Inspirational Friday - 14/11/2014

[Tenebris]

Hello hello and welcome to another Inspirational Friday. Once again we have some really nice contributions and it shows how different are the perspectives on how looks like a chaos stronghold and what means to each frater. We have seen space hulks, shanty towns, daemon worlds, a lot of things indeed. 

 

This week's victor is Carrack and his Hell Holdfast. I have selected him for this week's award since his post is quite original, it is written from the perspective of Throne Agents, the infiltration was indeed a good touch and I liked his goal to present the various strata of society present on that world. The corruption or "silencing" of Agent Delta was just the cherry on top. 

 

Great job Carrack. Step forth and claim your reward.

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/8/friday-award.png

 

A honorable mention goes to leinmann and his Cogs of Madness because who doesn't like to read more about daemonic forge worlds, and to Cormac Airt and his world of Amentius, because... well no secret here, I love anything that has a Thousand Sons written upon it. He he. 

 

For this week I will heed the council of a frater and answer to his request. Kierdale asked me to have a special week for Inspirational Friday, so here it goes:

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 14/11/2014 - NEMESIS OF CHAOS

 

Who is the archenemy of our chaos warband, the nemesis of our lord, the main rival of our chaos host. As much as a warband is shaped by its leadership and devotion to the Dark Gods so it is shaped also by the enemies it confronts, especially if it crossed time and again the blades with their archenemy. It is this interaction, the interaction between hunter and hunter, between challenger and challenged, between life and death at the hands of a spirited enemy which molds the warband into what it is nowadays.

 

For this week's Inspirational Friday I want you to write about the archenemy of your warband, the very nemesis which has ruined time and again your plans for conquest and daemonhood. Write about the foe which stalks every movement of your warband, the foe who costed you the lives of many a warrior, of the nemesis which makes even a powerful Chaos Lord question his plans.

 

In the history of 40k there have been many such nemesis, the Inquisition, legion rivalries, fellow lords, the impressive skill of a regiment of the Imperial Guard, an astartes chapter, a xeno faction or cult. Many, many times have our warriors crossed the blades with their nemesis, many daemon princes were sent into the warp, screaming the name of the foe that felled them and many of our daemons were banished in the Warp by the intervention of a mighty foe.

 

There is no shame in loosing, it gives context and depth to our warband, to have an enemy, to have a nemesis. In short write here who this foe is, who stalks in the nightmares of your warriors, whose name is like a curse upon your lips. Tell us who your nemesis is.

 

 

 

Inspire us!

 

 

Tenebris 

[Carrack]

I'm honored to be selected, thanks. I enjoyed reading every entry last week.

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Carrack. Great work.

I couldn't get something together myself, but thoroughly enjoyed everyone else's entries. :)

 

Licks pen tip

Now for this week...

[Loesh]

Well done!

[Beachymike123]

Well done to Carrack. I enjoyed everyone's posts, but I did find yours unique in deliverance and I chuckled a bit when one of the agents arrived in the ocean. Very well deserved. Great work everyone. 

And I get a special mention? To be honest it was great to flesh out some ideas for my warband's base of operations. 

Now, a nemesis you say...

[Carrack]

Well done to Carrack. I enjoyed everyone's posts, but I did find yours unique in deliverance and I chuckled a bit when one of the agents arrived in the ocean. Very well deserved. Great work everyone.

And I get a special mention? To be honest it was great to flesh out some ideas for my warband's base of operations.

Now, a nemesis you say...

Thanks, actually only one out of the six agents survived, but if a job is worth doing its worth dying for, at least in the Inquisition.

Now decisions, decisions my Warband has made so many enemies I don't know where to begin.

[Warsmith Aznable]

I've known that my Warsmith's enemy would have to be a Dark Apostle for a long time, but I've never really thought about who or how until tonight. So here's a story I wrote about their first meeting.

 

 

 

 

Nekalaer the sorcerer strode through the ruins of the city, his honor guard trailing. The chosen few of his Black Legion warband moved quickly but tactically, bounding from cover to cover with their weapons tracking for threats. For his part Nekalaer moved boldly down the center of the street with complete scorn for any would be assassins. He carried no weapon, armed only with his arrogance and his staff of office. Psychically sensitive to his mood and his situation, it buzzed in his hand as his group approached the designated coordinates: a plaza surrounded by the collapsed ruins of government buildings.

“Contact.”

Nekalaer was annoyed that his chosen had not spotted the Iron Warriors before the group walked into their kill box, but he refused to let this perturbation show. He counted four heavy bolters and at least two plasma guns, each well placed for a deadly crossfire, but what mattered was that there were no more than the ten space marines agreed upon. Down the sweeping steps of the former planetary governor’s office an Iron Warrior in imposing Terminator armour lumbered toward him. They met in the middle of the plaza, two lone warlords, their honor guards crouched among cover glaring at one another over down the sights of their weapons. For a moment the two sized each other up, saying nothing.

“Warsmith Barnabas.” Nekalaer raised his chin, pretending to study the insignia and trophies adorning the Warsmith’s ancient Cataphractii armour. “Your forces are ready for this parlay?”

“Yes.” Barnabas, unlike Nekalaer, had opted to remain helmeted for the encounter. The Iron Warrior stood like a fortress before the Black Legionnaire. After another uneasy moment between the two he added, “You are not Lord Kalamynthras.”

“No.” Nekalaer admitted, waving the question away. “Lord Kalamynthras was called to a more important matter. I am here in his place. Is this a problem?”

“No.” Barnabas turned his entire bulk to gain a better view of the Black Legion honour guard across the plaza. After a moment he nodded almost imperceptibly. “This is within the limits of the agreement. You second the Word Bearer?”

“Unless he does something stupid, yes.” Nekalaer leaned on his staff as if the whole situation bored him, which to some extent it did. “I’m here because the Dark Apostle burned through a dozen favors from my master. Between you and me I’m wondering if I did something to annoy Lord Kalamynthras.”

The Iron Warrior did not respond to the jest.

“So this Warsmith Bolverk is a friend of yours?” Nekalaer asked, searching for a way to pass the time.

Barnabas appeared to hesitate, the servos of his armour faintly whining as his posture shifted. This was enough to satisfy Nekalaer’s curiosity, but eventually the Warsmith did answer.

“I only knew him by reputation before he contacted me for this.” Barnabas said.

“And you are willing to guarantee his safety?” Nekalaer pressed.

“I am.” Barnabas said dismissively. “The details are not important. I am invested enough to carry through with the parlay agreement, even if it comes to shooting.”

“Well then,” Nekalaer smiled conspiratorially. “The Dark Apostle had better not offend anyone.”

“This is him?” Barnabas gestured past Nekalaur’s shoulder and he turned to look. Dark Apostle Harnak approached. As per the agreement, the Dark Apostle had one space marine with him. His body guard was clearly possessed to an advanced degree, a hulking thing of elongated limbs and claws leering stupidly at the assemblage with a drooling, fang filled maw. For all that, the possessed marine moved with a certain composure that the Dark Apostle did not. Harnak paced forward, fingers clenching and unclenching, a mass of prayer scrolls fluttering as he did. He was bare headed, covered with the usual tattooed excerpts of the Word, but these were scarred in a vicious crisscross pattern. As the Dark Apostle’s furious gaze finally focused on Nekalaer and Barnabas both of the warlords unconsciously shifted into subtle defensive stances.

“Oh yes.” Nekalaer said, frowning at the approaching Word Bearer. “Get your man here so we can get this over with.”

“Where is that whoreson?” The Dark Apostle demanded as soon as he was within conversational range of the two. “He is coming? You said he would be here! I want to spit in his face! I want him to hear this from my own lips, to see his face when he understands!”

“Calm your man.” Barnabas growled.

“Dark Apostle,” Nekalaer adopted the tone his own master used to lecture misbehaving underlings. “We agreed to second you in a parlay. Break the protocol and we will leave you to sort it out with the Warsmiths.”

