Inspirational Friday - 17/10/2014

[TDF]

From:   K’Nerren, Niel   //   87-EC-β   //   {Interrogator}
To:   Zantis, Gabbiel   //   92-AX-π   //   {Inquisitor}
Sent: 809.658.M41   //   YT3-µ-82-X
Received:   990.658.M41   //   QW8-Ω-27-T
Thought for the day:   Only a traitor balks at the idea of sacrificing his life for the Emperor.
 

My Lady,
 
It is as you suspected. I have uncovered the records of Inquisitor DuKanan and can confirm that this is not the first occasion that the forces of the Ruinous Powers have been encountered on Excellon IV. It is my belief that in 892.M35 the traitors of the XVII legion set in motion a plot that is only now coming to fruition. If I may be so bold, I believe you must carry out the ultimate sanction on Excellon IV before it is too late.
 
Your servant,
 
Interrogator K’Nerren
 

 

____________________________________________________________________________________

With a warp-fuelled roar, Khiyron the Flesheater tore through the aged malcador tank with its adamantium-tipped claws. The resulting explosion incinerated two nearby squads of frateris templars and set the enormous chaos spawn ablaze from horn to hoof.

Xal Guram barked out a laugh at the horrified expressions of the other templars. Clearly their false faith was insufficient. He holstered his plasma pistol and drew his chainaxe in order to properly illuminate them in the primordial truth.

The first five templars fell with prayers to the false god on their lips. The next two managed to make the sign of the aquila before Xal Guram brutally dismembered them. After that the false faith of the surviving templars shattered. They threw their weapons at the Word Bearer – as if that could stop him – and fled across the cratered courtyard into the Cathedral of Saint Garth.

He let them go. Once the templars found sanctuary in their place of worship their false faith would be rekindled. Xal Guram looked forward to breaking it for a second time.

Elsewhere in New Grendin City Xal Guram’s brothers were running rampant. The bulk of the city’s defensive forces had been gathered at the cathedral, leaving the rest of the city undefended. The Imperial vox channels were filled with the sound of murder. A brief squawk of encrypted chatter caught Xal Guram’s attention and brought a smile to his scarred lips as he listened to the decrypted message. The thinbloods had arrived.

Within minutes the Word Bearers had reassembled into defensive positions. The drop pod assault was intended to take them by surprise, but the only shock was how long it had taken for the loyalist astartes to arrive at Excellon IV. Destroying them took less than an hour.

*

The interior of the cathedral was lit by thousands of candles, some still in the sconces but most illuminating the symbols of the octed that Kanan Raam had drawn on the tiled floor with the blood of the faithless. Xal Guram made sure to avoid touching the symbols as he approached the dark apostle at the altar. The icons of the false god had been cast aside and in their place lay the broken, but still living, frame of a thinblood witch strapped to the stone plinth; kept docile with one of the Blood God’s brazen collars.

Kanan Raam turned away from his work to greet Xal Guram and receive the offered loyalist geneseed. He selected one bloody organ, shaved off a slice with his athame and ate it.

“VII Legion,” the dark apostle said. “But so weak. These are the bastard sons of bastard sons.”

“Will they suffice?” Xal Guram asked.

“Yes. The song will take longer to reach its crescendo, but ultimately it will do so. Some of our plans may require slight alterations, but it is of little consequence.”

“So this world will burn.”

The dark apostle smiled. “Scores of worlds will burn. This is just the spark.”

 

 

 

​____________________________________________________________________________________

 

ATTENTION: The Krucias Sector has been declared off-limits to all Imperial personnel due to large-scale warpstorm activity. Travel to the sector is designated high treason punishable by death.

- Imperial communiqué transmitted on all astropathic channels in Segmentum Pacificus, time-stamped 017.659.M41

[Son of Carnelian]

Brother Bubastis' helmet light cut through the darkness of the corridor ahead, revealing the same emptiness that his squad had encountered time and again within the space hulk. The Hollow Bastion apparently held no cargo and no occupants. Save for the twisted nature of its construction typical of all space hulks, one could have mistaken it for a standard Imperial cargo vessel that had found itself in the void without anything in its holds. 

 

"I don't like this."

 

Bubastis turned towards his fellow veteran and nodded. His compatriot, Galford, wore the same mark of Terminator plate that Bubastis did. Together, they cut an imposing image in the narrow corridor, almost appearing like slabs of the ship itself come to life. Bubastis made a few inquires through the vox in his helmet to the other pairs of Terminators scouting the Hollow Bastion. Everyone else reported the same absence of any sort of life. But one team had noticed something.

