Tales from the Pandora-war M41

[SchultzChaos]

Hello! 
Me and my gaming group is about to start with a narrative campaign after new year, and we've all been havin' pre-battles determining the start of the campaign and set the theme for our story.
I thought that should re-post my own stories here just for creative feedback and hopefully some good talk about 40k lore and whotnot in general!
The story so far focus on the system wide war that took place within the borders of the Pandora-system, where all hell broke lose after the Space Wolves Chapter was attacked by the Black Templars and the Celestial Crusaders Chapters. A warp storm with
a malign purpose has entered the system together with a sizeable fleet of Chaos-marauders, and in the storm's wake follows all kind of glory seekers and warmongers. I will be the group leader/storyteller for the Chaos faction, and the rogue faction of
the Celestial Crusaders and their allies. If there is an interest in it I will ask my mates to post their stories too! 

At least here's my first story. It follows the defeat of the Celestial Crusaders and the Black Templars as they assaulted what Imperial records will proclaim unprovoced the fenrisian warriors of the Old Wolf himself upon the planet of Protunus Prime.

Celestial Crusaders, Act: 0
[+++ : Pandora System, Orbit – Shrine World – Protunus Prime. + The Unwavering Martyr– Battlebarge. : +++]

Alexandros leaned back on his onyx throne, his face masked by the darkness that cradled his command deck like a funeral veil. Ship serfs robed in saffron went on with their daily routines, checking modules screeching with data streams and - after a few minutes of analyzing - bringing that information to their Astartes overseers. The command deck was a nest of activity, as mortals and servitor slaves alike tried to process the ongoing Crusade. The darkness that had infested the deck was here and there broken by the green lights of flashing screens and incoming data streams. Amongst the mortals a few Astartes lingered, eying them with contempt and distaste. After Asphodel IV no mortal would ever more gain the true trust of the Crusaders. No, instead the Astartes were suspicious even around their own servants. For the human crew this day was no different from the day before, and the day before that – just another twelve hours shift. For the Astartes this was a day that they would remember. 

Perched around the Tyrant’s throne a council of Crusaders had gathered. They had all joined their Master after the battle, debriefing on their own engagements. Captains, Veteran Sergeants, Chaplains, Techmarines and Apothecaries all had gathered to the Tyrant’s call. The demeanor of the gathering was solemn and bitter. Many of the warriors were clad in the Chapter’s sermon garments, their armours in such a state of repair that their personal thralls would be busy trying to undo the damage done to them for months. The banner bearers of the Companies stood just outside the circle of warriors, and held their flags high in honour of the Chapter – even though some were missing. 
Closest to the Chapter Master stood High Chaplain Richaldus, still bearing his armour fresh from the battle. Craters from bolter rounds and cracks from bearded axes adorned the Chaplain’s armour in a measure of almost holy significance. He still wore his death mask, its red eye lenses the only radiating light from his otherwise dark form. Thalamakos eyed him respectfully, with his arms still crossed over his chest. He too still adorned his battle armour, though in stark contrast it was still newly painted and undamaged. It still ached within Thalamakos that the Honour Guard had not descended on the battlefield together with his liege. They had all prepared for the assault, the personal guard of Chapter Master Craster and a squad of Knights of Sigismund. They had readied themselves in the teleportation chamber, their oaths of the moment still freshly attached to their pauldrons and their vows still ongoing – when a messenger from the Astra Infinita had reached them. The message was bleak and grim.

---MARSHAL NICHOLAS LOST. FENRISIAN TERMINTOR DETACHMENT DEPLOYED. SPEARHEAD ASSAULT IMMINENT. REQUESTING TACTICAL WITHDRAWAL. PRIMARY OBJECTIVES LOST---

It had come from the Stavrophoian himself, and that meant it was serious. The Chapter Master had roared in frustration, hurling his fist at the closest wall. Though he regained his composure quickly, Thalamakos had seen the dangerous mood festering upon his Lord. No one of the Honour Guard could still that bitterness, so Thalamakos and his brothers had just given the Chapter Master the wide width his temper needed. Alexandros had after a couple of seconds ordered the messenger to carry a new message to Tactical Command, and his words had burnt within Thalamakos with shame and anger.
“Order full retreat.”

It had been done. The Celestial Crusaders had fled, leaving their allied Black Templars to fight a struggling rear guard while Dorn’s warriors escaped up to orbit. It did not sit well for Thalamakos to abandon their cousins like that, not with the history between the Chapters. Thalamakos had been there – when he had still called himself an Imperial Fist – during the Achilus Crusade. He and the 5th Battle Company had been there fighting together with the Templars, then such as now led by Alexandros. Now their Chapter turned their backs to their old allies, and it felt almost sacrilege. He would have to speak with the High Chaplain after the aftermath council.
“So. Casualties?” asked their liege with the growling voice of a true son of Dorn.
“The Old Wolf’s rabble alone accounted for almost a company’s worth of slain and wounded.” answered First Captain Agapetos. He still wore his modified mark III Iron armour, splattered with blood and soot. "And the Templars took even a harder hit than we did. Many of them lie scattered in pieces upon the planet."
“In total we can expect almost two hundred dead or wounded from our own assault on the planet.” Chief Apothecary Photios filled in, while consulting his arm-attached data screen. “Their numbers will take approximately six months to regain with our current stream of recruits.” 
Alexandros nodded and stared towards Richaldus. 
“Let our martyred brothers be an inspiration to us all.” the Chapter Master solemnly announced to his gathered warriors.
“ONLY THROUGH CLEANSING OF FLESH MAY THOU REDEEM THOU ETERNAL SPIRIT!” roared the High Chaplain, his amplified vox-caster carrying his monstrous voice all over the command deck.
The gathered Crusaders bowed before him and answered:
“ONLY THROUGH ZEALOUS SCARIFICATION MAY THINE SINS WASH AWAY!”
Alexandros bowed his head before the Chaplain, inclining that he understood his weakness and would amend to it. Thalamakos couldn’t help himself as his body started to shake in anticipation for the touch of ‘the purge’. He would rip his back into ribbons before his purification would be done.
“Only though faith unquestioned and hatred in mind may the Great Crusade carry on.” a new voice proclaimed, ending the traditional Crusader sermon before Richaldus could utter the words.
The gathering turned their heads towards the sound of heavy ceremite clanking over the deck floor. A figure clad in an unknown power armour mark marched up to the onyx throne, carrying himself with the posture worthy of a predator. Over his helm a Captain’s Crest could be seen, though the warrior did not owe command over any of the Chapter’s twenty five companies. He was robed in a dark sea-grass green robe, covering his torso and legs, and from his belt an ornate sword of some ancient design hanged. Its pommel was the shape of a roaring terran lion’s head. The gathered Crusaders gave the newcomer a wave of glaring gazes, no one greeting him as he joined the council. The Stavrophoian bowed before Alexandros and Richaldus, before making the sign of the aquila and martyred Dorn before the rest of the Astartes.
“You have an explanation to make, Outsider.” growled Captain of the Third Honoured Battle Company Megundii. 
“I saw Veteran Squad Kletos die around you, as you foolishly attacked the rear lines of the Wolf’s throng. How come you survived? Didn’t the Fell Handed himself attack your position?” asked Captain of the Sixth Battle Company Plato. 
The Stavrophoian inclined his head towards both the Captains and gestured towards a gruesome tear in his breastplate. Blood had clotted around the wound, and it smelled of burnt meat. 
“No one escapes the Fell Handed unscathed, for he is truly ancient in the art of battle and war.” the Stavrophoian answered with a mild tone.
“Yet you escaped where others did not.” Thalamakos pointed out.
“Well, I have a few tricks for situations like this that I rarely use. But today was a time when I had to break my discretion about them.” the Stavrophoian’s red eye lenses moved over to the Honour Guard, and Thalamakos could almost feel the outsider’s eyes focus on him – trying to dig into his mind. 
There was contempt – or at least a mark of irritation – behind the helmet, and Thalamakos nodded to that, satisfied that he had upset the Astartes.
“Tell me what we gained here, honoured Stavrophoian. This was your plan after all, and your defeat. You were the one to make the claim about the Wolves’ heresy, and Grimnar’s threat towards my Chapter.” Alexandros broke through the stare off between the outsider and his Honour Guard. “Or is my memory clouded?”
“No, my liege.” the Stavrophoian answered calmly and broke off from his stare. “And I know that this is a defeat that lies heavily upon my shoulders. Our dead brothers-“
“THEY WERE NOT YOUR BROTHERS!” roared Megundii clenching a fist upon the hilt of his blade.
Alexandros gestured with a finger towards the Third Captain, and the warrior bowed immediately before his Master.
“I know that most of you have a compelled hatred towards me, an outsider. An interloper.” the Stavrophoian’s voice was full of remorse, and many of the battle-brothers gathered around the onyx throne started to ease their aggressive stances. “I don’t want to take that from you. Your suspicion makes you stronger. But do not for a second believe that I don’t grieve for those that die for our Chapter, that I won’t see the faces of the warriors that died under my command, haunting me during my meditation.” 
Every warrior was now quiet and listening to the Chapter Master’s closest councillor, the dangerous mood almost completely vaporized. Thalamakos cast a glance towards the High Chaplain, and saw that Richaldus had come to the same conclusion that the Honour Guard had: the Stavrophoian played the gathering like a bard plays a harp. 
“But make no mistake. My point still stands about the Wolves and their presence within our neighbouring system. They are heretics most foul.” the outsider eyed every warrior in turn, and let his gaze rest upon the Chapter Master himself. “They use witchery and sorcery, and their price? Mutation. You all saw it down on the battlefield, their witches casting powers that wrecked weather and sky. You all saw the mutants in their midst – more beasts and no more His angels. Grimnar allows this, and his reign has only made the Fenrisians more feral than ever before. We MUST stop him before his forces are swallowed by the Reaper Storm and consumed by the malign powers that infect this system at this very moment!” 
“And yet for their heresy we could not stop them.” snorted Alexandros. “Grimnar will think me weak for not approaching him on the battlefield.”
Many of the gathered Astartes voiced their disapproval of their liege’s harsh words against himself, but the Stavrophoian was unflinched.
“To fight a coven of witches, you have to resort to means beyond our reach. We are strong in the image of Dorn, but we were not crafted to kill this kind of witch.”
“Then who is?” growled First Captain Agapetos.
“They, my friends. They.” the Stavrophoian gestured towards the shadows from which he had entered. 
The funeral veil of darkness around the command deck broke for a second, as three figures powered up their dormant Aegis tactical dreadnought armours. How the guests had arrived onboard the battle barge the Unwavering Martyr no one knew, least of all Thalamakos. But the shining silver armour proclaimed their presence just as much as the insignia on their breasts. It was simple, yet so monstrously infamous in the realm of the Imperium. It was the letter I.