“Just vox the coward in.” Harnak lowered his voice, speaking through clenched teeth. His fury was restrained, though he looked as if he might literally explode. The Dark Apostle turned his back on the two warlords and began pacing, muttering quietly in a dark language no one else there could comprehend.

They didn’t have to wait long. Barnabas shifted his bulk again, not-so-subtly placing himself between the new figures approaching and the irate Word Bearer. The Dark Apostle stopped his pacing and made to move forward, but Nekalaer raised a hand, causing him to stop.

Warsmith Bolverk wore no armour, only a long black robe with a flowing orange cloak wrapped over one shoulder. At his side trotted a very large wire haired wolfhound. He had no other bodyguard and was apparently unarmed. His grey beard was divided into two thick braids, though one was already beginning to unravel, and whomever had raked his hair into a semblance of order would have been disappointed at the wild halo it had become in the short time it had taken him to walk from the lander to the plaza.

“Brother... Cousin...” Bolverk acknowledged Barnabas and Nekalaer respectively with a nod of his head to each one. He stood squarely opposite the Word Bearer and openly sized him up, but made no other acknowledgment of his presence or speak to him.

“You come here with nothing but a canine?” Harnak blurted, a mixture of incredulity and affront. “I will drape that animal’s hide from my backpack!”

“Calm your man.” Barnabas repeated to Nekalaer.

“I sincerely hope that wasn’t what you came here to say.” Nekalaer sighed.

Dark Apostle Harnak turned away and paced for a moment. When he once again faced the parlay he was much more in control of his raging emotions. The wolfhound sitting at Bolverk’s feet growled and edged closer to its master. The Dark Apostle smiled a predator’s grin that matched that of his possessed marine’s razored maw in spirit if not in material.

“Warsmith Bolverk.” Harnak hammered each syllable like a nail. “The True Gods have blessed me with the task of your undoing.”

“If you wanted a fight we needn’t have bothered with all of...” Bolverk waved his hand at the plaza and the parlay guarantors. “...this.”

“It is not a fight I have been tasked with.” The Dark Apostle spread his arms to sermonize. The anger and hatred previously shaking his body replaced with rapturous zeal. “You hear but do not listen. I am your unmaking. Look around you. We are surrounded by meaning.”

To Nekalaer’s surprise Bolverk did look around. Driven by curiosity he did so too. He halfway expected some daemonic trap to spring, breaking the parlay truce in a maddened assassination attempt. But there was nothing around but the long dead remains of a razed Imperial world’s capital.

“Am I supposed to know this place?” Bolverk asked after a while.

“You are the arrogant pretender, you tell me.” Harnak laughed. “Interpret this illusion, master.”

“You are mocking me.” Bolverk frowned at Harnak.

“I am.” Harnak smiled in return.

“It doesn’t matter.” Bolverk said dismissively. “I just don’t see the connexion between the two of us. There’s nothing personal; I don’t know you. You’re trying to play into my appreciation of drama with this contrived scenario, but without something personal between us there isn’t the tension needed to make this interesting.”

“This is only the beginning.” The Dark Apostle’s anger once again edged back into his voice. “The next time we meet face to face it will be very personal. I am guided by the True Gods, whose wrath you have earned with your filthy philosophies and perversions of the Eightfold Path! I am your personal confessor, Warsmith! You sin against the Primordial Truth, and I will make you understand your heresies and come to abhor them. I will accept your recantation, and I will absolve you with the mercy of the True Gods! I am not here to fight you. I am here to announce your salvation! I will become a plague to your existence. I will follow your path through the galaxy, and I will unmake you and your falsehoods! I will tear down whatever you build! I will burn whatever you write! I will gouge the eyes from whomever reads your writings! I will burn the ears of whomever hears your words! I will tear out the tongues of whomever speaks your name with reverence or repeats your words with awe! I am the hammer that will smash your idols! I am the poison of your-”

“You listen, but you do not comprehend.” Bolverk said calmly, cutting off the Dark Apostle in mid rant. “Clearly you have read some of my writings. Enough to mock me with my own words, but not enough to have grasped them. If you were one of my students called to essay I would have you whipped for wasting my time, then have your tutor whipped for wasting yours.”

“I think we can safely declare this parlay at an end.” Nekalaer thumped his staff on the broken pavement a few times. “Warsmith?”

“I have one more thing to say.” Harnak interjected.

“Say it, and let this be done.” Barnabas said tersely. “Or spring your trap and betray the parlay so I can break your neck and quiet your hysterical rambling.”

“Warsmith Bolverk.” Harnak tittered for a bit before regaining his composure to continue. “The cataloguing of your sins has already begun. The first were written in the great library of Mo’ndaro Secundus. Review them at your leisure...”

The Dark Apostle retrieved a phylactery from among the artefacts on his belt and cast it in the center of the assembled warlords. It clattered on the stones of the plaza and the leather lid flapped open. A pile of ashes tumbled out, a puff of smoke-like debris curling upward.

Nekalaer’s staff vibrated in his grip, and he instantly reacted to the warning it provided.

“Back!” The Black Legion sorcerer placed one hand on the cackling Word Bearer’s chest and shoved him away from the Iron Warriors. His other hand held out his staff horizontally, placing it between himself and the two warsmiths.

Barnabas took a step in and leveled an ornate meltapistol at the sorcerer and the priest, but held his fire. The body guards in the defensive overwatch positions all kept stock still, knowing the sudden tension could break into a ruinous firefight with the slightest misstep, trusting their superiors to act first if the truce was going to break.

Bolverk stood staring down at the ashes scattered before his feet. His wolfhound slowly backed away from him, its wary gaze moving between its own master and the Dark Apostle.

“The grand library...” Bolverk breathed as he knelt down and scooped up a handful of the dark ashes. The ashes poured through his fingers and curled away on the breeze, some of it staining his orange robe.

Bolverk slowly stood. Nekalaer, psychic senses flaring, could literally see the anger radiating from the Warsmith. Outwardly Bolkverk was calm, but roiling waves of hatred disturbed the thin layer of warp that touched the empyrean in this location. Visible only to the eyes of warp spawn and those gifted with the Sight, Bolverk was a furnace of emotion.

The possessed Word Bearer that served as Harnak’s bodyguard extended its claws and crouched next to his master, who howled with laughter.

“Steady.” Nekalaer hissed at the possessed marine.

“Calm your man.” Barnabas warned again. He gestured with his pistol “If I have to say it again, I will say it with a melta blast.”

“Are you finished?” Nekalaer pointed at the cackling Harnak. When the Dark Apostle didn’t immediately answer, he stepped toward him and thumped his staff on the ground. He was very close to losing his patience. “Are you finished!”

“I have announced my intentions and delivered the Word of the True Gods to this wayward sheep.” Haranak pulled his bodyguard back behind himself. “But I am not finished. I am only getting started.”

“This parlay is at an end!” Nekalaer stood firm between the Word Bearer and the Iron Warriors in what he hoped was an commanding pose. “Agree with me Barnabas.”

“Come, brother.” Barnabas placed an armoured gauntlet on Bolverk’s shoulder. “The parlay is ended. We will escort you to your lighter.”

Nekalaer watched Barnabas lead the quietly furious Bolverk out of the plaza, the Iron Warriors bodyguards moving to surround and cover them as they left, the wolfhound dutifully loping alongside its master. His own Black Legion chosen repositioned to encircle the plaza and move in tighter to the Nekalaer.

“Well you have his attention, no mistaking that.” Nekalaer said once he was completely sure the Iron Warriors weren’t just retreating to drop a very large artillery shell on them. “Was it worth everything you now owe the Black Legion?”

“You know nothing.” The Dark Apostle turned his back on the sorcerer and stalked off without further comment. The possessed marine bounded after him. Nekalaer was glad to see them all gone. He briefly considered killing the Word Bearer out of spite, but without knowing exactly what Lord Kalamynthras had extorted from the Dark Apostle to grant this guarantor of parlay he knew he could not safely murder the arrogant bastard. Yet.