 

"Check the walls,' Bubastis ordered his brother. 'See if they are... weeping."

 

Galford stomped over towards the nearest bulkhead so that he might inspect it closer. Their brothers deeper in the ship spoke true, as Galford caught sight of tiny lines of inky black fluid seeping out underneath the screws and bolts in the wall. He mag-locked his storm bolter to his side and placed a single armored finger against the fluid. 

 

Then the nightmare began.

 

Forming from the very walls themselves and bleeding into reality below the Terminators, the Chaos Space Marines burst into life. Their armor had the color of a pale cadaver and the edges of it bled the same black fluid as the walls of the Hollow Bastion. They made a faint gurgling sound as they strode relentlessly towards the two Space Marines, their armor bursting with oily mucous as the two Terminators opened fire. But even as their bodies burst apart with bolt impacts, still more reformed from the viscus muck and continued the advance. Like an unthinking mob of dead men given life they surrounded the Terminators. Now swinging their power fists, the two heroes fought back to back, but it could only slow the monsters, not stop them. Like a tide of armor and oil, they broke over the two figures and began pressing them towards the walls of the ship. Galford roared his hate, never ceasing his attack until the monsters robbed him of both his arms in a horrifying display of their own strength. Bubastis' back hit the wall and he could feel the fluid of the traitor Space Marines seeping into his armor. He chocked, feeling the oil wrap around his neck with a vicious will. 

 

But suddenly, Bubastis not longer felt himself pressed against the wall. 

 

He felt the wall pressing into him.

 

His holy flesh revolted at this heresy, this corruption. He tried struggling, but the oil around his neck wound tighter as the black metal of the wall started merging with his flesh. Galford had already seeped completely into the wall, with only his outline still visible and the ripples of fluid that he created in the bulkhead. Like a stone cast into a pond of oil though, his rippled died and he fell from sight. Bubastis commended his soul to the Emperor in a broken whisper before feeling himself fade away into the nothingness of the Hollow Bastion. 

 

Welcome, little one. Welcome... to the Cleaved.

[Balthamal]

Ok quick update, I have something written, just can't get on my pc to actually post it at the moment, might not be up till tomorrow. Watch this space

[Soldier of Dorn]

I actually think I'll sit this one out, but I like all the stuff so far.

[Balthamal]

I know it's too late to count but I thought I'd share this anyway seeing as I went  to the trouble of writing it but didn't have the chance to post it in time. C & C welcome as always

 

 

 

 

Ahriamla is a world unlike any other within Eye space. At least that’s what those who have set their sights on it as a prize would have anyone believe. The truth is somewhat different. The skies bleed acid precipitation from a cloudless green murk, not formed of physical elements but of the raw stuff of the Warp. It swirls and coalesces much as a normal world’s weather is wont to do yet it never dissipates, never moves from its perch high above the atmospheric envelope. Gravity does not exert its might and drag the corrosive sludge to the surface. A deeper malice, older perhaps than the galaxy itself, sends it forth towards bedrock. The truth is there are dozens, hundreds, even thousands of worlds caught in the roaring Warp conflagration that is the Occularis Terribus that share such phenomena, or boast even more unique diversities amidst insanity. And like countless worlds it is ruled by the Legiones Astartes Iron Warriors.

 

Theirs is not an overwhelming presence. Eighty three Legionnaires supported by an enslaved contingent of battle automata taken as plunder from a Mechanicum outpost over thirty five years previously. They are the Eulasius or Cold Forged in the tongue of their homeworld. And now they are facing extinction.

 

Like the hundreds of other remnants of the Nine Legions that inhabit the purgatory of the Eye, there are rivalries and alliances, blood oaths and betrayals. Survival cares not for bonds of brotherhood or honour. The Cold Forged has stayed true to the vows sealed in battle. Warbands of the Thousand Sons, the Night Lords and the Alpha Legion count them as valued allies and in turn have sworn to lend their blades and bolters to their cause if called upon. And there are factions of the Word Bearers, Death Guard and Emperor’s Children who have pledged them dead if ever the opportunity arises. There are also no shortages of foes from within the ranks of the IV Legion itself. Pride and paranoia make a fertile breeding ground for hatred and spite.

