelletons wearing skin, some are rotting away slowly clothes staned with filth from their open sores. Mutation is rife, and food scarce, so those born with  severe deformitys and are considered too weak to survive  (born with atrophied limbs, born with no eyes) either end up as food or left in the ruins to fend for themselves (although they usually end up as food for someone else). 

 

+++ ERROR - DATA CORRUPT +++

+++ SYSTEM FAILURE +++

+++ SYSTEM RESTART 0:30 SECONDS +++

=][= Thought for the day - Blessed is the mind too small for doubt, Blessed are the Cheese makers  =][=

[Aqui]

Bahltimyr

 

Once a loyal world, it was the homeworld to a Space Marine Chapter. But no longer. The traitorous sons of Corax had spat on its oaths of fealty to the Imperium, had turned its back on its cousins. The natives had followed their post-human Lords blindly, as ever, wishing only to serve. The sentiment cost them. The Ravens of Bahltimyr had forever changed, many of their number tainted in soul destroying ways, their very flesh mutable, their minds lost to the Changer of the Ways. It hadn't taken long for the scions of the Cursed Founding to subvert even the soil, the flora and fauna warped at the whim of the Chapter Master. Rai Lurweiss had orated at length that the domain of the corpse-god was failing, that an empire of their own was within grasp. Desperation at first, greed and avarice later sealed the fates of over nine billion lives.

 

For forty years, the Chapter lived as they pleased, plundered the local systems as was their wont, and worshipped as they must. Then came their undoing.

 

The Steel Wings. A Chapter whom had been ordered to assist with quelling a rebellion some eighty years prior, one that had in fact was the apotheosis of the younger Chapter. The flag ship Animus Ferrum limped in system, its hull marked with grievous but bearable wounds. The ugly lines seem to bristle at the sight of its target, as if the ships myriad of machine spirits was repulsed by the now unrecognisable orb.

 

A brief communique, that of pure machine code was spat through the atmosphere, a spiteful message, one that felt betrayal, hatred, anger...even sadness.

 

01100100 01101001 01100101

 

There was no reaction by the planets defence grid, complacency had overridden centuries of vigilence. The roar of gargantuan charges detonating within the atmosphere deafened every living being planet side. The citadel Emtehbank was hit first, a proverbial middle finger to the occupants, a cathartic release for the Sons of the Gorgon. Bombardment continued until the planet could withstand no more. The shockwave slammed the Animus Ferrum hard, its wounds opened wider, venting atmosphere and soundless, freezing death for the thralls working to heal the ailing hull. Their passing was of no mind to the Steel Liege who had become suspicious of the lack of retaliation. He soon realised why. The Ravens had escaped, fled the nest, shedding their old name, cursing both their Father, noble Corax and that of their Founding.

 

The Bahltimyr Reavers were still extant, still a thorn in their side. But they no longer had a safe harbour.

[Kierdale]

The Blessed World

 

 

Betrayed.

Betrayed by their blood, a curse within their very genes...and cursed by the one epistolary Cidacae had turned to in his desperation for aid. Scions of the angel, fairest of the Emperor’s loyal sons, the chapter had been cursed like all his descendants with the thirst and the rage. The third company as penitence for urges let slip two centuries earlier had set out on a crusade. To cleanse themselves. To temper themselves.

But Cidacae had watched as more and more of his brethren had fallen to their genetic legacy and had to be...confined. He and the apothecaries had sought a cure. In truth, after the loss of the captain, they had more than once sent the crusade astray, chasing rumours, hunting an elixir.

In the darkest hours, the enraged, bloodthirsty roars of another brother astartes echoing in his mind, epistolary Cidacae had had an epiphany. It had come to him in a dream. Or so at the time he had thought.

Now all his kin bore the mark of the `salvation` he had delivered unto them.

 

The vast battlebarge shook as it descended though the alien atmosphere, hull incandescent. The xenos fleet had proven too much for the astartes battleship and down she fell. Two centuries of hard fighting, little time for repairs. Had it not been suicidal of them to face the Great Devourer in such condition? Perhaps that was it; now the ranking officer, Cidacae had sought to end them all rather than see his work play out.

He could see it in his very own hands as they gripped the bridge railing. His fingers withered. Clawlike. No longer did crimson pump through his veins. Rather something turgid and noxious.

Down the ship fell, the crew doing their best through rheumy eyes and with emaciated limbs, to the xenos-formed world. Vast hives loomed through the clouds.

Cidacae smiled, his lips splitting. Purulence dribbled from the cuts. Soon they would be done, despite his brethren’s best efforts, and a vast swath of the cancerous aliens with them. Cancerous. Bitter irony that such a term should have sprung to mind.

The engines roared and he screamed defiance to the Fly Lord, his betrayer. He screamed once more, damning himself for renouncing the Emperor of Mankind.

Impact.

Darkness.

 

And light.

Not the all-eclipsing blast of reactors detonating, but the light of an alien world.

Cidacae awoke, bound by some clinging excretion, being passed, along with countless of his kin, from chitinous claw to chitinous claw.

To the pools. The pit. Cast in, the fell concoctions made a joke of the astartes’ armour and he watched as his brothers were literally dissolved before him. But not him. His armour corroded, melted. His skin, marked by the pox, slough away only to grow anew yet fouler. The beasts noticed, vomiting forth more caustic fluids upon him. A low, wet laugh echoed through his mind and the aliens instead tried to bury him. Yet no matter how many bodies were piled atop him, he remained. Only he.

Day and night passed and he had not the strength to save himself from the pit; to drag himself from the bath of acids and what had once been his battle brothers, now rendered into naught but soup. And the aliens drank of that soup. Vast hulking beasts supped that broth and gave birth to beasts anew.

As he watched, as the days stretched into weeks and months, he saw a change in the bastard monsters. The young were born deformed, palsied. Others grew indolent and lean. Pale of flesh and dull of eye.

The very ground, parched, all moisture drawn by tendrils to the pit, grew moist and dark while the pit’s tendrils became livid and welt-riddled.

He was woken from his dormancy once by the terrific crash of the nearest hive structure collapsing, it’s once meaty walls bedeviled with pustules. A cloud rose and swept toward him. A buzzing cloud. A billion flies. The bastard aliens, few of them had the strength to swat at the swarm, while the rest lay atop the corpses of their fallen kin. These rotted and he realized not when the land became a stinking marsh.

Eventually only the flies kept him company, until beings rose from the swamp of filth. Humanoids. His addled, putrid mind did not know if they were alien revenants or the reincarnation of his battle brothers. Cylopean. Undying.

The pit no longer held the digested soup of his chapter but he bathed in a lake of rot and saw the Grandfather’s true gift.