“Waste of my time.”

 

[Dizzyeye01]

*Cracks fingers* Right here we go, the opposition of the Blade Breakers, known as the Ghosts of Istvaan. Will probably explain them later but for now, here's a teaser

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“So Abbadon is the new Warmaster?” began Elladris

The traitors had decided to meet on the burned ruins of an Imperial world. This particular area was once the square close to the former Governors’ Palace, now a symbol of ruin. Statues of Imperial heroes were broken and toppled, eyes scratched away and ash sprinkled the area. A group of five Black Legionnaires clad in black and red stood with weapons clad in their hands, their leader Shailyn at the head. Opposite them stood five warriors clad in mixed ashen grey armour with terror marks on their helmets, a stone coldness radiating from them.

“He leads the Black Legion, Elladris. Members from every Legion have been flocking to his cause,” started Shailyn, pacing around the ruined floor, his steps echoed throughout the square “World Eater, Thousand Sons, all who have common sense have forsaken their former legion and joined him. To oppose him means death.”

“And so your point becomes clear,” replied Elladris flatly, “You wish me to swear loyalty to him, to the Legion I left behind.”

“We are -not- the Sons of Horus Elladris,” called Shailyn aggressively, taking a step towards him and jabbing a finger at him, “We have a purpose: destroy the Imperium and kill the false Emperor. Horus was weak and could have killed him when he had the chance.”

“Kill for the living, kill for the dead,” stated Elladris, “That was our purpose when we were Wolves Shailyn. We turned from the brightest Legion the Imperium knew to a bunch of slaughterers howling praise to Gods. You are pawns now, nothing more, nothing less.”

The Black Legionnaires raised their weapons at Elladris, the talks moving onto the edge of a blade. Shailyn raised his hand, stopping his men from firing, “Elladris, I come here today to offer you a chance to survive, facing against the Black Legion is suicide and you’ll only die in fruitless agon-”

“Remove your helmet.”

“Why? So you can shoot it out?” replied Shailyn

Elladris merely shrugged his shoulder; the chatter of vox could be heard slightly. The Black Legionnaires, thinking this a trap, raised their weapons in anger. Before they could pull the trigger however, shots echoed out from seemingly nowhere, silencing the Black Legionnaires and letting them tumbled to the ground, most dead apart from Shailyn who was bleeding out from a shot to the chest. Elladris closed on him as the rest of the outcasts finished of the Legionnaires and dragged their bodies away. He drew his knife out and activated it, a flash of blue flashing out from the hilt. Using his other hand he grabbed hold of the traitors’ helmet and tore it off, revealing the deception at hand. Shailyn had never been planet-side at all; instead a decoy was here, dying where he should have.

Elladris gave a sigh, stabbing the knife into the traitors’ arm, “Listen well. When your master comes, tell him we remember all he has done. Tell him that those he has betrayed, forgotten and abandoned have not died and are now coming for his blood.”

[Carrack]

The Ragged Cardinal

Cardinal Weaver should have been finished. Not only did he loose his congregation, the entire world of Frederic III, but he lost them to damnation at the hands of the sons of mankind's most hated traitor. If this alone wasn't enough to finish his ecclesiastic ambitions, it was well known that he fled his parish before resistance to the Black Legion had ended. This should have marked him as a coward and at best left him cloistered in some lesser monastery to finish his days in penance, at worst, trial before an unforgiving ecclesiastic court. To make matters worse, Cardinal Weaver was the second son of a merchant house on Frederic III, not of noble blood, not destined for greatness, even considered an upstart to have ruled as a prince of the Ecclisiarchy. What should have ruined, incarcerated, or even burned Cardinal Weaver, saw him rise to heights rarely achieved by a man of such station.

 

Cardinal Weaver fled the fall of Frederic III on a lowly coal hauler that was evacuating the worthies before the might of Lord Carrack's invasion force. After a turbulent and humbling voyage the disgraced Cardinal finally docked in the Sub Sector seat Siliquastrum, a teaming hive world. While the other surviving worthies fled to the estates of cousins and allies, Cardinal Weaver disembarked and immediately made for the worker hab blocks of the Red Hive. For 37 days he preached to the masses with great fervor, denying himself food, wine and all but the shortest of rests. His sermons and oratory captivated the workers who at first came out just to see a cardinal, their own cardinal rarely seen outside of the highest of society. Weaver preached penance and self mortification through fire and the scourge, but the message of all of his sermons was that of crusade. Crusade to take back Frederic III from the Black Legion who now named it Hell Holdfast.

 

The fab workers, drones, and even gangers of the lower hives fervently followed the Cardinal's message which began to be disseminated throughout the Red Hive and broadcasted in several other hives on Siliquastrum. The Factorums began to fear seditious worker organization would be the outcome of Cardinal Weaver's movement, and some donated large offerings to the movement in order to placate their workers new found zealotry. Others saw this as blackmail and plead their case to the nobles, and their own reigning Cardinal, Cardinal Reginaldo IX. Although their investigations proved these fears baseless, they were still cautious.

 

This is when Administration Adeptus Clovis stepped in with a plan for Cardinal Weaver. Adeptus Clovis had foreseen declining tithe grades in the lower manufactorums of Red Hive and a few other hives due to deteriorating equipment and a decreasing labor pool of skilled workers holding any prime skill level or higher. Clovis estimated that within the next fifty years all of these manufactorums would be mothballed and the surplus workers would cause social unrest. The Lord Governor of Siliquastrum concurred with Adeptus Clovis and launched several foundings of Imperial Guard regiments formed from these workers and had Cardinal Weaver's Crusade officially sanctioned.

 

Cardinal Weaver was then elevated out of the worker habs and moving in the high society of the sub sector court. Here Weaver gained the support of the rogue trader Barnus, who was eager to prove his faith after suffering the scrutiny of the Ordo Xenon, and pledged the service of his merchant fleet in the coming Cardinal Weaver Crusade. He also was able to win the support of other influential allies including Inquisitor Ignacio and Brother Captain Karl of the Angels of Immolation chapter.

 

A mere four years after the fall of Frederic III, the Cardinal Weaver Crusade was launched. The plan of attack called for a link up of the Imperial Guard regiments carried by Rogue Trader Barnus's fleet and the crusade strike force from Battle Fleet Siliquastrum, as well as the Astartes Strike Cruiser Pyromania. This link up was set for the primary translation point in the Fewod system. From there the crusade could make the short jump to the Frederic system and arrive in better fleet cohesion for the planetary assault.

 

Disaster struck. Lord Carrack's grand cruiser Bitter Revenge, along with a large school of escort vessels, some Black Legion, some belonging to smaller Chaos Astartes warbands, and some ragged renegade pirate raiders were waiting at the translation point. Which they had heavily mined. As the crusade vessels staggered into the system they were taken apart piecemeal. The Bitter Revenge would sit back at extreme range striking the incoming vessels with its lances as the mines forced the Imperial captains to risk massive damage or slowly navigate out of the danger zone. Meanwhile the speedy and maneuverable frigates and destroyers would make dancing attack runs through the mine field and make precision attacks on the hobbled vessels, much the way a pack of wolves wear down a much larger prey animal.