----------------

[servitor Omega-34Cv15 establishing secure hailing]
-----SUCCESSFUL CONNECTION------
++INITIATING LINK++
“Greetings, Voice.”
“Hail to you, my learnian friend.”
“You are daring to contact me by these means.”
“Some things are worth the trouble.”
“Now you’re just a scoundrel, trying to peak my interest and all.”
“Are we alone?”
“We are never alone.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t play dumb.”
“It’s only you and me.”
“Good.”
“So what has changed?”
“You heard?”
“About the Old Wolf? Absolutely. His company’s signature is quite hard to hide.”
“We failed in our primary objective, but succeeded in our secondary.”
“The game has changed, and with it our goals.”
“The Old Wolf won’t be a problem?”
“Not in the end game, no.”
“I trust that you gathered what you wanted from the engagement?”
“Yes.”
“Something you want to share?”
“No.”
“You know we are on the same side, right?”
“...”
“Right?”
“Yes, Voice. We know.”
“Good. Now, about the Old Wolf and his location.”
“Why in Terra’s name is he called ‘Old’? It’s not like carries the same stature as Russ.”
“He is called ‘Old’ because we are not in their loop. You know that. Don’t change the subject.”
“Change is all that we stand for.”
“That melodrama? Really?”
“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”
“Their location? The Tyrant is on the move and hungry for more bloodshed. We can’t let the embers die just yet.”
“You’re speaking the obvious.”
“So give me their damned location!”
“You have brought an outside party in to the game.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t check with us.”
“Damn you all and your wounded pride!”
“You didn’t have any clearance to bring in an outside party.”
“They are just as misguided as the sons of Dorn.”
“They might be a problem in the end game. They have clues about the King.”
“Which they will never be able to play out, trapped in a merciless war against the fenrisians.”
“You might have compromised the whole campaign by electing to give them space to move within our borders.”
“I can handle it.”
“We hope so, Voice.”
“Tell me the Old Wolf’s location, so I can carry on with my mission!”
“This is not like you.”
“What?”
“You’re acting emotional.”
“I... met an old friend.”
“During?”
“The engagement.”
“Oh for frekk’s sake...”
“I think he recognised me.”
“And now you bring in more players to the game?”
“They will be the pawn we need to counter their sorceries. You know I made the right choice.”
“How did you figure?”
“Aren’t we speaking?”
“Touché.”
“Come on now. Give me the damned dog’s primary location!”
“We’ve already sent it to you. It will arrive shortly.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“...”
“One other thing.”
“What?”
“Magnus’ offsprings travelled through the Tear to one of our worlds.”
“WHAT?!”
“Yes.”
“Reports?”
“The King interfered.”
“Reports?”
“We don’t know more.”
“You’re sure you’re not just withholding information?”
“...”
“Good to have you as allies.”
“Sarcasm does not befit you, Voice:”
“My cloak is deep.”
“That it is.”
“And the Sons? Are they a problem?”
“No. Either they will be brought to the fold, or they will simply be eradicated.”
“I trust your words.”
“Indeed.”
“My time is up. I’ll not contact you on this channel again.”
“Goes without saying.”
“Let us hope that your plan with the Wolf succeeds.”
“Why shouldn’t it?”
“You tell me.”
“...”
“...”
“Good luck on you mission, cousin.”
“And you, my friend.”
“Hydra dominatus.”
“Hydra dominatus.”
++DROPPING LINK++
-----CONNECTION LOST------
[servitor Omega-34Cv15 powering down]

[SchultzChaos]

Celestial Crusaders, Act: 0.1 
[+++ : Pandora System, Void Space + The Unwavering Martyr– Battlebarge. : +++]

He found Richaldus later up on what had once been the public observation deck. A thousand stars shone outside the domed glass celing, and Thalamakos stopped for a second imagining them all being a part of the Imperium of Mankind – His Immortal Realm. It was hard not being awed by such a sight or getting lost in its infinite boundaries. The Reclusiarch stood still armoured in his terminator plate, chipped and broken from contact with one too many bolter shells, his skull-faced helmet leering with the artery red lenses shifting from the plinth he stood before towards Thalamakos. The Honour Guard had never been able to read the Reclusiarch, neither through body language nor his tone of voice. As always the Chaplain looked unbroken, even after such a big defeat as the Battle of Protunus. Thalamakos knew that the ancient Astartes had seen his own fair share of defeats from his long service to the God-Emperor and Rogal Dorn, and that only by drenching yourself in rightful hatred towards the enemies of the Imperium did you remain unsoiled from such experiences. Maybe the only thing that sustained Richaldus through all these years was hatred and anger, nothing else capable of touching him?

The Unwavering Martyr hummed in the background still licking her wounds from the recent void battle, lending a feeling of careful chanting to an already mighty chamber. After their founding the Crusaders had re-constructed the observation deck into a cathedral devoted to the Chapter’s history and battles, and Thalamakos knew that Richaldus seldom wandered to any other place onboard the ship than here. The Chaplain Brotherhood had taken it upon themselves to care for the vault of the Chapter’s memories, and Richaldus was ever vigil in his duty. He nodded once to Thalamakos as he wandered over to stand beside him, a respect that filled the Honour Guard with warmth towards his once Company Chaplain, now leader of the Chapter’s combined brotherhood of Chaplains. 
“Your thoughts?” growled the ivory skull through hidden vox-speakers, making Thalamakos thinking of those Inwit predators hiding beneath the southern ice marshes of his home village.
“About?” he answered, trying to hide the creeping smile.
“Don’t try to be charming with me, boy.”
“’Boy’? I’m older than most of this Chapter!” Thalamakos blurted out in laughter.
“And still you are by far younger than I.” the Reclusiarch retorted and turned his gaze back to the plinth.
“I think that this is a huge mistake.” Thalamakos said finally. “I think we are doing something that may not only be harmful to us, but also to His Imperium.”
“You’re saying that your Chapter Master is foolish in his actions?” a hint of threatening violence resonated from the skull-face.
“I would die for him.” Thalamakos answered without hesitation. “I would follow his orders even if they carried me into the deepest pits of the Eye!”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I…” the Honour Guard tried to answer, unwilling to end the sentence. “don’t think our actions are that prudent anymore.”
“We all knew what would become of us after we decided to form our Chapter, and decided to break from the Codex.”
“Yes, but I never thought that we would be fighting our own allies.”
“Have the Wolves ever been our allies?”
“Maybe not, but never the less they fight under the banner of the Aquila.” Thalamakos grunted and stared hard at the Reclusiarch. “Are you defending what happened on Protunus?”
“I am this Chapter’s spiritual voice and one of the advisors to our Chapter Master.” Richaldus answered. “I am loyal.”
“So you need me to speak the words you know you can’t utter?”
Richaldus answered him by turning his crimson lenses towards the Honour Guard. 
“Sometimes you Chaplains have really odd traditions.” snorted Thalamakos.
“I need your voice in this matter, Thalamakos. What do you think of our actions?”
The Honour Guard sighed and scratched on the back of his neck, a power port starting to irritate surrounding skin. 
“I think Lord Alexandros is too quick to rage and seeing humiliation where maybe there is none.”
“Say what you are thinking, I am not your enemy.” it felt more like a pleading than an order.
Thalamakos looked deep into the relentless eye lenses, trying to fix on something resembling a person behind them.
“I think our Chapter Master listens too much to the Stavrophoian.”
Richaldus turned his gaze once more back to the plinth.
“Finally you strike at the wyrm.”
An uncomfortable silence settled between them, the growling of the Unwavering Martyr the only other sound besides power armoured servos shifting in position.
“When did he change?” Thalamakos finally said, breaking the barrier.
“Captain Lewi’s death wounded him the most. He never really got over his loss.”
“Skaar was hard on all of us, we all lost someone from the 6th.”
“Not everyone is capable of healing from the loss of a good brother.”
“They were that close?”
“Same generation of recruits.”
“They were more than brothers?” Thalamakos felt his gaze faltering down to the points of his boots.
“Who knows?”
Silence ruled once again between them.
“Do you think Lord Alexandros ever regrets founding… us?”
“Making the sacrifices that Alexandros made on that fateful day, and accepting the fate that awaits all of us after our Crusade has ended, would all be meaningless if he regretted his decision.”
“But he is questioning himself, if he was right to do it?”
Richaldus answered by pointing towards the object upon the plinth. 
“Do you know why we kept that in our Memorial Chamber?”
Thalamakos stared at the skeletal hand in darkest obsidian, floating harmonious within its grav-cage. It was one of Herakel Doobian’s greater re-creations of Martyred Dorn’s left hand.
“To understand that no sacrifice is too big, or ever in vain.” the Honour Guard answered filling himself with righteous dedication, enjoying it triggering his adrenalin production with a rush of collared violence.
Richaldus turned towards the Honour Guard, resting a gloved hand upon Thalamakos’ shoulder.
“Whatever ails our Chapter Master, know that he will never forget what you just said. No one in the Celestial Crusaders ever will.”
Thalamakos couldn’t help himself, and one of his charming smiles crept up and overtook his stalwart visage. He knew that many of his peers hated his smiles, claiming it only made him appear younger than he was. Maybe just like a “boy” as Richaldus wanted it to sound.
“So, why did you come for me, former Third Captain Gideon Thalamakos of the Honour Guard?”
“How formal of you!” barked Thalamakos with a laugh.
“Even you deserve some respect, pup.” Richaldus' vox-speaker growled menacing. 

“We will try our strength again, aiming at the Wolves’ head.”
“Who’s idea?”
“Not the Stavrophoian, even if the location of the Old Wolf comes from his agents. The Chapter Master wants you to lead a frontal assault on Grimnar’s position.”
“What has the Stavrophoian advised about engaging the Old Wolf?”
“To kill him on sight.”
“Good, then I’ll capture him alive.”