 

Urozna Valachd, son of Olympia, knows all too well that festering grudges inevitably find their way to open warfare when taking hold among warrior elite. That Harrakulab has borne his hatred for so long without giving it outlet is no miracle; he would never test himself against the guns of Ahriamla without an overwhelming advantage. He has always lacked the orbital firepower, the munitions for a ground assault and most importantly, the warriors required to see such an assault through to its end. Now that he has finally committed himself to razing Ahriamla can only mean that he has allies. Powerful ones. Earned through conquest? Unlikely. Harrakulab has been bleeding his strength in worthless conflicts for decades; a foe he could overwhelm would be a foe devoid of might. Diplomacy? Equally unlikely. The Warsmith lacked the charisma needed to win allies to his cause. No there was another element in the equation that had yet to make itself known.

 

Urozna may have been the designated apothecary primus but he still prided himself on the mathematical application of warfare that his Legion had made its hallmark. Standing atop one the bastions many parapets he shrugged to himself. The question of how an odious fool like Harrakulab had come by allies significant enough to threaten the Cold Forged was now irrelevant. A fleet comprising nearly a dozen ships hung in the skies raining solid munitions and beams of coherent light in a torrent onto the world below. Like the acid rain falling from the cloudless air, they were being repelled by the overlapping waves of iridescent energy forming the fortress void shields. In truth the Bombardment was little more than posturing, a grand statement of intent. The void shields had the power yield to withstand ten times the payloads being unleashed on them without approaching failing. It would take something esoteric or brutally simple to get through. The landers in the distance of the kill zone were the real worry. Thunderhawks, Storm Eagles and drop pods disgorging more troops by the second. Siege platforms and demi companies of heavy infantry were formed up with perfect precision. And then came the noise, audible even over the roaring impacts against the shields. Screaming. Hundreds of voices of every conceivable pitch and tone, drowning every vox channel in a howling cacophony of uproar. From out of the green skies, garish spectacles in hues of purple, blue, pink and colours for which no names could be found but stoked an unpleasant tingling behind the eyes.

 

Urozna clamped his Mk III helm down, it’s faceplate reforged into a perfect simulacrum of the Iron Skull. The end had arrived. Harrakulab had come and he had brought the III Legion with him.

 

 

 

Ninety one hours of crimson sprays, gun smoke and degenerate howling across the vox had done little to improve Urozna’s mood. Trevik breathes his last with the apothecary’s hands buried in his chest cavity to the bracers. Spitting out another choice Olympian curse, he removed the gene seed from his fallen brother. There were so few of them left now. The rage at it all burned as it always had. The fate of brothers is thus.

 

What had begun as a protracted shelling turned into an order less charge through the killing ground, slaves massacred by the thousands, all to ensure precious bolter rounds were expended on less worthy targets. But this was a fortress world of the IV Legion. Ammunition was never going to be a consideration. After painting fifteen square kilometres with blood, the Warp-spawn had come, drawn by the slaughter, manifesting even as the screams rose over the roaring of bolters and whining roars of lascannons. Creatures of grey and ivory flesh, dancing through the hail of rounds as if it were a leisurely stroll, claws big enough to bisect even an Astartes from shoulder to groin in place of arms. They tried simply overwhelming the outer defences before being killed to the last; though their flesh was formed from the raw power of the Warp, it was still susceptible to being blown apart by a torrent of mass reactive shells.  

 

Urozna has dwelt within the Eye of Terror for decades and has mastered his craft on battlefields for centuries. He knows that he will die, his brothers will die, the last legacy of their company wiped from the face of the galaxy. But they will make them bleed. They will leave them scarred and bitter, the thought of the Cold Forged leaving bile in the throat of this so called Warsmith and his filthy cohorts. They are IV Legion. They will fight until the ammunition is exhausted and every blade is broken. Whilst one warrior in Olympian Silver still claws breath through split lips, they will kill their enemies.

 

Harrakulab possessed enough wit to keep his heavy companies firing, the barrage did not relent until the perimeter walls were smoking craters littered with scorched rock and permacrete. He had the Cold Forged by the throat and he knew it. He had promised Ca’varth, Aldanath and Almanos the corpses of every single one of the bastards. What they did with them after he had spat on their bones, he cared not. All that mattered was their deaths and Ahriamla left in his less than tender clutches. And all possible because of Trevik’s vow-bonds with some mongrel Night Lords. Further proof, that the Lord of Iron had been right as he shaped the Legion to his ideals. Paranoia and healthy distrust between even the closest brothers kept you safe from the knives they waited to plunge into your back.