 

Few Imperial vessels survived the Battle of Fewod. From Battle Fleet Similquastum, two light cruisers, a tender, and a frigate escaped with minimal damage. These ships all had inexperienced or inferior navigators whom missed the translation point by a sufficient distance to clear the minefield and subsequently flee. The Astartes Strike Cruiser Pyromania, feigned damage until a pirate raider, Left Hand, made an attack run, once the Left Hand had closed, Pyromania launched thunderhawks and quickly seized the ship and set it on a suicide run clearing a path of egress through the minefield for the Space Marines to safely translate to the Ether and escape. Trader Barnus screened his flagship, an up engined, under gunned cruiser with his merchantmen, who were conveying 16 regiments of the Emperor's Hammer. Protected from the Bitter Revenge's lethal lances, Barnus swiftly maneuvered his flagship through the minefield and jumped to the warp. Barnus carried Cardinal Weaver on board, who was the spiritual figurehead for the crusade, but due to the Decree Passive, not in command. It is said by the few loyalist, and the many traitors who survived Fewod, that the graceful maneuvering of Barnus helmsman through the minefield at full speed would have been a thing of legend had it not been an inglorious retreat and covered by the callous sacrifice of the guardsmen he was tasked with safely conveying to battle.

 

Fault for the disaster of Fewod has been publicly placed on spies for Lord Carrack believed to have infiltrated the Rogue Trader Barnus's network and found the plan for the Fewod link up. In truth though, Cardinal Weaver had made more enemies then friends in Simiquastrum's court and many nobles and bishops were eager to see the populist cardinal fail. Some suspect that jealousy may have sunken one courtier so low that he betrayed the crusade to Lord Carrack.

 

What is known is that Cardinal Weaver (and Barnus) was unseen in civilized Imperial space for a decade when the twice failed priest returned to Simiquastrum. The sub sector court and the Cardinal Reginaldo IX wanted Weaver divested of position and authority, censured, and possibly tried in ecclesiastic court. However, the humbled cardinal had immediately sought refuge in the palace of Inquisitor Ignacio and was unassailable there. The cardinal was not seen in public for almost another decade, and it was rumored that he had fallen upon his sword, it was certainly suggested that he do so by many of his rivals and even some of his allies.

 

When Cardinal Weaver did finally make a public appearance it shocked all who formerly knew the handsome young prince of the Ecclisiarchy. He was emaciated, hunched and prematurely aged. Years of penance, prodigious fasting, and self flagellation had ruined his health and appearance. He looked more of a maddened beggar than the one time spiritual leader of a world. Equally shocking to his appearance was his company as he approached a podium set up for Martyrs Remembrance Day festivities. For alongside the Cardinal and Inquisitor Ignacio, was an Angel of Death in black power armor and white cross. Marshal Clarence of the Black Templars. Marshal Clarence had agreed to lead his brethren against Lord Carrack and the flames of the Cardinal Weaver Crusade were rekindled.

The Black Templars are obtuse when questioned on how many Astartes participate in any given crusade, but Marshal Clarence commanded his Knights from the battle barge, Sword of Terra, flanked by a pair of strike cruisers, certainly a formidable force. Marshal Clarence plan to bring the Emperor's Wrath to Lord Carrack was called Operation Chevauchee. The Marshal knew he had naval superiority, but insufficient ground forces to impregnate the Hell Holdfast of Frederic III, which the Black Legion had been fortifying for 24 years. He instead planned to cut the direct lines of supply between Frederic III and the Eye of Terror, harrow the lesser conquests of Lord Carrack's warband, and engage in scorched earth tactics upon Imperial lands that Lord Carrack frequently and successfully raided. This last part of the plan was understandably unpopular among the local rulers and the sub sector court, but the Marshal did not answer to these mortals and deemed it militarily necessary. The overall goal of Operation Chevauchee was to draw out Lord Carrack so he could be defeated in space or brought to battle on a more favorable field.

 

Operation Chevauchee has been on going for 12 years. Some of this time is due to the vagaries of warp travel. Marshal Clarence has yet to bring Lord Carrack into a major engagement as he wishes. However, he has halted Lord Carrack's advances away from the Eye and denied him easy plunder. Marshal Clarence's zeal eclipses his patience and he grows ever bolder in his raids, hoping to leave Lord Carrack with no choice but to engage him on less than favorable terms.

 

Cardinal Weaver may never again walk the halls of the Siliquastrum court, but he has taken once again to walking danker and simpler halls. He preaches in barns to farmers on dusty agri worlds. He preaches on contested street corners in underhive hab blocks. Sometimes he preaches openly, sometimes with a great red hood concealing his features. The popular anonymous tract "Nourished by Hatred" is believed to be penned by Cardinal Weaver. In the wake of Cardinal Weaver's passing, Frateris Militias form and the lines at the Guard recruitment stations swell.

 

One man, undaunted by failure, unbroken by defeat, consumed by revenge, has proven a greater threat to Lord Carrack than any other enemy.

[Soldier of Dorn]

The Land Raider Fulgrim Ascendant made its perilous way across the battlefield of a daemon world, the bones of fallen Astartes grinding beneath its treads, as it traversed the treacherous terrain. Within it, through a gauzy haze of intoxicating incense, lounging upon a throne crafted from the flesh of six willing supplicants to the Dark Prince, sat Lord Erubiel Venturos the Exultation, Commander of the Emperor’s Children, Eternal King of the Ch’leshos Expanse, Regalius of the L’shami Duveshi, the eternally blessed of Lady Slaanesh.

 

‘Sensorium, current status of the rest of the spearhead. Now.’ The Exultation rarely deigned to speak, as he did now, but when he honoured his subjects with the sound of his voice, an answer was always expected from them. The Astartes at the sensorium looked up.

 

‘Tis of no use, my liege. The dust is interfering with the array. I cannot get a locus-lock.’

 

‘What is thy name, my brother?’

 

‘Caledos, my lord.’

 

‘Caledos… Yes...’ The Exultation felt the unfamiliar name upon his tongue, as he stroked the head of the daemonic familiar at the foot of his throne. Finally, he spoke once more.

 

‘Caledos, you have failed me. You bring shame to your family. You bring shame to the warband of L’shami Duveshi. But most importantly, you bring shame to me. And thusly, you bring death upon yourself. You know what you must do.’

 

The disgraced Astartes knelt in response to this statement as the Exultation raised his bolt pistol at the Space Marine’s head.

 

There was a thunderous retort as the bolt pistol was fired, and then another peal of thunder as a missile impacted upon the flank of the Land Raider, rocking it from side to side.

 

‘Contact, my liege!’ screamed one of the Exultation’s personal guard.

 

‘I can see that, you simpering fool! Move out! Find who did this!’

 

At that moment, there was a crackle of scrapcode as the vox of the sensorium switched on.

 

‘Get of Fulgrim. Your ending has come. Your brothers lie dying. The Forge will have your Souls today. For we shall find our absolution through your deletion. Our retribution, through your annihilation.’

 

The Exultation screamed out in desperation as the roof of the Land Raider was torn off by the hulking form of a Dreadnought, barely visible through the dust and haze. His bodyguard were killed by a torrent of flame washing out from the war machine’s arm. And then, suddenly, the goliath turned awayed.

 

Praised be to the Dark Prince. The Exultation thought. No sooner had the prayer crossed his mind that he heard the sound of gears and a single set of heavy steps filled the broken chassis of the Land Raider.

 

‘No doubt, Emperor’s Child, that you are praising your patron god, for your deliverance. It is not to be. Not today. I have commanded the Ancient to leave one for me, so that I might have my personal vengeance for my father. The one you killed. The one your father killed. You know who I am.’

 

Of course the Exultation knew. He spat the name out with disgust.

 

‘Iron Hand.’

 

Iron-Lord Ormann Duhk, Lord of the Soul Forge, inclined his head in affirmation.

 

‘But your Legion stayed loyal, son of Manus. How are you here, in the core-hold of Chaos?’

 

‘We are loyal, betrayer. Loyal to the memory of our father. Loyal enough to follow you into the mouth of Hades and beyond, in our thirst for revenge. Loyal enough to pledge our lives to a daemonic patron, in exchange for bloody retribution.’

 

The Tenth Legionnaire took a melta bomb from the strap upon his waist, pinning it with a blade to the Exultation’s chest. Then he turned away.

 

The screams of rage followed Duhk as he walked away from the destroyed Land Raider. But he didn’t look back. He could not, for pity was of the flesh, and the flesh was weakness.