[SchultzChaos]

Lucius / The Thousand Wails, Act: 0 
[+++ : Hektalon System, Void Space + The Heart of Chemos– Styx Heavy Cruiser. : +++]

Lucius the Eternal really hated his seconded in command, Raufius. Not just hated, but really hated him - so much it hurt Lucius’ guts just thinking about it. But he couldn’t decide what he hated the most about him. Was it his staring, blood red eyeballs, almost protruding from him sockets? No… Was it the constantly sour and sweet musk emitting from Raufius opened pores? No, not that either. His high-pitched voice, making him sound like he always sang in falsetto? No! All those irritating things would make Lucius kill the man one day, but the thing that would kill Raufius a lot sooner was his gruesomely religious nature.
“It is as the Dark Queen wishes!” he would scream some times. 
“The Dark Queen’s will be done!” he shrieked most of the times. 
Lucius enjoyed She-Who-Thirst’s companionship, just as he liked to have a lover from time to time. He mightily enjoyed his time spent with the Dark Queen, and loved the gifts she presented to him from her bedside. But he never liked to see his and her relationship as something more… serious. He loved his freedom, roaming about as he wished – and from time to time going back to his lover’s bedchamber. But that was it. He didn’t owe her anything, and she in particular didn’t own him. Sure, he really appreciated that she would resurrect him every time he died. That was a boon – no talk about it – and he was at first immensely grateful for it, but now he knew better. She needed him. He was everything to her. Of course she would resurrect him. He enjoyed that power he had over her. In a way, he owned her. How else would she spend an eternity in her meaningless existence if not Lucius was around? Even a god could crave a mortal. The thought was most arousing to Lucius. 
But Raufius didn’t see it like that, of course he didn’t. Instead he had painted up some totally insane picture that Lucius was an avatar of the Dark Queen’s will and therefore Raufius would “forever travel by his side” (his words mind you) helping Lucius doing their god’s work. Raufius saw religious meaning in everything Lucius did, from some small posture to a minor emotional twist. And when Raufius saw these symbols he would tell Lucius all about it. He never shut up, making his presence something that constantly nagged Lucius, and it in turn had been the seeds that had born his true hatred for the sorcerer.
Then why hadn’t Lucius killed Raufius yet? If the truth should be told, Lucius wasn’t exactly sure about that himself. He didn’t like a single bit about the annoyingly eccentric Emperor’s Child, and still he couldn’t make the killing blow. Sure he had roughed Raufius up a couple of times – breaking his bones, flaying his skin, hammering in nails in his head, drugging him, strangling him (and even darker things too!), but he had never gone too far. He didn’t like it when he couldn’t understand his actions, - or rather inactions. It always made Lucius feel a bad taste in his mouth, and when he felt that he wanted to kill someone, or anyone. No, anything. Right now maybe that was a bad idea. The gathered would not appreciate him slacking his thirst for violence. Sure, nothing like the wellbeing of others would ever stop Lucius from doing what HE wanted, but this situation was different. It was not always the Tyrant of Sarora – one of Abaddon’s most trusted no less – came for a visit.
The Heart of Chemos’ bridge was never silent, as was a common practice among Astartes vessels. But the usual sounds of menials working at their command stations, servitor-slaves and magii of the Mechanicum speaking their screeching data-tongue or Navy officers barking order was all replaced with the unending music of Bequa Kynska sounding through a legion of vox-casters, amplifiers, slaves surgically infused to the vessel’s living walls and daemonic faces all around the bridge. The Thousand Wails loved their collection of Kynska operas, and never got tired of hearing them again and again. Lucius had still not grown bored by the lovely tunes of deceased Kynska, and could still find himself enjoying most of her work, but he knew that the unending repeat function of the Thousand Wails’ recorder units would someday reach his limits. He wasn’t naturally patient with anything, and had to regularly count to ten for himself, inhaling and exhaling in slow breaths. Or at least that was what he should do when he started to feel irritated – that bastard Tarvitz always said that. But usually he just started to get violent, especially when he reminded himself about Saul *********** Tarvitz. Dammit, now he just wanted to rip someone’s face off, strangle them with their entrails and beat them to deat…!

“Focus!” hissed Raufius through bloody gums and sharpened teeth.
Lucius had to strain himself, by biting into his tongue, not to decapitate the sorcerer and paint the walls with his brain matter. Instead he just leaned back on in his throne and stared at the Tyrant. All around his throne stood members of the Thousand Wails warband, listening. Some listened to the music from the Great Crusade, others to the visitor, but most to their own seemingly unheard thoughts. Lucius tried to remember their names – he was quite bad at it in fact – but then again warriors died so quickly around him that he felt that it was pointless to try to memorize dead men. The one with the black apparatus implanted where his mouth called himself the Songmaster, or something like that. A leader of a sort before Lucius and Raufius took over the warband. The one with all the metal tentacles twitching and snapping from his back was the Warpsmith Braakian, clenching his decorated power axe, the symbol of his authority. He was a weirdo who liked to do… stuff to slaves, daemons and machines, all at once. Then there was loud-mouth, a Blade Dancer from the Sixth Choir. Ugly-face stood with his custom made sonic cannon, presumably given to him by none other than Fulgrim himself before departing to the World of Mists. Then you had “Bulky the Bulky” in his tactical dreadnought armour. And last but not least, Octaron the Scream Eternal, a dreadnought of some stature and status. Raufius had told Lucius that the corpse-like pilot of the dreadnought sarcophagus had once been one of the Phoenix Guard, mortally wounded during the siege of the Emperor’s Palace. What a tiresome bragger, thought Lucius as he stared at the blank face-mask of the dreadnought. So big and fat and ugl…!

“Focus, my lord!” hissed Raufius again, and notched Lucius’ pauldron. 
Right, now I have to kill you, you dumb **** – Lucius thought.
“So do you accept?” the Tyrant asked, with not a small portion of menace behind his voice.
“Accept what, Korda? You bore me to the point of me wanting to eat your eyeballs… I have a very hard time listening to people that I want to kill.” Lucius yawned, and gave Abaddon’s Chosen a dirty look.
If the Tyrant felt provoked in any way he didn’t show it. You’re no fun at all, Lucius mused sourly.
“The Warmaster want you and your warband to launch an assault on the Pandora system and reap the souls of the mortals living there.” Korda spoke once more, and his bladed helmet never left Lucius’ gaze. “He wants you to bury the Imperial forces there in their own dead.”
“And why would I go there, when there is a million upon a million other places I rather like to go to?” Lucius grimaced and waved a hand at the Tyrant. “I’ve heard about this place called Armageddon. Apparently there is some kind of huge war going on there, and if I should believe the Dark Queen’s concubines the Lord of the Twelfth got his ass handed to him right on that planet! HAH! I just need to take a **** on that spot, don’t you agree?”
“The Warmaster will give you the Cartographer of Zyntia.” Korda said in the same controlled tone he had probably used during the whole conversation. 
Now hell broke loose on the bridge, as if the Thousand Wails awoke from some kind of trance. They started to sing, dance and scream. Some started to fling their heads to the walls, while others fell to the floor in spasmic motions. Octaron started to show why he was named the Scream Eternal, and one warrior died instantly, his head exploding in a rupture of gore and skull fragments as he stood too close to the dreadnought. That brought a smile to Lucius face.
The Cartographer? The one who had written the Places Daemonicum, a map to all the Daemon Worlds within the Eye of Terror? The one map that would surely point them in the direction of the World of Mists? Lucius cursed silently as he remembered the Thousand Wails tedious compulsion. They believed the universe had lost all sensation to it, as the Phoenician had left the mortal realms to forever live within the kingdom of She-Who-Thirsts. They believed that if they could find their gene-father again then all the colours of ecstasy and sensations of lust would return to all of mankind. Religious and stupid. Lucius knew Fulgrim. He smelled the primarch’s arrogance all around him, and it had a strong grip upon the beliefs of the Thousand Wails. Nothing more tiresome than idiots worshipping the primarchs. Ugh.. Religion… They had left them for a reason; they were self obsessed megalomaniacs who never got tired of looking at their own reflections. They didn’t deserve their children’s love or affection. They didn’t…!

“For crying out loud, focus my lord!” spat Raufius in Lucius’ ear and the musk of the sorcerer filled Lucius’ senses.
Now Lucius was not a wonder of self control but he tried his best, or at least usually did. But when Raufius, the damned simpleton, had to drench Lucius’ ear with his weakling spittle that was not just breaking his boundaries, it was like driving over them with a testosterone pumped bulldozer. Without as much of a thought about it Lucius caved in Raufius face with a well placed right hook. The sorcerer’s gurgling sounds bubbling up from his broken mouth brought a laugh to Lucius’ lips, and he had to snicker loudly as Raufius started the hard work of trying to find all his teeth on the bridge decking. Now he would have to reshape his face, again. Lucius loved the pain that came with the surgery. Both on himself and on Raufius.
“Are you done?” Korda asked with the same damned balanced voice of his.
“What do you mean by that?” Lucius counter-asked dangerously.
“I have no idea why the Warmaster holds you at such a high regard.” the Tyrant sighed and crossed his arms over his armoured torso. “If there could be a more childish warrior of the Legion Astartes…”
“Such fine words, from a traitor and a coward!” Lucius spat and rose from his throne. “Can’t I still see the colours of your dead legion painted beneath that dark dirt you now cover your lineage with? Isn’t that still the Eye of Horus the Failure you so proudly wear on your shoulder?”
Lucius’ whip uncoiled itself from its resting place beside the throne. It sensed its master’s rising temper and the violence that usually followed with it. The whip started to snake itself up to his hand, as Lucius’ other hand twitched in wanting to curl itself around the hilt of his dueling sabre. 
“Don’t try to taunt me, Lucius. Slaanesh has showed me who he wants me to call ‘brother’, and it isn’t anyone within Fulgrim’s fallen legion.” Korda said calmly, still with his arms crossed.
Lucius had to stop in his tracks. How in all the daemonic hells could Korda already be on first name basis with the Dark Queen? That was impossible! Lucius was her lover! Her favourite! Damn the stupid ugly piece of **** born from a hyena’s uterus! Now he would have to kill Korda! He would have to wear Korda’s skin as a cloak and eat his hearts before his pleading eyes! Lucius drew his weapons and launched himself at the Tyrant, screaming as he…!

“Please my lord, focus just one more minute!” begged Raufius, as he tried to bring Lucius back to the present.
Lucius glared dumbly at the gathered Astartes. The Thousand Wails stared together with Korda’s warriors from the Children of Torment back at him as if waiting for an answer. Korda still looked at Lucius with his bladed helmet, his eye lenses almost transfixed with Lucius’ eyes. Lucius didn’t like it when people looked awkwardly at him. It made him feel like some kind of freak, and he hated that feeling – almost as much as he hated Raufius. At least that dumb **** had the decency to look upon the Tyrant instead of joining with the rest of the retard gang. Lucius leaned back in his throne, triggering a moan from it, snarling at anyone who dared to gaze upon his glorious frame. Unworthy maggots, thought Lucius as he mused over who he would have to kill first. In his mind he started to count to ten. 
“Well I don’t have anything better to do anyway…” spat Lucius after a while and gave his thumb up – much to the appreciation of the Thousand Wails. “And I’ve heard that there are some upstart fenrisian puppies there, who think they are something fancy and dandy. To be honest Korda, I am in a dire need of a new coat. HAH!”