 

Who the Night Lords were or what their grudge with the three lords of the III Legion didn’t concern Harrakulab but he had detected more than a healthy dose of hatred whilst securing the aid of Emperor’s Children. They wanted to deal the VIII Legion a significant blow although he had to remind himself just how badly this would wound them. Eighty three Legionnaires is hardly a formidable number. No what was more important was Ahriamla, its vast mineral resources and location in a relatively stable area of the Eye. It was a secure place for a haven. One that would soon belong to him.

 

Within the bastion walls, a losing battle was being fought. The prime principle of defensive siege warfare is that no stronghold is unassailable, no construct raised by man’s hands impregnable. Once the tipping point of resources is breached, the battle becomes a matter of making the cost of victory as steep as possible. Urozna had barely a full squad left with him. Days of attrition had come to bear upon them with brutal inevitability. He is too tired to hurl his anger at the erstwhile brothers who attempt to slay him. It is only his spite that keeps his arm swinging and when he can loot the necessary ammunition, to crunch a fresh magazine into his bolter and try to make each round a kill shot. Gautlar sank to his knees, five holes punched through his breastplate and out the back of his armour, incredibly not detonating the power plant on his back. He glanced at the apothecary, holding out his palm. The meaning clear.

 

Urozna handed him the last of his grenades. He knew that Gautlar was looking to meet his death with a few more kill notches to his name. He also knew what was expected of him as the ranking brother left. Holding his gaze through his eye lenses, he looked at the dying warrior and simply said, “From Iron cometh Strength.”

 

The slight buzzing through the vox told him that Gaut was mumbling the remainder of the Unbreakable Litany. Calling for a fall back through the next corridor he spoke to the few he still commanded.

 

“We’ve got three hours at best. Let’s get prepared to receive our guests,”

 

Yariak chuckled wetly, not entirely able to swallow the blood welling up from his punctured lung “I only hope that it’s Harrakulab who finishes us off. Dying to those III Legion pigs is an insult too far”

 

Urozna tried to let the black humour lift him but it found no purchase in his gut. He’d let Harrakulab kill him if it meant he could spit acid into his eyes as he died.

 

 

 

Several million kilometres away in the void, a killer slowly approached. It could see eleven ships of varying classes all sitting around the world, waiting to pick its bones clean. They weren’t delivering the coup de grace; they merely sat watching resistance bleed out. There are times when observing a dying enemy, mocking the inescapable fact that death comes, is appropriate, such rich sport is to be enjoyed. But the death strike must come from one’s own hand. Winning by default is hardly winning at all. They are cowards. Carrion, nothing more. They do not appreciate the beautiful nuances of being a true killer. They are about to learn in the most horrific way imaginable.

 

The Murderer in the Gloom was a magnificent ship. It’s every angle and curve adding to its lethal splendour. It is a rare breed, the Malice class. Its design has one purpose; to cut the throat of the enemy and ward off any desperate attempts at mutual destruction. Only two classes outrank it, Gloriana and Retribution. It boasts an inordinate proportion of forward facing weaponry, one blow that the enemy cannot counter and cannot defend against because it does not see it coming. Against a single target only the very largest and well equipped ships can survive such a volley. Eleven vessels, a mixture of frigates, destroyers and only one barge? The Gloom would slice through them like a hot wind.

 

On the bridge of the mighty ship, hundreds of crew are making preparations for the kill-stroke. There is no fear, no doubt. Only cold, sharp focus and, bleeding from the overlords standing around the silver throne above the crew pits, anticipation. The master at arms is calling a long stream of numbers out. He wants clarification on the heading, the angle of approach, and the speed so his firing solutions are accurate. He takes the data in, makes several adjustments on his own console and nods once at the ship master. She in turn, faces the throne, a hungry gleam in her eye

 

“Vectors calculated and engaged my Lord. Your order?”

 

The Duke of Blades grins with all the warmth of a worm eaten corpse, his expression predatory, all hidden behind the skull on his helm. He blinks open the vox channel to encompass the whole of the ship, from the bridge to the gunnery decks and his brothers in the boarding pods.