[Tenebris]

In the archives of the Arrogant Sons there are numerous references about past conflicts, rivalries and vendettas, most are documented in great detail, enshrined in the collective memory of the warband. Most of this "incidents" came to be as reprisals for wars lost and won, for the actions of other Black Legion warbands or for the nature of politics between the legions of old. In the archives there are citations like the Battle of the Black Suns which has seen the Arrogant Sons fight their cousins from the Word Bearer legion, other, more esoteric fonts speak of the Seven Rebukes of Galagam, a series of battles with the hosts of a powerful Nurgle daemon prince and his scores of daemons, but the dubious honor of nemesis is bestowed upon the Circle of Jade, a powerful group of psykers in the Imperium of Man.

 

The Circle of Jade is a brotherhood of psykers and psychically talented individuals spread across the majority of the imperial institutions. It is a hermetic which sees in the psychic potential of the human species an opportunity for elevation, for evolution, a step closer to the perfection of the Emperor himself. The Circle of Jade came to be on the distant moon of Hedanre in the Celenas subsector, a remote region in the Ultima Segmentum, a protectorate of the Ultramarines Space Marine Chapter. The propagator of this organization was none other than Lord Inquisitor Helmut Valadan, a powerful psyker on his own right and one of the major exponents of the Ordo Hereticus. Lord Valadan has acted as the proctor for countless generations of psykers taken by the infamous Black Ships, his treaties on the psychic gifts as well as his work in the scholams of the Ordo Psykana have seen him elevated as one of the most learned psykers in the Imperium of Man and an advocate for the psychic mutants across the Imperium.

 

Needless to say many institutions across the Imperium of Man declared the works of this luminary as heretic texts but the backing of the Astra Telephatica and Ordo Psykana prevented any reprisals against this learned Inquisitor. The idea behind the Circle of Jade is to harness the psychic potential of the human race, to provide a structure for all the psykers in the Imperium and to search for the most talented individuals the species produces. Under the Circle of Jade hundreds of Astrotelephatic nodes were established, Guilds of Scryers and Diviners were given a legal warrant and many clandestine psychic groups were sanctioned by the infamous Litera of Jade, the codex which presented a template for imperial sanctioned guilds of psykers. 

 

Now this minor guilds were mostly orders of charlatans or latent psykers, all bound by the brutal imperial law and enslaved to the Throne via the Litera. The document which had the power to unshackle the human species form superstition and antiquate laws was interpreted in the following centuries into a set of imperial laws which were incredibly ruthless and harsh even for the sanctioned psychic orders, in short the noble ideal behind the Litera of Jade was manipulated by the prime exponents of the imperial legislature into an instrument which placed even more chains of the psykers than they had before. 

 

All this was observed by the Arrogant Sons, or in particular by the sorcerers of the Thousand Sons legion. Initially Lord Tenebris and many of his contemporaries have seen the creation of the Circle of Jade as an opportunity to exploit and in a certain way a laudable achievement for the imperial law, but soon the instrumentation of the Litera by the imperial regime made it unbearable. Centuries have passed since Lord Valadan took the podium before the Inquisitorial Conclave on Naramos Secundus, there he spoke of his vision for the human race, about the potential locked within the psychic mutants and how even the Emperor is a psyker, the most powerful psyker of the human species and how this is a step of evolution to be taken by the species. His words were heeded, many imperial orders supported the noble goal of the Inquisitor but while the Litera was accepted, its creation was perverted by the imperial agencies and the goals of the Circle of Jade unraveled into the exploitation of the worst sort.

 

Backed by the imperial law and with the resources of the various agencies the Circle of Jade came to be a powerful hermetic order spread across the length of the imperial institutions. The most ruthless and talented are recruited in the Circle where they become agents for the order, their goal simple, command as many psychic resources as they can. Thus, as centuries passed, the mandate of the Circle of Jade became its drive only to be perverted into something sinister and dangerous for the species. The agents of the Circle are tasked with the acquisition of psychic individuals, the harnessing of psychic energies for the creation of doomsday weapons as well as a sector wide effort in the purge of any psykers who are not in line with their vision. 

 

This actions made from the Circle of Jade one of the most powerful groups in the Imperium, it is rumored that the order has the backing of a Psi-Titan Legion as well as countless bonded Astropaths. Battle Psykers are some of the most common agents of the Circle and many a battle plan was demanded and executed by this psyker lords of the Imperium. It bears to say that the Circle of Jade was never a clandestine organization, especially since it has the backing of powerful patrons but they still tend to hide their motives from the other imperial institutions. In time a vast hoard of psychic resources was gathered by the Circle but its true victory was the perversion of the Litera for their own nefarious needs, giving them unimpeded access to most of the sanctioned and not psyker guilds across the Imperium of Man. This unopposed power and control has seen countless psyker enclaves destroyed, highly powerful individuals taken for the Circle and untold numbers of psyker mutants destroyed in the creation of mighty weapons for the Imperium. 

 

All this did not sit well with many sorcerers of the XVth legion and several have made an enemy of the Circle of Jade. The agents of the Circle are hunted in the many warband operations, raids on Black Ships have been escalating in the last centuries and entire enclaves of psykers are given the protection of the sorcerer-warriors of the Thousand Sons. The Arrogant Sons, or truth be told, their inner circle joined this battle of wits and psychic power raging in the shadows and many actions of the warband were instrumental in the destruction of the Circle of Jade assets. Yet despite the animosity between the two factions thing turned bloody and sour when on Sartus VII the Circle of Jade unleashed the titans of legio Castrocanis, the "Castrators", a vicious legion bonded to the Ordo Psykana, upon the warbands of the Black Legion who were fighting for the world in question. The destruction that followed was apocalyptic but the true affront was when Lady Inquisitor Baleana Dartis sanctioned the use of the "Soul-Reaper" warheads which proceeded to scour the soul from over two hundred legionnaires in five brief and agonizing seconds. Most of the legionnaires in question were Rubicae, never to be returned in their power armor forms, never again to be returned in the brotherhood of dust and ashes of the Thousand Sons. 

 

It was this action and this action alone which almost destroyed the Arrogant Sons since a dozen sorcerers have lost their souls and a score of Rubicae, the enforcers for the conclave, were utterly destroyed in body and soul. The power vacuum which resulted followed into a brief series of skirmishes in the warband and came close to destroy the balance within this black brotherhood. In the end, the faction of Lord Tenebris prevailed again and order was restored, but at the same time the name Circle of Jade was written upon the living memory scrolls in the archives of the Arrogant Sons and an edict was proclaimed by the Coven, death to the Circle of Jade, death to the Reapers of Souls, death to them and their lackeys. Thus the conflict between the Circle of Jade and many covens of the Thousand Sons and other chaos warbands escalated with the Arrogant Sons spearheading the effort of vindication. 

[Kierdale]

The path to damnation is paved with good intentions

- ancient Terran aphorism.

Though it was good intentions which brought the Eldar of craftworld Carth-Lar into contact with the astartes chapter then known as the Stygian Guard, autarch Qarasion would discover that it was all too late...

 

 

 

Farseer Emrana sat, back straight, legs folded beneath him, his witchblade resting on the grass by his side. A crystal bowl lay before him, the water within clear. Final, miniscule, almost imperceptible tremors still rippled across its surface from its pouring almost an hour earlier. Yet still he waited, until it was perfectly calm.

When the surface was at last truly as glass, the alien witch raised his right fist and opened it before the bowl, palm up, to reveal a pile of small wraithbone runes.

The watcher, stood off to one side, gave a curt nod but voiced no command lest it disturb the farseer or the water.

As if connected by an invisible thread, the runes levitated from the witch’s palm like a chain, across to hover above the water, gently orbiting over its surface.

Emrana, his attention focused on the runes and their reflection within the water, closed his eyes, giving no acknowledgement to the other.