[SchultzChaos]

Celestial Crusaders, Act: 0.2
[+++ : Pandora System, Orbit – Shrine World – Protunus Prime. + The Unwavering Martyr– Battlebarge. : +++]

[bY HIS WILL – WE DRENCH OUR YELLOW IN RED]
++To all stationed units upon the Unwavering Martyr, this is our day. This is the day we bring our revenge upon the Wolves of Fenris for their heresy against man. Amongst their numbers walk the mutant, the witch and the heretic. They use the powers of the forbidden Aether to harness strength beyond the Immortal God-Emperor’s gaze and love. They are the cancer that grows within His sacred boundaries and it is by His Will we shall descend upon their heads like the Angels of Death. We are Fire and we are Wrath! Die well my proud warriors. Die like our Father Dorn, die like martyrs and know that by our blood, our bodies and our hatred we shall drown the fenrisians in the hellfire that calls upon their souls! I will be with you all, my warriors. In the name of Rogal Dorn and the Emperor’s Champion Sigismund I, Alexandros salute you who are about to die, and I salute you who are about to slay++
[PREPARING LAUNCH OF DROP PODS AND ASSAULT CRAFT]
[HANGAR BAYS OPENING]
[iNCOMING FIRE FROM ENEMY VESSEL]
[VESSEL IDENTIFIED AS PRIDE OF FENRIS] 
*This is High Chaplain Richaldus to all drop assault units. Prepare immediate attack on Grimnar’s position. Our intel have gathered that we will meet heavy resistance, so prepare yourselves. This is the Old Wolf’s personal guard – bloodied from a thousand battles and a hundred wars. They will show you no mercy, so do not grieve for their deaths. Instead show them your anger and your faith in the God-Emperor. They say that the Old Wolf has never fallen, that Arjac the Mountain never has yielded to anyone except his liege lord. Prove them wrong. Kill in the name of the God-Emperor. Richaldus out*
[PLANETARY ASSAULT BEGINS IN 3… 2… 1…]
[COMMENCING ATTACK]

---Opening closed vox-link---
*Vox channel Janus responding*
“Warriors of Titan, this is the Lord Stavrophoian of the Celestial Crusaders. I will join you in this glorious assault on the traitor Grimnar. I bid you only to remember the Atrocities of the Wolves from the Hallowed War of Armageddon, and that their sins and crimes still walk unpunished. Now we have a chance to strike the head from the rabid hound that has barked and yapped at your threshold for too long. Let us end this heresy here and now brothers! For the God-Emperor!”
*Vox channel Janus closing*
---Lost contact to vox-link---

[SchultzChaos]

---Opening channel to Central Command---
*the Unwavering Martyr is receiving connection*
“We need immediate covering fire upon frontal key positions!”
*Multiple hails from other squad marks* 
“Fire upon our position! Fire upon our position! The dogs of Russ are counter-assaulting! Fire upo---“
***
“Vanguard squad Balekelos is meeting heavy resistance in the eastern district of the battlefield; they need reinforcement if they are to break through!”
***
“The Stavrophoian and the Grey Knights are spearheading into the fenrisian barricades! They are breaking the Wolves! Western district is ours!”
***
“DEATH TO THE WITCH!”
***
“This is Sergeant Kapalon, we are making them bleed out of their noses but they are gathering for a counter-assault! We need support! They are gathering for a counter-assault on eastern district”
***
“Commencing strafing run over cathedral district. Marking targets. Missiles away!”
***
“I repeat, we have spotted designated target Stormcaller in the cathedral district! Warp anomaly detected! INCOMING!”
***
[sound interpreted as sporadic laughter]
***
“Here they come again! Blood for Sigismund! Kill them all!”
***
“This is Sergeant Balekelos, we have broken through. We have- wait, a target has appeared before us! Incoming fenrisian warrior! Kill him! Kill hi-“
***
“We are taking heavy casualties! 70% of original squad strength lost! We are falling back towards the office complex! We are losing the eastern district!”
***
“KILL THEM ALL!”
***
“Their witches are responding to the warp anomaly! They are overcharging! Kill them befo-“
***
[sound interpreted as screaming]
[sound interpreted as organic matter tearing]
***
“Can’t return for a second strafing run. Haze is too strong! Engines are sustaining damage from over exposure to cold element, they won’t last a second run! I repeat, I can’t return to the cathedral district!”
***
“Command Land Raider spotted in southern district! Grimnar’s signature is confirmed!”
***
“This is strike-unit Janus. We are confirming Grimnar’s position. Commencing assault on southern district.”
***
“This is Richaldus. I am heading for Grimnar’s coordinates. The God-Emperor protects.”
***
“We have reached office complex! Pursuers inbound. We need fire support!”
***
“A lone Wolf is locked in close quarters with Vanguard squad Balekelos! Sergeant Balekelos is down! I repeat, Sergeant Balekelos is down! Teklaton is holding his ground! I will support him with my combat squad! Heading out now! FOR THE EMPERO-“
***
“Heavy casualties! We are taking heavy casualties! We need more warriors if we are going to stem the tide! They are wedging a tear in our front! Drench your yellow in red!”
***
“Sergeant Daaniros is dead! We have lost sergeant Daaniros! We are losing cathedral district!”
***
“Squad Malikala inbound in ten seconds. Retros are burning. Descending upon eastern district.”
***
“Western district is holding. We have driven them off. They are gathering in the cathedral district, but we need reinforcement if we are to gather for another push.”
***
“We have spotted the Stavrophoian and the Grey Knights in the southern district! They and the Reclusiarch’s carrier are trapping Grimnar between them! Forward! Forward! Strike off the head! Strike off-“
***
“Where is our air support? We can’t hold the cathedral district with this rate of casualties! Central, we need immediate orbital bombardment on the cathedral complex!”
***
“Squad Malikala deployed. Spreading out.”
***
“We have lost squad Malikala! They were waiting for them! They were waiting for them!”
***
“If you can’t draw a target on the cathedral complex through the storm, lock on our position! Wolves incoming! FOR MARTYRED DORN!”
***
[sound interpreted as explosion]
***
“Counter-assault in all districts! All units fall back to the western district!”
***
“Richaldus and the Lord Stavrophoian are engaging the Old Wolf and the Mountain! Command Land Raider burning, and Grimnar’s body guard are down. We got him!”
***
“They have breached the office complex! Readying ourselves for martyrdom! We will make you proud Lord Craster!”
***
[sound interpreted as gurgling]
***
“The Mountain is down!”
***
“Western district is taking a beating! Send in air support!”
***
“By the God-Emperor… The Grey Knights are down. The fenrisian leader killed them all.”
***
“MUTANT! MUTAN-“
***
“Yes Central, Grimnar has fallen. I repeat – Grimnar has fallen. High Chaplain Richaldus is-“
***
“The Wolves are going mad! They’re assaulting the southern district!”
***
”This is Richaldus. We are done here; commence withdrawal of all our ground forces.”
***
“Affirmative Central, all units in western district are withdrawing to the evacuation point. The God-Emperor protects.”
***
“This is Teklaton, sole survivour of Vanguard squad Balekelos. I am breaking out from eastern district.”
***
“This is the Stavrophoian, I need extraction. Richaldus bring back your Land Raider! I have fenrisians descending upon my position. I repeat they are descending upon my position!”
[sound interpreted as bolter-fire]
*the Unwavering Martyr lost connection* 


[servitor Omega-34Cv15 establishing secure hailing]
-----SUCCESSFUL CONNECTION------
++INITIATING LINK++
“Greetings, Voice.”
“The Eight Folded Path has appeared! I saw it with my own eyes!”
“The Plan be praised.”
“We are turning the wheel, my friend. The world wheel shall spin and the Black City shall once more reveal itself!”
“You sound excited?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“You never seems excited, Voice.”
“You sure don’t know me.”
“But I know that you took a sword to the face.”
[servitor Omega-34Cv15 interpreting laughter]
“You should’ve seen your reaction when the fenrisian caught you off guard!”
“Thank you...”
“Priceless.”
“Are you done?”
“Almost. What about your body? You need a new one?”
“Yes. This product is damaged beyond all recovery.”
“You wear them out like an aristocrat uses shoes.”
“Just shut up...”
“Is that any way to talk to your closest friend?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘closest’.”
“Now you just want to hurt my feelings.”
“Please... Spare me. Can you make a delivery?”
“It will reach you in twenty standard terran hours.”
“Good.”
“You’re in a rush?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We caught him.”
“What..?”
“We caught HIM.”
“By the gods... And you’re not there now?”
“No. The product, remember?”
“Damn it. I will see to it that the delivery reaches you in ten.”
“That damned Richaldus didn’t kill him. He didn’t kill him! Of all persons out there, High frekkin’ Chaplain Richaldus captured Grimnar!”
“Save your energy, you will need it when you face the Tyrant.”
“Yes...”
“Hydra dominatus.”
“We are legion...”
++DROPPING LINK++
-----CONNECTION LOST------
[servitor Omega-34Cv15 powering down]

[deathspectersgt7]

Need more likes.

[SchultzChaos]

:D

Well my evening is complete now!

[SchultzChaos]

THE DREAMING MACHINE
Celestial Crusaders / Adeptus Mechanicus, Act: 0.3 - during the Assault on Protunus Prime
[+++ : Cibola System, Forge World - Cabrakan II : +++]

* * *
The screaming did not abide as the flesh-creatures bled dry on the black sands. She tried to drown it all out with her own roar of battle, and her arms strengthened beyond that of the mortal shell tore through armour and muscle. Bones cracked under her stride and she roared in pleasure as she brought her godly power onto her enemies. Her cannon sang death and her breath was the touch of the grave, burning with the need to slake the lives of the flesh. Chunk. Ca-clank. BOOM! Another extinguished candle in a sea of flame. The black sands would be red. Like the colour of her skin. The colour of her face.
* * *