 

“Ashrua”

 

 

Ca’varth slaughters without care. At some level deep within his soul he dimly recognises that he is killing his allies. They all wear the same dull armour. Gunmetal. Hardly worthy of a Legionnaire. He doesn’t care. Their souls will dance on his puppet strings or labour for his glory in the decades to come. Alive or dead they shall serve him. His pet daemons are also taking their fill. Desecrations mark their path through the twisting corridors. He pushes outwards with his sixth sense, seeking more playthings to slake his hunger. He has been blessed greatly by the Dark Prince; the Warp is a submissive tool at his whims. So it is he is not surprised when it blooms in his mind, giving him the clarity of the whole battlefront. What does surprise him is the bladed caress across his soul, whispering a word he knows all too well

 

Ashrua. Murder

 

Fear blazing through, his eyes snap open in time for the vox to begin screaming and the ships in orbit begin dying.

 

 

 

It’s boldly claimed that Astartes do not truly need sleep. That by being able rest their brains for long periods whilst maintaining functionality they can dispense with the practice altogether. Urozna is an apothecary primus so he knows better. He’s also tired enough to crawl into one of the countless craters littering the world below and die. But not yet. He has business first.

 

Harrakulab is on the deck before him. His arms and legs have been cut off at the ankles and wrists, then at the knees and elbows. He is being slowly hacked apart, a victim before his torturers. They are clustered around him, predators downwind of fresh blood. Seeing them gathered, Urozna envies the utter unity of their movement. They each know what the other will do, how he will act and thus act accordingly themselves. Who would have ever countenanced such a thing among the rabble of the VIII Legion.

 

The Duke of Blades stands watching impassively. He has taken no part so far but it is inevitable he will bare his blade before the sport is done. He swore to stand with Trevik. With the Warsmith’s death his vows compel him to extract retribution. Punishment of a crime has always found willing adherents in the VIII.

 

Urozna glances at the brothers he has left; eight. Seventy Five lie dead. They have nothing now, their world has been razed and the Cold Forged expunged. His introspection is interrupted by one of the Night Lords, like all of his brothers he carries a large chainglaive, skulls and flayed flesh adorn his armour.

 

“I think it’s your turn flesh-crafter.”

 

He doesn’t reply. His mind is too preoccupied with the future to pay too much attention to the words.

 

The warlord steps forwards, saving him the trouble of answering.

 

“I understand your current concerns brother. Should you consent; a place will be made available to you aboard my ship. My oath requires nothing less.”

 

Urozna eyed him. The trappings of murder chained and nailed to his armour do little to overwhelm the nobility in his scarred face. Yet caution, deeply ingrained Olympian caution made him hesitate.

 

“Why would you hold to an oath with a warrior who is now dead?” he asked.

 

The Duke of Blades gestured slowly around his elite, “Oaths matter brother. We here understand that better than perhaps any among the Nine Legions. Although I confess I am in need of an apothecary. Regardless if you wished to leave your narthecium behind I would still extend you the offer. We sail after the surviving III Legion dogs and you are welcome to run them to ground with us”

 

“An apothecary is all I am, I will stay true to that. I accept, my brothers I will leave to make their own decision. Must we take the midnight?”

 

Barbastellan looked his gaze. “Would you truly want to keep to the colours of the Legion that betrayed you? You in the IV cultivate a climate of paranoia, of being ever watchful of your brothers. But paranoia is nothing but a glorified form of fear. We know fear more intimately than any lover, we embrace, and we take it into ourselves. But we never feel its caress. That is where our brotherhood is born. We inflict fear. We do not taste its bite. Will you cling to your fear of being cast aside by the Legion that couldn’t care if you were loyal, no matter the colour of your armour? Or will you take the symbol of brotherhood we offer?”

 

Urozna hesitated for barely a heartbeat. “I will not stay with a Legion whose concept of existence is to sit and wait for an army to come and break us. I want to be the breaker. I want to see them cowering in their hovels :cussting their breeches knowing that they’re going to die and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. I want that. I accept.”

 

“Good, amongst our circle no rank is present, only within the wider company do such things matter. I am Barbastellan.”

 

The rest of the gathered Astartes followed suite.

 

“Muratsash”

 

“Liagond”

 

“Nazun”

 

“Sar Tuum”

 

“Tulak”

 

“Ophidius”

 

Urozna closed his eyes slowly, breathing away his old existence. “Urozna”

 

Barbastellan took gripped his arm, wrist to wrist. “Good. Be welcome in the gloom brother. Now you’re next lesson. What we do with those who break oaths with us.”

 

Urozna looked back Harrakulab, seeing his twitching form struggling to stay conscious despite the damage inflicted on him already with the promise of far more to come.

 

“I would like to perfect some procedures in the event we get our hands on the III Legion pigs. For that I’m going to show my dear former brother what happens when you cross an Astartes with vast anatomical knowledge and a blunt blade”