Minutes passed as she watched the kneeling farseer. Their race was known for its composure, but Qarasion’s patience was beginning to grow thin. There were matters she had to attend to. Communiques from their colonies: Mesusid, Viarphia and their sister worlds, training regimes to supervise, an offer of trade from well-meaning aliens to prepare security for...she suppressed a sigh, calling upon ataractic meditation techniques she had learned during her time with the followers of Karandras. Emrana had always served her well and there was no reason his visions would lead her astray this time. That he had requested her before initiating the divination told her how serious he judged the premontions.

Through his mind’s eye Emrana watched the runes: small, smooth edged chips of wraithbone engraved with various devices, the meaning of which depended upon their angle and aspect. He watched their reflection as images began to form within the water encircled by the spinning runes. At first they were fleeting, only visible in the periphery, vanishing like ghosts if he tried to gaze upon them directly, but with time they became stronger.

He saw a world of the Mon Keigh teeming with life. His vision swept down through the clouds as he was drawn into the trance. Across their ugly, angular cities belching forth a noxious pall. But such revulsion was soon eclipsed by pure terror as the nature of the Mon Keigh there became apparent. Pleasure cults, ritual scarification, orgies and blasphemies more. To a man all were thralls of She Who Must Not Be Named. Cults exalting her myriad aspects were a scourge upon their society. A scourge they welcomed. Emrana’s scorn with tinged with pity that the lesser race so eagerly followed in the cursed footsteps of his own.

Emrana tried to pull back, to withdraw from the trance but, even exerting his formidable willpower he found himself unable. His vision was pulled skyward as the welkin was rent by fire.

Qarasion tilted her head as she saw sweat bead upon the farseer’s furrowed brow. She quietly lowered herself to her haunches so as to give herself a better view of his features, though dared not interrupt the trance from outside. Had Emrana not known she was present, her movements were so smooth and silent he could not have noticed.

Mon Keigh strode from the fireballs as they impacted upon the surface of the world of cults. No, not Mon Keigh but the Mon Keigh’s super warriors. Those `enhanced` brutes. Adeptus Astartes. These were clad in amour that made them as tanks, and they strode through the heretics slaying with cold impunity.

Emrana’s heart settled. He was no habitué of violence, though all of his race could unleash great killing power when necessary, indeed all were willing to take up arms, and to see the slaughter of those who had fallen under the sway of the Great Serpent buoyed his spirits.

But time accelerated and the killing took on a dark aspect. It became protracted. The warriors began to enjoy, nay revel, in the bloodshed.

He felt the touch of the Lord of Rage.

Why had the runes chosen to show him these events? The sparring of two of the infernal pantheon gaming with their pawns.

Soon came more of the Astartes, lighter of armour yet clad in the same colours. Shock at the actions of their kin. Orders to rein in the butchering disobeyed.

And the newcomers too began to fight the cultists. Souls bled into the warp in their millions.

Emrana willed the vision to accelerate, to pass, but fate would show him what it desired before it released him.

The warriors began to mimic those they sought to slay. Their youngest - their scouts - began to infiltrate the cults and bring them down from within, stepping from charnel houses tainted and carrying trophies. The corruption spread.

By the time the two factions met in the house of the planet’s arch-heretic, those who now served the Lord of Skulls found there was little to distinguish their kin from their enemy, so adorned and depraved they had become.

As their leaders clashed over the corpse of the magus, Emrana’s vision closed in on the sigil upon their pauldrons: an ivory skull set over canted scythes, back to back.

He reeled as the emblem melted and ran, solidifying again as the icon of The Great Enemy.

Like a drowning man breaking the surface, Emrana sucked in air noisily as he came out of the trance, falling forward, his flailing arms knocking the bowl aside, scattering the runes across the sward. Qarasion’s hand was soon on his shoulder, firm yet warm. Her other took his hands and helped him to his feet. His body quivered with withdrawal and the impact of what he had seen.

Her strong fingers brought up his chin. Her eyes questioned.

“I bid you ready your fleet, autarch,” he said, reaching a shaking hand up to wipe blood from the side of his mouth.

She did it for him, nodded and kissed him fully. When next they would have time, neither knew.

 

 

It was farsee Emrana, consort of autarch Qarasion, who alerted Carth-Lar to the fall of the Stygian Guard astartes chapter. The leaders of the craftworld, Qarasion observing silently, questioned why they should venture forth into the realm of Man. Some argued that while the Imperium was a weak race and quick to violence, there were elements within it that opposed the infernal powers albeit with blunt means and low intellect. Could they not be contacted by agents of the craftworld and left to deal with the problems of their genetic abominations? It was then that the autarch stepped forward to stand by the farseer and gave a grand speech, a vitriolic speech, shaming those who called it a problem for others to deal with. For too long the Eldar of Carth-Lar had steered their world clear of peril. Was She Who Must Not Be Named not a product of their own excess? If it was anyone’s problem to deal with then whose but the Eldar’s? She stared down the dissenters, directly accusing others of not having taken up a catapult in far too long.

“We realize that you grow lethargic yet refuse to relinquish your role, autarch Qarasion,” a counsellor noted, “perhaps stepping up your training regimes will use up some of that excess energy?”

“After all,” another put in, “the best blades are those left sheathed, no?”

“In which case the arm grows weak and feeble,” Qarasion countered, “I would rather blunt that blade -break it, even- laying waste to our enemies.”

“You may well get your wish.”

And thus, led by Qarasion’s own void stalker, Spear of Redemption lead a fleet of Carth-Lar’s warships to the homeworld of the astartes chapter identified as those in farseer Emrana’s vision: the Stygian Guard and the planet Fulcrum. A mission of peace, bringing a warning backed up by force.

 

 

A shiver ran through Charon’s hull as the Stygian Guard flagship decanted from the warp, tearing the fabric of reality wide as the battle barge returned. Dozens more battleships and support vessels followed it, casting eddies of unreal light from their Gellar Fields as they made the transition and aligned their prows toward their next target: their homeworld of Fulcrum.

Chapter master Sophusar shifted in his command throne upon the bridge, the smell of its new leather upholstery rich in his nostrils. That admiral Biltooda had shunned the enlightenment offered by chaplain Angra had been unfortunate, but not completely fruitless. As he stood he ran his armoured fingers over the man’s face, orifices stitched shut, now lining the backrest of the throne.

Angra, always at his side, smiled and bowed, receiving a nod in return.

The Stygian Guard had had a veil lifted from their eyes upon Cyprius III. They had been shown the error of their ways. No longer did they deny themselves their human emotions as they once had, believing they could serve better without the shackles of sentiment, affection, anger and fervor. Now they embraced it all and more.

Immediately tocsin sounded throughout the astartes ships.

 

The vagaries of warp travel or a cruel twist of fate, none would ever know the reason but the Eldar had arrived too late. Toying, dancing around the planetary defence force vessels, the aliens immediately broadcast their warning to avoid `the planet of cults` as soon as the astartes arrived. Ignoring the alien hails as they approached closer and closer, the astartes finally answered, autarch Qarasion and farseer Emrana at once realizing their mission was ill-fated when they saw the visage of the astartes aboard the Charon. Their twisted features, the symbols adorning their armour.

A fearsome warrior yet ever the pragmatist, Qarasion - against Emrana’s urging to attack the renegades so soon after their corruption lest it grow worse - ordered the retreat, broadcasting one final message as her vessels fled the system.

A grin spread across chapter master Sophusar’s face as he received the translation of the alien tongue. His chapter had a new name.

“Master, they say we are doomed. Harvesters of souls. Psychopomps.”

 

 

Veteran of three aspects and more centuries of warfare than she would rather remember, Qarasion knew that to assault the renegade astartes upon their homeworld was suicide. Who knew what gifts they had been granted by their dark master? She did not know enough to act decisively. Their mercy mission failed, ships lost and even captured during the flight, she vowed that the craftworld would observe the Psychopomps and, like the scorpion, strike when the time was right.