Magos Dominus Beta-Lanth was a cold practitioner of routine and schedule, and prided himself as one to always know the facts before any given situation. Where other lesser kindred of the human species would turn to the art of scrying to predict the strands of the future, Beta-Lanth would simply calculate the most predictable outcome by harvesting the stored experience and information data from his particularly large memory archives. This huge amount of information, pre-studied situation reading and constantly upgrading of the soft programming of his cortex bank made him a nasty piece when it came to prudence. So when things didn’t go as he predicted or things happened in a way he didn’t see coming, his first action was always self-loathing. He had kept that part of his emotional source intact just for these kinds of situations. Filling himself with contempt against himself made the situation more easily registered within his memory storage unit, and gave him a chance to actually feel something for a change – a heretical thought he seldom spoke of, if ever. So when the Adminstrorum Logii summoned him personally to the Chamber of Lords to decree that an Emissary of the Crusaders had come to visit his most hallowed Vaults he was perplexed and knew whatever would come would be forever stored within his sacred data core. He did not like surprises, at all. So it was with a mixture of irritation and anxiety – motes of feelings within his glorious metal form – that he awaited the descending elevator. 
Beta-Lanth stood in his crimson garb of the priesthood beneath the image of the Omnissiah-Ascended, making himself an imposing figure. His logic centre hummed with analyzed alpha-reports of his decision, and he scrolled through them with the ease of a true tech-archivist. He liked the conclusion that he still wanted to uphold a stature of power and respect, something his Order hadn’t done in a long time. Visitors hadn’t walked his halls for an age, and he registered curiosity rising to the fore of his consciousness, another visitor which hadn’t traveled through him for a very long time. He welcomed it with a buzzing click as servos tried to imitate a human smile beneath his ceremonial mask. Around him stood precious tech-thralls whose bodily structure and augmented sculpture he particularly liked, his personal guard of Legio Celebrii and attendants of minor magii. Saved pict-references of pre-Unity kingly courts presented them to his retinal observer unit, and he enjoyed the feeling of grandeur. He even granted himself the impression of sensory satisfaction as old units started to play the classical tunes of Klariet Kyriee within his hood. He could live with his self-hate, for now at least.
The elevator finally came to a rest as the ancient mechanics broke its fall and with a stark horn called out its arrival. The obsidian elevator gates started to rumble open on shrieking hydraulics, and a figure immediately detached itself from the interior of its cavity. The humming from the figures’ modified mark VII power armour betrayed his nature, and Beta-Lanth couldn’t help himself as his recording units activated in an instant. He liked to collect images of marsian craftsmanship. The Astartes’ armour was robed in a sea-green cloth that covered large parts of the warrior’s body, and a skull-faced masked helmet – decorated with a horse haired plume on the top – glared at him with its blank eye-lenses. The shoulder guard carried the red cross of the Celestial Crusaders, and an esoteric sword with its pommel sculpted in the shape of a roaring lion hanged from the Astartes’ hip in an ornate scabbard. The warrior tilted his head, as if he could hear Beta-Lanth’s recorder unit clicking away as it captured picture after picture. 
“Honoured Magos Dominus Beta-Lanth of the Legio Cybernetica, and Custodian of the Sleeping Vaults, I am grateful for your audience – especially under its hastily nature. I know that I’ve broken more than a dozen of your Order’s sacred traditions with this unannounced appearance, but time is of the essence. Do you know who I am?” the skull-faced warrior growled through his hidden vox-speaker, emitting strength and steadiness. 
Beta-Lanth answered with a quick buzz from his optic implants, as they cross-referenced the present imagery-code with that of his stored archive of renowned Crusaders. It settled with a satisfactory metallic droning.
“You are the one called the Stavrophoian, member of the Tyrant of Cibola’s Inner Circle.” declared Beta-Lanth in his iron voice, a sound that was closely related to the vox-noise of the Astartes. “You need not concern yourself with the timing of your visit, the Priesthood of Cabrakan have always enjoyed their bonds with the pure-blooded VIIth Legion.”
“Yes, your services to the Tyrant in the past need never to be questioned, nor where your loyalties lie.”
Such a strange remark, Beta-Lanth processed through his retrieving data-stream, and he had such a hard time dissecting sarcasm from vocal meaning. Irritation spurred through his frontal consciousness, and he needed to avert a second for cleansing his upper column. 
“What can I help you with, Lord Stavrophoian? Surely the Tyrant has all the gene-seed and arms he needs to establish an acute and satisfactory sum of legionnaires?”
“That would be correct if our situation wasn’t so dire. I am here on a grave matter, and would need to speak with him.”
“Out of the question.” responded Beta-Lanth even before he could stop himself. Pre-programmed answer-alternatives had a way of acting without his control. “By the law of Holy Archimandrite Propella Xigna no one is to disturb the Myrmidax as he slumbers away within the Vaults.”
“I know you are entitled to deny me a meeting with him, but listen to the plea of my Chapter Master before you denounce me from your halls!” 
Beta-Lanth didn’t exactly know how to respond to pleading. It was irrational to say the least, when hard facts had been presented that went against the inquiry. He tried to use one of his pre-calculated situation-analysis for a more comfortable social result. 
“I am sorry Lord Stavrophoian, but I cannot go against these laws. I am not authorized to redirect the Archimandrite’s verdict.”
Yes, removing the responsibility from himself to another vector of authority within the Cabrakan echelon – that should end this whole matter.
“My Lord Alexandros Craster, Tyrant of the Cibola-system and Protector of this Forge World is in danger of being destroyed! He has found treachery within Russ’ brood!” the Stavrophoian said calmly, but the tone of the message couldn’t be more desperate. “The Old Wolf himself has aimed to execute Alexandros on false accusations, and is gathering mutants, witches and other foul allies to succeed in this!”
“Preposterous, the Warriors of Fenris are…”
Beta-Lanth could for a moment have sworn that his retina units had singled out and processed shapes of shadow that did not belong to the emissary uncurl behind him. Data-malfunction? He needed to finish this matter quickly so he could make a system purge later on. What was he going to say?
“I… The Warriors of Fenris are heretics and have for a long time abducted and made blasphemy upon the sacred flesh of the machine within their isolated holds. So much heresy that now runs amongst the once pure spirits of their machines is a sacrilege to the Omnissah and to the Hierarchy of Mars!”
Beta-Lanth felt an unusual rush of anger uncoil around his cerebral centre, and enjoyed another touch of feeling that hadn’t visited him for a long time, but still he could feel the tendrils of self-loathing erupt within his skin. 
“And this heresy is trying in this moment to kill the Lord Protector himself! Will you not give me the chance to speak with the Myrmidax?”
A soft clicking sound within Beta-Lanth’s hood resounded outwards and his servos worked hard to let his neck make the nodding gesture.

* * *
The bodies were all around her. Some were already dead, opened up to the red sky like ruptured fruit, while others still tried to make their broken shells whole again – trying to attach lost limbs and fill their emptied guts with spilled entrails. She stomped upon them, loving every sound of cracking bones and muffled screams of pain. Her arms spat fire as she bathed her enemies in unquenchable wroth. Their emerald bodies clad in kindred to her own godly stature boiled and popped around her, and the melting weakling flesh inside ran in rivers of liquefied fat. The clangs of ricocheting ammunition broke her from her rightful work and brought her attention to the retreating lines. She blared with her war horn as she readied herself for another charge. Black sand scattered as she stormed the fleeing enemy. She was judgment and she was wrath.
* * *

“Are they still active?” the Stavrophoian asked, as they marched beneath the storage units.
“Not fully. They are kept in a state of minimum energy usage, and retain only a small access to their software cores. They are only aware of their surroundings in the minor of ways.”
“Like dreaming?”
Beta-Lanth had never proposed the usage of that word in relation to his subjects’ state of awareness, but he liked it. He burrowed a second from his present mind working and re-named the dormant machines’ archive label to “dreamers”. 
“A human notion that actually for once works in equal measure to that of the blessed machine, interesting.” 
“Yes…” whispered the Stavrophoian, and stopped before one of the dormant machines. “Ereu-Vostriss-3489-Jun?”
“That is the name designation for this Castellax class battle-automata unit, yes.” Beta-Lanth answered as he joined the emissary.
“Is it old?” the Astartes asked as he gently pressed a gauntleted hand over the armoured shell.
“A correct and incorrect hypothesizes. The shell of Ereu-Vostriss-3489-Jun is very old, but its cerebral components are young. We replenish new organic gear for our automata once every hundred years so that their process workings are always at its prime.”
“From where do you harvest your ‘organic gear’?”
“Our components need to be unsullied and undamaged from outside traumas, therefore we pick our harvestings in the same way you Astartes do.”
“Children.”
“Correct.”
“But these automata, have you forged them all?”
“Negative, most come from the Myrmidax’ own collection, while some are my own creations. Others are gifted to us as they are found stranded or uncovered on ancient battlefields. As it stands right now this Legio Cybernetica facility harbours exactly five thousand, three hundred and thirty two units of battle-automata. Unfortunately none of them have seen war in a time period stretching over two thousand years.”
“I wonder what these shells have been through…” Beta-Lanth’s voice pattern analyzing software pinged softly as it picked up something akin to kinship from the Stavrophoian’s tone. 
The Magos answered the statement by restart his recording unit with a click-blink. 
“Is it true that sometimes memories latch itself into the machine’s hallowed interior, making itself a home within the gears and cogs of the shell – and that it can be imprinted into the organic matter that is installed to the automata?”
“Preposterous.” blurted Beta-Lanth as he started to march again towards the Gates of Legend. “This way please, honoured guest. If we are to awaken the Myrmidax and his Myrmidons we should be done so quickly and not stray from our course.”
The Stavrophoian nodded as much to himself as to the Magos, and retracted his hand from the hull of the automata. 
“Yes, we should be done with what needs to be done.”
A soft click answered him from within the dormant machine.

* * *
Massacre was the only word that could describe fully the scene before her. The slain were in their thousands, and their bodies bore the testimony of the war to come. A new type of war. A war she was a part of. The crimson sands were the same as her face, the same as her soul. Her gaze wandered over the dead, their faces hidden behind helmeted faces. So many, she thought. So many skulls. The wind from the east came down with the stench of ashen wastes, and the smoke from the battlefield drifted away for a second. On top of a hill the sons of her Master were busy erecting a victory pole bearing their symbol. She could hear all over the vox-net her allies’ voices as they roared in triumph. A glorious victory some said, while others just screamed in exaltation. She let out a screech of binary code herself, raising a fist of iron and steel in salute to the Eye of Horus.

[SchultzChaos]

Chaos, Act 3.0
[+++ : Pandora System, Kratos + De'na'roga. : +++]
Sheeria felt her heart swell to the brim, ready to explode at any second. All the pride, the exaltation, the anticipation – it was all like magic working its way through her remade body. ‘Magic’, that strange word the priests always had forbidden them to say out loud, threatening them with harsh punishment if anyone ever dared the rules. But the priests’ rules were broken, their chains cast off. She could roar the word ‘magic’ until her throat went raw and there was nothing the priests could do about it. No more pain, no more lies. Their churches were burning, and the priests had either been killed or driven off while the people had danced in the streets celebrating freedom. Now she was one of them, those that fought for the liberation of all of Kratos – the Revolutionary Front. They had given her the colours of their warriors, a weapon of her own and they had called her sister, SISTER. She finally had a family that cared for her, and they loved her and she loved them. She couldn’t believe her luck that she the ugly and undeserving Sheeria of factory complex GRETA could in any way deserve to be uplifted beyond the life she had lived.

     Sheeria didn’t have any particularly detailed memories of her childhood, just some dark ones about a black house without windows occupied by voices she never connected to any faces. Pain was there too, her body aching from hurts she didn’t know she owned. Then there was light and she knew only work. GRETA was to be her new home, a factory the enforcers told her. They were to make bullets for wars. She didn’t know any wars, but apparently there had to be a lot of them. Others of her kind worked together with her, they all hurt by things they didn’t understand. Their lungs cramped and many of them coughed black fluids, and yet they toiled on. ‘The God-Emperor protects!’ the enforcers shouted and lashed with their whips. ‘Those that toil for Him shall find salvation!” more enforcers roared while kicking those workers too weak to make their bullets. The coughing never stopped. The girls she shared a bunk with died with black fluids coming out of their mouths and noses. Sheeria coughed too, though she never died from it. 
From time to time priests would arrive to the factory checking about their faith and abolishing any traces of their ‘primitive culture’. They told them that the God-Emperor was angered by their lacking knowledge of the Imperium and their heretical beliefs about spirits and ‘magic’. Usually they talked to them like the enforcers did, even though they did have nicer cloths. Where the enforcers wore the same dusky skin as the workers, the priests wore the colour of pale alabaster upon their skin and had an unfamiliar accent when talking the tounge of Kratos. Sheeria didn’t understand the word ‘heretical’ but if she were to believe the priests she and the other workers suffered from it, like some disease carried from birth. She were to toil for her sins in the smog filled factory helping the God-Emperor by giving breath to his armies’ guns. She slaved to save her immortal soul from the eternal damnation awaiting her on the other side.
     She didn’t owe any name during her time in GRETA, but she had a designation the enforcers called her by. It was stamped on the surface of her work desk in gothic runes – the scripture of the Imperium – and it had been to some comfort for her to know she had an identity, even if she couldn’t read it. Everyone in the barracks would after awhile also use it, and she was finally someone. No longer was she the frightened child from the black house, now she was a faithful servant with a purpose. She was TT-X19. In those brighter days she felt something akin to love, or at least affection. She met OO-X43 on a dark night during maintenance rounds. They bumped into each other as they searched for heat damage in the isolation veils, and then and there feelings had stirred within her. She met OO-X43 a couple of times after that night, during worker shifts, and they started to talk. She didn’t usually talk to anyone so the happiness in finding someone to speak about her dreams that came to her during the late hours of night, or what she believed that the world beyond GRETA looked like, or the different taste between protein-grub and bark-porridge was extraordinary. Soon after they started to talk to each other they made love. She enjoyed that too. 
     Then came a day when a burly enforcer called ‘the Ox’ told her with his wet voice that the designation she wore as a badge of pride had been worn by many workers before her. She was merely borrowing the identity until another would take it. Why he told her that, she never understood but it took away any resemblance of worthiness within her. She was nothing, a no one. She started to avoid OO-X43, unable to tell the truth that she didn’t owe the identity she so much loved to carry. After a couple of weeks OO-X43 stopped any attempts to talk to her, and just a day after OO-X43 was found dead in a locker room, bled out from cuts so deep that the wrists had almost been severed. 
     Someone told the enforcers about OO-X43’s love affair with Sheeria, and they came for her. Her actions had led to a worker’s death and punishment was to be enacted, protocol and all that. She screamed through it all, even though they tried to quiet her. During the procedure a priest was called upon to attend, and he told her about her sins – her heretical origin and that her actions led to Ruin of Order. He never smiled, nor seemed to enjoy the punishment dealt upon her body, but he carried on in a gathered tone not really showing any sign of reflection towards her scream-shrieks. After pain came dark, as light was taken from her. ‘Isolation for the wicked.’ an enforcer named Jahaal’a proclaimed in a stern voice, and she could hear the sound of locks turning and metal grinding. ‘The God-Emperor protects.’ said the priest and walked away. 
Time flowed in a strange way in the dark, and when light finally returned she had no idea how long she had been in that black cradle of hopelessness. They asked her if she understood that they just wanted for her very own best, and that she was a heretic who needed to find the light again. She nodded and was rewarded with a work desk with a new designation. Either it was her imagination, or a cruel twist of fate, but she swore that the enforcers started to call her OO-X43. Time had no meaning after all that, and she made bullets for wars she had no idea about. The priests carried on with their visits though, and never did one of them look at her twice. It was after the Throne’s Holy Day that the Revolutionary Front came for them all.
     Even the workers got some shares in the global celebrations of the Throne’s Holy Day, and a strong beverage of some unnamed sort was passed between the singing workers of GRETA, and Sheeria had walked off to bed not just a little dizzy. But she had awoken to the sounds of explosions – or rather loud booming noises she much later understood were the sounds of impacting rockets. Gunfire echoed within the factory as crapulent enforcers tried to defend the Emperor’s bullets, but they were no match against the carnage that followed the explosions. The workers huddled in their barracks, hiding behind flimsy blankets and scared witless. Many cried, and more prayed. They asked the God-Emperor to forgive them for their heretical origins and their sinful lives. Sheeria was not one of them. 
    Then the doors to the barracks were smashed open and armed fighters stormed into the barracks’ hollow interiors. Not one of the workers knew them or why they had attacked. They watched their masks and colours and thought of their doom. But the fighters hadn’t come with death and ruin for them, but with freedom and salvation. They told the workers that they didn’t have to make any more bullets – the tyranny of their oppressors was soon to be over! They showed the workers the way out, and broke their chains with pliers and hammers from the smithies. Light had finally came to them. The fighters told the workers that they would happily take any one who wanted to their camp and give them a meal and a bed. No one in the worker gangs denied them their willingness to be hosts for them. 
     Sheeria was carried by a fighter named Ar’aka, for her feet didn’t allow her to walk after the punishment and the stillness of the dark. Ar’aka soothed her sobs with hushes and stories of revolution. It had begun in Dear’a’gor he told her, as a high priest of the God-Emperor’s fraternity had kindled the flame of uprising when he broke his vows with the Church. The priest – named Absalon – talked about the heritage of Kratos and that the people of the once proud culture of pre-Imperium should throw off their shackles and take up battle against those that prosecuted and oppressed them. Ar’aka had been a fisherman in Dear’a’gor when he had first heard it, and soon he and his comrades enlisted in a growing resistance group named the Revolutionary Front. Ar’aka also spoke of the spirits that lived on Kratos, those the priests still claimed were unreal and heresy, and that they had been denied for so long of their subjects that they had been driven to violence and rage. Now they seeped through the cracks of heaven to the people’s aid, giving them strength to cast down the false Emperor and deliver Kratos from bondage. She was stilled and at ease, and after what felt like an age smiled again. He asked her for her name, and she cried when she had to answer him that she had none. He gave her one then, after the spirit of re-growth. He said that the spirit of Sheeria was born from the decaying body of the weak, maimed and sick – and as she broke out from the dying shell she transformed into new life. She loved him for his words. She loved him for his faith. She loved him for his mercy.

***                     

Now her heart was filled to the brim, as if it was going to explode at any second. She filled in with the rest of her brothers and sisters as they screamed in joy and exaltation as the vox-channels was drowned with the confirmation that Prap’o’poilla had fallen, and that the regime of Governor Paulus the Tyrant was finally over. They cried and threw their fists up in the sky. Banners of the Ever-loving Grandfather was hoisted all over De’na’roga, together with the totems of the Cult of the Fly and the flags of the Revolutionary Front. They stood in parade formation on the plaza of Helatos, drinking in the sweet aroma of victory. Sheeria was clad in the colours of her brothers and sisters, donning the mask of her spirit, raising her plundered Armageddon pattern autogun high to the sky. Her body had been healed by the powers of her spirit, and she felt stronger than she had ever done before. She felt such pride to be a part of this magnificent quest for freedom that she almost started to shake as she celebrated with her squad. She turned her gaze towards her magaur Ar’aka searching for his presence. He too had donned his spirit mask, and she could clearly hear his joyous roar behind its features as he hugged Fi’hmed tightly. Some of her squad mates had even clambered up on the back of the old tank “the Liberated”, sharing the celebration with the tank’s crew. 
     There was even a greater roar from the gathered as Innocent climbed onto the broken marble statue of the false Emperor. The priestess of the Fly waved with her hands for them all to fall silent, and a hushing sound resounded through the crowd until all that could be heard was the crackling vox-channels still active. Innocent cleared her voice and happily announced;
“Today we celebrate the beginning of the end! Prap’o’poilla has fallen, and the Imperial dogs are fleeing before the people’s wroth!” 
Such shouts of approval and joy had never been heard on the plaza of Helatos before, and Innocent had to wait for several minutes until it died down. 
“My dearest and beloved fighters of the Revolutionary Front – our final push begins here! Only St. Angnes remains as the last stronghold for the fanatical and crazed Imperial warriors of the Inquisition. It will be their last breath!”
Some of the fighters happily let loose a salvo of bullets.
“And to reward his most trusted of followers and the people’s most valued warriors, bishop Absalon wants you to have this gift of appreciation!” Innocent roared over the clamour and dim, and with a gesture everything was drowned out as a mechanical sound like that of hungry demon-cats of the southern jungles filled the plaza. 
Sheeria and those of her squad, together with the majority of the gathered warriors of the Revolutionary Front gazed in wonder and awe as a column of newly painted tanks rolled down the main trade road with the booming sounds of horns and vehicle clarions. Such mechanized might! Innocent pointed south and with one of her wickedly charming smiles proclaimed with a voice with such vigour that no one could deny her the right as one of Absalon's apostles;
“Break the bondage of Kratos! Down with the Imperium! Die today and be reborn tomorrow!”

 

 

Chaos, Act; 2.0

[+++ : Pandora System, Kratos + Prap'o'poilla. : +++]

The chamber’s dull light was dimmed as soon as the final figure entered. Most of the occupants couldn’t enjoy the light anymore, and were grateful for the safety of the dark. The last figure to enter the dull arming chamber of the Arbites Chapterhouse moved its slithering bulk with an unhealthy slowness, not that any of the other seven figures cared. Something small was cackling with gibberish in a cupped hand, and playfully sucked on the last figure’s fingers. The thing purred with a tone of a pleased parent, and stroked the mewling mite to its utter delight.
“Bishop.” one of the other figures greeted the last one, and some bowed their heads in mutual respect.
“Children.” the Bishop answered with its new voice that the Lord of All had blessed it with. “So now we gather for mass inside the ruins of the oppressors?”
“I invited you all here, Bishop, so that our matters could be discussed in private from the inquisitive eyes of our unwanted guests.” the largest of the figures voiced.
“Honoured Voice!” croaked the Bishop and inclined its head towards the giant. “I didn’t know that you walked Kratos’ hallowed earth.”
“My time here is fleeting, and I have much to do. So don’t expect me to stay too long, Bishop – even though I have no doubt that you would have done me a great feast in my name.”
“A pity…” the Bishop giggled, and gently caressed the mite in its hand. 
“So, gentlemen.” the Voice boomed and turned to all the gathered. “As you well know this phase of our Master’s plan for Kratos is the most delicate, and now the slow but brutal warmachine of the Imperium will turn towards us. Not only that, but reports of xenos in the hinterlands has reached Prap’o’poilla.”
“One could have hoped that they would have enjoyed the Master’s gift, by leaving them Protonus Prime.” one of the figures rasped with its vox-augmented voice, sounding more like a southern devil-cat than a man. “Greedy heathens.” 
“Have no worry, Frater Sanguinary.” hushed the Voice and raised a hand for silence. “Whatever the xenos are after, let them have it. They are too late to stop the machination of Fate.” 
“What of the False-Emperor’s Wolves?” another figure screeched in binary voice-chatter. “The great Empyrean is screaming with their coming! My dreamers are shouting their throats raw with prophecies of bloody wolf-shapes and the executioner’s blade!”
“Yes, they are coming. Blood will be spilled, and I do not presume that all of you will live to see the turning of the Wheel.” the Voice solemnly voiced to them, and many of the figures understood the grave meaning of that. 
“Then who of us will die?” asked the Bishop.
“I will not name the Dead Ones, for doing so will just hamper our efforts here.” the Voice calmed them. “Know that the Pantheon have already chosen the ones that will soon swim in Sea of Souls, and that your deaths will be more blood spilled on the altar. 
“No death is meaningless. No soul worthless.” the gathered answered with zeal.
“What matters for Kratos is that you continue with the gatherings in the cities. Prepare for the Eclipse as you have been tutored, and not even the Wolves will be able to stop us.”
“What of the astartes Hrok of the Thousand Sons?” the Bishop asked with a soft tone, and even the mite piped down so it could listen in to the conversation.
“What of him?”
“He has proven a strong contender for the authority of Kratos. If the masses don’t listen to the Grandfather’s words, they are slaves to Hrok’s will.” the Bishop carefully implied, not wanting to cross any boundaries that would mean an unpleasant experience with the Voice’s temper.
“Do not worry, dearest Bishop. Regardless if Hrok the Sorcerer is furthering his own agenda or that of his patrons doesn’t matter. His actions further the Wheel just as everyone else in the system. Nothing can change that.” the Voice turned to all of them, and they all backed a step backwards – for just a moment. “Not the arrogant offspring of the Red, nor deluded Wolves or the blinded agents of the False-Emperor. Neither you nor the children of the Dark Queen can change Fate. Not even me.”
After a long pause, as if everyone within the chamber was holding their breath for the Voice’s next words, they started to relax again. The small little spawn-thing in the Bishop’s hand started to blurt and gape again, and the Bishop could do nothing but smile lovingly to it. It didn’t know any longer if it was its own love, or another blessing from the Lord of All – it was hard to distinguish the difference nowadays. 
“But now that we speak of Hrok; our Master has sent for one of his Heralds to walk the earth of Kratos, so you would do good to prepare for his coming.” the Voice finally said, and the silence was once again broken.
“Who has the Master sent for?” the Frater Sanguinary asked eagerly, the sound of his knuckles cracking indicating that he grasped for his blessed chain-axe – the symbol of Kharnath’s wrath. 
“The Red Rider.” the screeching figure blurred in machine-cant. “The one granted to take peace from the earth. That daemon called War.” 
“You Brujahs and your damn poetic nonsense!” growled a figure still mostly human.
“Just don’t stand in his way.” the Voice broke through and settled the matter.
“So the fleet will come to Kratos then?” the Bishop chuckled. “Marvelous. The skies themselves will be lit with the fires of dying leviathans.” 
“Yes, as I said. Blood will be spilled on the altar.”
“What of those whoremongers amongst the Inquisition?” cackled a figure not nearly human. “The False-Emperor’s infidels work tirelessly to stop the awakening of Kratos people!” 
“Ah, about that.” gloated the Bishop happily. “I was brought words just from De’na’roga before this gathering. That lovely girl Innocent reported that the Revolutionary Front has captured an agent of those violent psychopaths, and an interrogation will soon take place. We will have the location of their headquarters in no time!” 
“Good.” the Voice nodded. “And when you do, Bishop, be sure to kill every single one of them. Give no quarter.”
Was that hatred that the Bishop could hear beneath that calm voice of composure? The spawn-thing threw its arms up and shrieked in displeasure as it grew bored of the scene, and the Bishop had to calm it with soothing words and stroking gestures.
“Those with no love in their hearts will soon perish before the power of the Lord of All.” it chimed and hugged its offspring closer to the chest.