 

Qarasion read with relief the reports from her scouts when the corruption on Fulcrum -which had spread and worsened- had been discovered by the Imperium. She also felt more than a little chagrin, the craftworld council having suggested such a course. The scouts watched as agents of the inquisition first infiltrated the planet, then aided Black Templar astartes in assaulting it. Believing the superhuman zealots would complete her mission for her, she ordered the scouts to withdraw too soon...

 

 

It was not until years later that, aided by their daemonic allies, the Psychopomps once more crossed paths with the Eldar of Carth-Lar with the discovery of one of their colonies: the maiden world of Mesusid. Like their cousins on Biel-Tan, Carth-Lar sought to rebuild their empire though, lacking the resources of the other craft world, the work was slow and thus each world cherished all the greater.

Though the majority of the Eldar on Mesusid were gardeners tending to the planet’s terraforming into a paradise, when the Psychopomp raiding force swept down from orbit all took up weapons as is their species’ way. It was fortunate that there were two squads each of striking scorpions and swooping hawks, the latter lead by an exarch and the former late of Qarasion’s own command, stationed on the colony. Fortunate, though forlorn as the colonists and warrior were eventually all wiped out or captured.

 

While the populace of Carth-Lar mourned the loss of one of their precious hopes for the future, and many questioned why Qarasion had not struck when they believed she had had the chance (Emrana holding his tongue and supporting her publicly while speaking freely to the contrary within their chambers), Qarasion quashed her grief and ignored calls for her to once again step down. Now, more than ever, she believed Carth-Lar needed an autarch. Her spirits, though bowed, were strengthened by the mute support of the craftworld’s exarchs: none would volunteer to replace her. She was a warrior of old and the centuries of her world’s peace - it’s all too careful guidance from harm by the seers – had not dulled her tactician’s mind.

There were immediately calls of sacrilege when she ordered the location of Mesusid leaked to the Imperium. Many protested that surely the world could be salvaged, cleansed of the foul taint left by the rituals which had been carried out there in the battle’s wake. It could be turned into a shrineworld, dedicated to those who had perished, but Qarasion realized that not knowing where the renegades would next strike, it would benefit them more to have the Imperium’s more numerous agents on the Psychopomp’s trail too.

The council reminded her that they had recommended leaving the renegades to Imperial retribution, to which she countered that the Imperium had failed to finish the job on Fulcrum: there were no guarantees they would succeed again. What she proposed was not relying on the humans but using them.

Emrana and his seers were ordered to scour what the immaterium could tell them of the renegades’ location.

The rangers were dispatched.

And then she waited.

 

 

Over the following years rumours of their quarry’s movements came in fragments, some proving worthless and others fruitful: a Psychopomp supply raid on the Mechanicum planet of Alceforge being fought not only by the renegade astartes, their daemonic allies and cult forces against those of the machine-lords but also by Eldar rangers and aspect warriors sniping, hunting in the shadows and assassinating those they could while remaining undiscovered by both sides.

Several times squads of platoons, hunkering down in cover as the chaos space marines advanced, looked up as the enemy’s guns fell silent, to discover their foes dismembered, their killers already disappeared into the shadows.

Other times Eldar vessels appeared from the void just in time to save Imperial convoys from the Psychopomp’s reaver ships, pulverizing them until no life signs remained then departing, ignoring all hails.

Yet not all went to Qarasion’s plans. The enemy was a quick learner and they soon laid their own traps. Small scouting parties of renegade marines were ambushed only for fiends from beyond the veil to step into reality and come to their aid, cackling and wailing as they tore apart the Eldar.

Another time the Eldar found themselves tricked when the Psychopomps did not make a rumoured strike on a small rogue trader fleet; the wraithships decanting into realspace to find the convoy they intended to (indirectly) save was in fact a loyalist Fleet battlegroup, which opened fire upon the xenos vessels immediately.

 

 

Eventually it became apparent that the Psychopomps were searching for more maiden worlds: raiding Imperial survey vessels and rogue trader houses for cartographical data.

Splitting the craftworld’s armed forces across their remaining dozen colonies would merely see them slaughtered.

Even dear Emrana tearfully opposed her when Qarasion made her plan known to the seer council.

“I plan to take our full complement of aspect warriors, warships and as many guardians as will volunteer, to confront the enemy on Viarphia, whose location they know.”

Gasps of shock when up throughout the hall.

“How?” “How can this be?” “How do they know?” asked many of her assembled kith and kin.

Emrana, realizing the answer, shook his head in sorrow, his jaw clenched.

“I have seen to it that they discover it”, came his beloved’s answer.

Qarasion’s thundering heartbeat drowned out the cries of anguish, the calls of heresy, treason, madness.

She would end matters on the maiden world of Viarphia, or likely her life would be forfeit.

Wraithbone fragments littered the streets. Domes collapsed, minarets toppled, statues defaced. The renegades took particular delight in this last act: decorating their armour and vehicles with the faces of Eldar heroes of old. Many Eldar taken alive - none willingly for all knew what fate awaited them - saw their own faces removed and used likewise.

The Psychopomps’ ground forces had driven their way into the colony’s largest city while the starships of both sides dueled in orbit overhead.

Qarasion cursed the seers, Emrana included. They had forbidden all non-aspect warriors from accompanying her on her heretical mission. They had in fact forbidden all of Carth-Lar from assisting her and had stripped her of her command, but the exarchs had laid their weapons before her. The exarchs of Carth-Lar were ruled by their autarch whether she still bore that title or not, rather than the seer council.

While the seers and others had shouted and protested the assembling of the craftworld’s warriors, Qarasion had somehow snuck her ace aboard the Spear of Redemption.

Thus she crouched atop the temple at the heart of the city alongside her senior exarchs, observing and coordinating their forces as the bastard pawns of The Great Enemy pushed closer. She had learned great patience during her time in the Dire Avengers, but still she shifted her grip on her biting blade.

She looked out, beyond the temple to the meadows and the snow-capped mountains far off.

“We will save this world.” Said the Banshee at her side, following but misreading her gaze.

“I was remembering when I was but a greenskeeper,” Qarasion spoke quietly.

The Banshee, Iuseri, gave a low chuckle, “That must have been long, long ago. I have never known you without a blade, my autarch.”

Always close, Iuseri with her jade helm and scarlet mane. They had shared battlefield upon battlefield, both preferring close combat, though different in aspect.

“I think now I miss it.”

Iuseri thought she heard her commander sniff.

“You could have had peace at any time, my autarch. The council has always tried - despite your wiles - to steer the craftworld away from danger, to calm space, new worlds to nurture,” Iuseri shook her head a fraction and continued, her voice warmer. Qarasion could tell the banshee was smiling, “but such is not your nature.”

“Such is not our nature. It should not be. Not since the fall.”

“You once taught me - how many centuries ago? - never to regret missed opportunities, nor targets. I took this opportunity,” the banshee said.

“And we will forever be in your debt.”

“You think they will reach the temple, my autarch?” asked Iuseri at her side.

“If the fates are with us, no.” She replied with a smile at Iuseri’s use of her old title, turning her head to face the other exarch briefly, “just make sure the others are prepared. Make sure he is ready.”

Iuseri nodded and retreated within, sparing Qarasion five final words. “Thank you for choosing me.”

Explosions echoed through the twisting, once-beautiful streets. The hiss of rockets, the hard bangs made by the brutal weapons of the corrupt astartes. Then there was the screaming.

Qarasion swore it was the cry of her own race, yet even the shriek of the Banshee could only shake one’s spirit. The weapons bore by some of the enemy seemed to magnify the horrific sound into a weapon. It screamed, making unprotected ears bleed, and when the sound impacted it shattered that which it struck with a thunderous bass tone which even from afar could be felt within the rib cage.