[spafe]

Quality writing, even if it is a little disturbing in places :-p

[SchultzChaos]

Thank you! :) I'm honoured by your praise!

Please, do tell what you find disturbing!

[deathspectersgt7]

[SchultzChaos]

Great Lords of the Inquisitorial Ordo Libatis, I have upon your request gathered the archelogical findings from the Angala ruins on the northern hemisphere. We had to sacrifice two minor operations to escape notice by members of the witch-finders, but it seems that we succeded in both retriving the colchisian tablets and remain invisible outside our order. Here follows my own translation of the tablets, using the Scripta Lexcanis you gifted me with from our benefactor.

 

What I found was disturbing to say the least, but it gives us an explanation to the xenos presence within the Pandora-borders. Some of my colleagues have even theorized that Protonus Prime might have been a world inhabited by the elder-species before their mythological Fall. How this fact can coexist with our findings that pre-imperial human civilization thrived on Protonus for at least two thousand years before Imperial contact is to me still an unresolved mystery. Neither do I have any answers to why we have found stone tablets in both high gothic and colchisian.

 

What I do hope is that my translation will give us some insight to why the forces of the Arch-enemy has come to the system, and maybe to what is at stake.

 

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Few stories exist today that still tell the tale of the High King of Ib, that fabled city now lost to myth and legend. It is a story said to tell of a being that wanted to do good, but in the end did great evil – and that once you sit the Throne of Monarchs, you not only governs your people, you also carry the weight of their souls.

 

What few sources that still remain to this day tell us about a tragic tale and that it began with a War in Heaven. There raged the Gods of Spirit against the Gods of Matter, and their battles were terrible and full of sorrow. What kindled this conflict remains unknown, but balance was tipped and the Gods of Spirit could not suffer the Gods of Matter and their presence within Heaven. It is said that many of the Gods died during this event, and that their children wept for them as the ruins of their bodies floated away into the nothingness of the Dark. Some Gods lost their focus and drifted away, never to be seen again, while others received wounds so crippling that they would never walk amongst their beloved sons and daughters. Other Gods fled the War, racing through Heaven to its furthest corners hiding in wait for the storm to calm – if it ever did. One God of Spirit made from its hands one last piece of craftsmanship, for thus was its claims that it was the greatest of smiths, and a jewel most beautiful were created. Into this jewel the God of Spirit poured the dreams and hopes of its dying kin and with a last breath of air molded the jewel into a City were the unborn dreams could live. Knowing that its kin could never claim this City as their own, for their power together with the Gods of Matter were receding, it made a Throne for one of the children to sit – and that mortal would be a King of Monarchs and rule. The King worthy of the Throne would hold the dreams of the Gods in his hands, and a dynasty eternal would be his. That was the final gift from the God of Spirit, and then it died with a sigh.

 

The City was named by the children after the God of Spirit who had made it, and many of their kind came to live there. With them they brought beauty, knowledge and peace – for the War was over, and none amongst the children of the Gods wanted to rekindle that terrible beast. Instead they knew for awhile only that sweet peace of tranquility and the City was prosperous. Many wonders were made during this time in the honour of the Gods of Spirit, and the children beamed with radiant souls of bliss, yet no one of the children dared sit on the Throne of Monarchs, for who could be pure enough for its seat? Time passed, and the children forgot the Throne, instead enjoying every aspect of their new life in the City. But peace can never last, for soon the dreams of the Gods of Spirit were given birth, pushed to existence by the powerful presence of the children. They did not know the children – for they had been unborn while the Gods of Spirit walked with their sons and daughters. To the horror of the children these dreams of the Gods had not been nourished by the time of peace, but they had been seeded during the terrible War in Heaven, and they knew only the way of Chaos – that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods. The dreams of the Gods where hungry for life, and found it in the souls of the children. Wanting to live, wanting to breath and experience the mysteries of life, the dreams consumed the children as they went through the City. Wanting to feel the caress of the parents now dead and gone, the dreams consumed the souls of the children. The City was in turmoil as Chaos visited upon its inhabitants, and the Dark crept closer to Heaven.

 

It was during this time that five heroes arrived to the City, their souls bearing the mark of the Gods. They were pure of heart and carried purpose with them, for they had all been visited upon by Fate – that great power had told them that they would one day rule the City and one of them would sit on the Throne. And so they sought out the City in its grim moments, and ventured into that Chaos. There within the Chaos they defeated four great powers that resided above the dreams and the heroes took their powers as their own.

-          The Priestess consumed the Shard of Life, for hers were the way of mercy and love.

-          The Knight consumed the Shard of Power, for his were the way of honour and justice.

-          The Sorcerer consumed the Shard of Wisdom, for his were the way of knowledge and magic.

-          The One-who-was-to-be-the-Queen consumed the Snake, for this was the power yet to be born amongst the dreams, and it would be harboured within her as the seed of the Future.     

-          And the One-who-was-to-be-the-King consumed a part of all the powers, for his was the greatest soul amongst all five of the heroes. His brow was already heavy with the weight of Fate.

 

So it came to pass when Chaos, that-many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods was bested by the five heroes, and the City restored to the children. The dreams were made prisoners and judged to never walk among the children again, for their crimes had been terrible and great. Five keys were crafted and given to each of the heroes so their hands alone held the fate of the dreams. With these events the One-who-was-to-be-the-King proclaimed himself destined by Fate to sit on the Throne of Monarchs, and the City to be his and his alone. Neither the children nor the heroes denied him this right, for his brow was already heavy with the weight of Fate. And so the High King was coronated and the City was saved from the dreams of Chaos.

 

Long it prospered in an age that must have been golden for the children of the Gods. The King came to be beloved by his subjects and befriended one of them like he was a brother unto him. This child of the Gods became the Seneschal, a trusted advisor that guided the King’s realm with a steady hand. And the King married the Queen, she who now carried the seed of the Future inside of her, and there was much rejoicing. To the other three heroes that conquered Chaos and the four great powers within the King made positions within his Court to them. They were like his siblings, and he would bless them with the love of a brother. Much was regained during this time, as things forgotten were found once again. But when the flames are as most bright the shadows are the darkest.

 

Soon the Queen took ill from the seed within her, and took the Court with her to her chambers. The King trusted them and he and the Seneschal ruled alone for awhile, their gazes upon the realm. But the sickness that had taken the Queen was not one of disease, but of want. A hunger grew within her as steadily as time waxed forward, a hunger no one could explain or cure with any known remedy or holy script. So as she closed the doors to her bedchamber with the rest of the Court it was to slake a thirst uncontrollable. The Court who loved the Queen dearest could not deny her when she asked of them that which she craved, for their love was equal to the Queen and the King. And so they answered every of her needs, pleasures and hungers to quell the illness of want, and the seed of the Future stirred within the womb of the Mother given form by that rapture. When she asked for no more, and only craved the rest that comes after, they left her alone. But time had waxed far as they had courted the Queen, and the King did not recognize the Court as they reemerged before his Throne. Something had stolen light from their eyes, and he saw the burden that weighted their shoulders. For the first time the King knew fear – for what could haunt the heroes that conquered Chaos, that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods? He left the Throne to seek out Fate, and left his seat to the Seneschal while he walked beyond his realm.

 

Far the King walked and his long strides saw him carry his presence beyond the realm of the children of the Gods. He saw places untouched, and places to be touched. He saw children of other Gods, either young or dead, and despaired at the vastness of the world that he thought he had known. Such greatness, could it really be governed or was it all destined to perish beneath the Dark that crept ever closer? The King took haste and fled over the sky to find his price, but was time and time again stopped by the marvels of the children of other Gods. He saw the old ones, dead yet not dead, sleeping beneath the veil of Time as they awaited the return of the Gods of Matter. He walked amongst the emerald ones, those uncaring for Fate and unfettered by despair. He lived for awhile with the young ones – destined to die still young – whose souls reminded him of the children of the Gods. Here it is said that the King for a moment lost himself to that desire of lust and lay with the young ones, for he found beauty in their fleeting lives and loved them for that. But the more he saw the more convinced he grew that his realm was a frail one. How could his rule be eternal when the Future seemed so bleak? How could he protect his City from all that was the vastness of the world? So much did he see and much did he do before he at last found his feet before the Temple of Fate. With steps of burden he walked up to the Throne of Fate and asked

-          How come you gave me your word that I and my fellow conquerors of Chaos, that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods, should rule the City eternal when I only see perils on the horizon and defeat in my Court?

Fate smiled and calmed the King

-          My words are true, for I am the threads of Time and the Eyes of tomorrow. My words stand King of the City. You will rule the City of Ib for all eternity and carry the weight of your subjects. And beside you your Court will be, always vigilant for the City.

But here the King frowned and looked puzzled

-          You speak of a City I do not know, for the City of Ib I have never heard nor tread within.