But all fell silent as the tide approached the temple. Qarasion had ordered her aspect warriors to delay the enemy as best they could, but not to throw down their lives on her account. They retreated in the direction of the temple.

From the arterial streets before her hiding place poured a rabble of creatures, a riot of colour. Pastel-hued Psychopomps adorned with horns, top-knots and intricate carvings on the plates of their armour, cultists pierced with chains and needles, hulking mechanical beasts with the hearts of daemons. Qarasion spat a curse when she saw the bodies of her own people crucified to the backs of the infernal machines, and others held tight to the hulls of tanks by vividly coloured tentacles bulging and extruding from hatches. Then came a gaggle of what appeared to be humans embracing one another, bodies entwined in lurid poses more befitting a tome of carnal pursuits than a battlefield.

The cacophony grew silent as a large figure pushed its way forward, and Qarasion descended into the temple.

Sophusar, lord of the dance, the great harlequin amongst his many sobriquets, chapter master no more, strode into the xenos temple. He was clad in a suit of ancient terminator armour, now decorated with daemonic visages, myriad colours and fell iconography topped with pipes and vents akin to an organ in the fanes of Old Earth’s archaic religions. His grip shifted on the haft of his weapon: a great axe twice the height of a man, topped with a rounded blade flanked by curved prongs to the fore, a crescent spike to the rear: in the shape of Slaanesh’s own blessed symbol. Without a helmet, more than half of his face was masked in black leather, his mouth covered by a brass grill, his exposed scalp blemished with circular scars from trepanation. Wires and tubes flowed from his mask back over his head into his armour.

He cast his gaze over the ornately carved walls, depicting scenes from the xenos’ mythology. A story he had learned, and enjoyed. A harvest goddess coupling with a hunter gave birth two twin brothers who begot an entire race. Gifted by the gods with wisdom, love, artifice, joy, desire, foresight and anger.

The next panel showed a maiden envisioning the young race overthrowing their own god of war. A towering figure dripping blood and carrying a huge spear, the god turned upon the harvest goddess’ children...the mother petitioning a greater god to intercede...the killing ceased...a mother divided from her children, secretly consorting with them via stones.

This was an image Sophusar recognized. The stones. Repositories for the souls of the Eldar. His daemonic servants thirsted greatly for these treasures, and rightly so: he too had been introduced to their consumption. A mind-blowing experience one never forgot, and henceforth lusted to repeat.

The war god discovered the harvest goddess’ deception - this brought a smile to his face under his mask - and the harvester and hunter couple were given to the war god. Tortured.

A plea for mercy. A bargain for arms by a smith god. Deception…

His gaze reached the staircase leading up to a portal beyond which lay the central chamber of the temple. Stood atop the steps was a slender warrior clad in dark armour of greens and blues with a tall helmet. It both resembled and yet was distinctly different from that worn by the warriors he and his warband had faced on their way through the city, though unmistakably Eldar and, by the mould of the armour, female. A pair of swords were sheathed at her waist, a shuriken weapon built into her left gauntlet.

“At last we meet,” Sophusar called out to the waiting figure.

The xenos commander tilted her head to one side, regarding the bastardised Astarte before her.

“Oh, I know about you. Not all your scouts got home, did they?” the chaos lord chuckled. “You’ve been hunting me.”

Qarasion finally spoke. “You lead us on a merry dance. A bloody one at that.” Her Gothic was clear, unaccented.

Sophusar’s armour creaked as he executed an elaborate bow, settling his boot upon the first step.

“As I understand it, I’ve your kind to thank for my...emancipation. It was your kind, was it not, who gave birth to Slaanesh?”

Qarasion grimaced at that foul word spoken so freely.

“What decadent debaucheries you sick bastards must have committed. I almost wish I’d been there. Were you?”

Qarasion held her tongue and slowed her breathing as her enemy climbed higher.

“No offense, my dear, an alien’s age is so difficult to judge. Tell me, do you age well?”

She slipped her biting blade from its sheath and engaged it, the teeth roaring to life. His axe had the greater reach, but he would be slowed by its weight and his armour. “You know nothing of us.”

“Oh? I beg to differ. We captured a fair few of your crews when we first met. More since. I must admit Eldar brain matter is quite an acquired taste. Mentally nourishing if not physically.” He tapped a finger to his temple and then motioned toward the frieze upon the walls. He stepped closer and she drew a second blade, differing from the first in that this was a solid blade rather than a chainsword. A spirit stone was imbedded within the weapon’s hilt. Sophusar knew of these weapons. Direswords. The spirit within would try to destroy his own should it injure him. Oh to consume that very spirit himself!

He looked up from the point of that weapon to its wielder.

“Killing you is but a means to an end. Removing yet another of She Who Must Not Be Named’s pawns.”

“Hardly a mere pawn, but that aside...you’re familiar with regicide?”

“I am. And as all good players know, the strongest piece is the queen!”

Before she had finished speaking the blade was in motion, drawing back rather than being driven forward, with the attack coming surprisingly from the chainblade in her other hand.

“Slaanesh!” Sophusar spat as he hastily brought up the shaft of his axe in a two-handed grip to block, still advancing toward her. “Why don’t you people ever use her name? She knows your name, Qarasion -“

Qarasion struck again and again, each blow blocked by the axe haft, though after each blow she was forced to retreat a step, back toward the central chamber. Their weapons locked, power fields arcing wildly, chainblade teeth sparking, Qarasion putting all her strength into holding him back. With a twist of her wrist she sent a flurry of shuriken from her gauntlet’s catapult up her enemy’s gorget and into his face. Sophusar staggered backwards, a cry of pain and exhilaration escaping the grill set over his mouth, his eyes dilating like onyx marbles.

Qarasion fled.

“Oh yes, she does. She asked for your soul. But you’ll suffer, bitch,” he wiped the already congealing blood from his face and followed the retreating Eldar through the portal, “before the end.”

There was a terrifying scream from within the darkness beyond.

 

Inside was black, and hot. Something dripped, slowly, and there was a low chanting, the sounds echoing about the chamber.

Qarasion noiselessly ran across the room, its layout etched into her memory, and ducked behind the hot central plinth where another two exarchs awaited her, reciting battle hymns.

She joined them in their incantations.

She nodded and silently climbed atop the plinth, the heat almost unbearable even within her armour.

Sophusar advanced slowly toward the center of the room, the source of the heat and the sound. There was a dull red glow there.

A figure stepped before that glow and he recognized the silhouette. Qarasion.

“What is this place?” he demanded.

“Welcome,” she shouted, “to the house of Khaine!” that last word echoed though the cavernous halls and she stepped away quickly.

The horn-like vents atop the terminator lord’s armour blared as she dove aside, the blast wave catching her and casting her across the room. But she was no longer the focus of his attention when Sophusar witnessed the towering figure that emerged from the glow at the chamber’s center. A living god’s resting place, hastily stolen from its holy place aboard the craftworld...a noble, willing sacrifice nominated and given. The being of molten lava and scorching iron strode forth, a look of purest hatred on its face as it beheld the chaos lord...

[Chronotonic]

"Everyone around me dies, I joined the Legion to help people, but my mother was right everything she said about me was right, what happens to those people.  I joined our legion to help people, to make the galaxy a better place.  Instead I've only brought suffering and death.” 

 

Brother Tar Loc looks up at his fellow night lord and says. “So what you mean to tell me brother is your plan is to sit here and hide and hopefully die alone?” 

 

The Night Lord looks at him and says, “What else can I do Brother?”

 

“You Atone you dumb :cuss.”  Brother Tar Loc says to the young Night Lord

 

“HOW?  TELL ME HOW I CAN ATONE FOR WHAT I'VE DONE?”   The younger Night Lord yells at the veteran.

 

“This might sound crazy little brother, but hear me out.”  Brother Specialist steps closer and puts his arm around his brother Night Lords shoulder and waves his hand through the air as he says “A killing spree.”