Fate smiled and calmed the King

-          My words are true, for I am the threads of Time, and the Eyes of yesterday. My words stand King of the City. The City of Ib is yours. You say you never have heard nor tread within this City, yet that is untrue – for a beloved child has many names. The Shrine of Vaul will be Ib and Ib will be the Shrine of Vaul. And yet the Shrine of Vaul is Ib and Ib is the Shrine of Vaul, for it was not only the God of Spirit that named the jewel of his creation.

But here the King frowned and looked puzzled

-          You speak of other Gods I do not know, for the Gods of Spirit that crafted my City are the only Gods I know.

Fate smiled and calmed the King for the last time

-          My words are true, for I am the threads of Time, and the Eyes of today. My words stand King of the City. Those that named the City of Ib you have already met and will meet again. Names are of power and as the name of a dead God was given to the City so was the name of an unborn God given to the City.

The King heeded these words for they were of potent and foretelling, yet he asked when stillness befell the hall again

-          Who then is the God of Ib?

Fate smiled but did not answer, and so the King ventured home.  

 

Within the City the Seneschal had ruled with a steady hand and a carrying heart, but as time waxed far and the King’s presence had not yet returned illness took the children of the Gods. But their sickness was not that of disease but that of want, and a hunger within them made them crave the slaking of pleasure and need. For all the greatness of the Seneschal, and all his good will, he could not stop nor halt the sickness. It spread like wild fire within the hearts of the children, and soon the City was covered in their rapture. And yet, the darkest of events had not yet unfolded. The Court grew jealous of the Seneschal, bitter by the King’s decision to give the Throne to one who was not one of them, for the heroes that conquered Chaos, that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods, were not the children of the Gods. Something grew within them with that jealousy and no one could hinder it.

-          The Priestess did not think the Seneschal gave enough love to the people, and so she took upon herself to care for all and every one even those that did not ask for it.

-          The Knight did not think the Seneschal upheld enough justice for the people, and so he took upon himself to act out justice where he saw it fit, even when it was not needed.

-          The Sorcerer did not think the Seneschal carried enough knowledge and set out to make all knowledge of the children and the City his and his alone, even when it was knowledge no one should know.

-          And the Queen lay in convulsion of rapture as the seed of the Future prepared to be born from within her. Her want for more and more grew to be a thirst that could not be slaked by mortal means, and she was tended every day by one of the Court so her every needs could be satisfied for the moment.

Forgotten was the prosperous age of sweet peace of tranquility, as the age of lust took hold of the children of the Gods and the Court, and so no one kept watch as the Dark crept within the City. And to this the King returned to when time had waxed far and beyond. 

 

The King was aghast to see what had happened to the jewel of the God of Spirit. No longer it glittered with the light of stars, but burnt with a dark flame from beyond. His subjects had taken to the streets enacting decadence incomparable to mortals and the sane alike, the horrors they visited upon each other so they could slake the thirst for want. The illness was everywhere and the walls cried out in terror at the sins done before them. Within their prisons the dreams of the Gods chattered and cackled, trying their best to claw themselves out of their confinements so they too could participate in the feast – for this was all they knew of life, feeding on the fantasies of the children of the Gods. The King raced towards his chambers as the wild dance of lust around him gained potency and strength, and something suckled on this energy like the milk from a Mother – something breaking free from the prison of the womb. There amongst the sins he found the Court, madden by an illness of heart.

-          The Priestess claimed herself to be Lord of All, granting despair unto those she at the same time claimed to love. She was the end of the road and no one could escape her embrace.

-          The Knight claimed himself Carnage and Wrath, for he could not stand the sins around him and carved justice with every swing of his sword. Soon he did not care for justice, only that blood flowed.

-          The Sorcerer claimed himself the Changer of Ways, the one to bring hope through the use of forbidden magick and lore. He goaded everyone around him until themselves lost their ways and wandered a path not their own.

-          And the Queen gasped and screamed as the godling, that seed of the Future pushed itself out of her. All she wanted was to satisfy every sense that lingered within her, every pleasure she thirsted for, consume all that her hunger craved.

And amongst all this the King stood, and soon found that all the keys expect for his own were gone.

 

The King found the Seneschal seated on the Throne, heavy with sorrow that he had failed his King. On his watch and during his stewardship Dark had crept into the City and goaded the children of the Gods into sin. The King was outraged that his Seneschal had failed him and demanded answers

-          You who above all of the children I would call my brother, how can you have failed me such when the trust of your King was upon your shoulders?

The Seneschal exclaimed with sorrow in his heart

-          My beloved King! I tried to stave off mischief and ill will, and I governed with patience and mercy – yet my work was undone by the hearts of your Court! Their wills have darkened and they grew jealous of my power besides yours! On the orders of the Queen they lulled the people of your City into this dance of wild lust that you now see! They all are consumed by the illness that hides in their hearts!

But this did not subdue the King’s anger but instead flung him into a wrath of hatred

-          The trust I gave you was indeed misplaced Seneschal, for not only have you failed the task that was given thee, you also accuse the ones that know my heart and mind better than all! You even dare to speak ill towards the Queen herself? A thousand flames of hell upon thee!

And so the King reached for the Seneschal and broke his back upon his knee, for the King’s rage overtook all sense and sanity. The thing left from his outburst was then sent from his Throne room in shame and despair. The King did not remain, for he travelled with the strides of celerity to the prison of dreams. There he found his fellow conquerors of Chaos, that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods. They looked upon him with masques of new skin, for all of them bore the mark of change. No longer could the King see his friends’ fair shapes, but instead saw something giant and terrible in each of them. Their keys were all embedded in one of the five locks that held the dreams from reality.

The King looked upon each of them and knew that he had wronged his beloved friend, the now broken Seneschal. Tears of purest silver ran from his cheeks as he asked them

-          What have become of the fair people that I once knew? What have become of the conquerors that each shared one of the four great powers we bested?

As one they all answered with voices like thunder and flame, like death and life

-          We are each a power of the great Dark, that which holds the Wheel of Fate.

The King found no solace from their answer and cried

-          How can you be anything else then slaves to your own wants? Are desire the only treasure of life? Is emptiness the only gift of death?

As one they all answered with voices like pain and pleasure, like light and dark

-          We are the beginning and the end, the everything and all. We are all the dreams of Gods.

And so they turned their keys and the Future was born.

 

It began with a child’s first scream as it tastes air with lungs never used. The scream was then carried upwards by thousands upon thousands as the children of the Gods saw this dream, this Future they had helped mold from the seed of power and had given birth to. For the Queen could never alone have conceived that Future for she was as bound to her subjects as they to her – their dreams and fantasies the single cup she had drank from. The Future then gave up its birth scream and grew into a roar of triumph as it stormed the gates of Heaven. With it came the dreams of the Gods finally released from their unwanted prisons. They hated the Future and they hated the children of the Gods, for they were the ones never to be born, never to be anything but dreams of want, and so they fell upon the City with nothing but Darkness within them – satisfying there hunger for life by consuming the wardens of their prison. In one second that was eternity and yet nothing of its like the children of the Gods was consumed for their sins against the Gods that had died for them. And amongst this storm of birth and death the Court shed their miens and engulfed themselves in their wants as the four great powers, leaving all traces of the fair people that once had conquered Chaos, that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods. The King despaired then like he had never before and fled before this revelation as something stirred within him, an urge of desire that had finally awoken.

 

Alone the King fled to the Throne room, his steps heavy as he reached the stairs to the Portal of Monarchs. With all his might he closed the gates behind him barring it with words of power to keep the Dark at bay. Within that hall he could hear his subjects’ screams as they were reaped unto the Wheel of Fate. He sat himself upon the Throne resting a hand on the key he did not give up, for as long as the final key was never turned maybe he could still best the Dark that engulfed Heaven? It was then he roared long and far and called for Fate to answer him, the King of Monarchs – he whose brow is heavy with the weight of Fate. And Fate came to him. The King vented rage and despair upon Fate

-          Your words were lies and your gifts poison! My realm is in ruins and my subjects murdered! My Court is undone and my dynasty has fallen from any light of day!

Fate smiled and answered the King

-          Never have I lied to you, King of the City. Yours is this dynasty and yours is the City of Ib. My words are true for I am the threads of Time and the Wheel of Fate.

The King was not calmed by these words alone

-          But this is not the hope I carried with me as I bested Chaos, that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods! This is nothing of my want!

Fate smiled and answered the King

-          But hope is merely a turn on the Wheel of Fate, King of the City. The Wheel spins four times before it begins anew and spins for eternity more. One for hope, one for lust, one for rage and one for despair. That is the balance that always spins the Wheel of Fate.

And the King saw Fate for what it was, a serpent consuming its tail of many colours, spiked with the points of eight. It was eternity and the Truth beyond the Dark. The King was truly broken as he asked

-          So never was I the master of my own Fate? Was I all along the pawn of dreams beyond Heaven and Dark? Was this always foretold to be my reward for hope?

Fate smiled and answered the King

-          The power of Fate never works if not someone acts upon it, and so the actions of mortals and Gods are always their own and their sins are their guilt. Fate is a path that many walk upon yet the one who walks can always stop whenever he wishes. And so your hope was the first spin of the Wheel of Fate, and your despair the last spin that will carry on the eternity of Fate. Yours is the Throne of Monarchs, and yours the birth of Ib, that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods. For was it not you King that consumed a part of all the powers of Fate? Was it not you that wanted to be the balance? That balance that is Chaos?

And so the want of the King consumed him there and then, as he sat atop his Throne. He had walked the path that had been offered him, and he knew only himself to blame. For isn’t hope the first step on the road to disappointment? And who is to say that your wishes are truly good? You who want to rule will rule, but over whom and what only time can tell.

 

But the path of Fate had not yet been fully reached, as the fifth key was yet unturned, and as the Black City of Ib was born something happened then that Fate did not intend. The Seneschal, ever loyal to his beloved King, used the last of his fading power to split the dream of Ib from the child of Vaul, for nothing is as strong as the power of want. And the Seneschal filled his want with the love and affection for his King who he saw as a brother unto him – the one he so dearest wanted to prove his worth for – and used all of that might to cast Chaos away from its body so Fate could not prevail that day. That power closed the dream of Ib into the Future of Fate and for a second of an eternity the Wheel of Fate halted. Heaven was empty of the children of the Gods, yet calm once more. Where the children of the Gods had once lived and ruled it now gave way for the children of the other Gods and their path of Fate. But the Wheel of Fate can never truly stop, and the fifth key was ever so slowly starting to turn – and the dream of the Black City of Ib remained in Dark beyond Heaven, where the dead Gods reside and the dreams of the Gods hate the living. And the King still sits upon his Throne of Monarchs, his Court ever at his side, governing his new people and yet carrying the weight of his dead peoples’ souls – for he is that many-faced beast that stalks the hearts of Gods and mortals, and he is the balance of Fate, a cruel yoke for the mad laughter of the powers beyond Heaven and Dark.

 

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As I told you there is more than one element to this legend that I find disturbing. With this I will finish off my report and I hope that my services has been to your satisfaction, great Lords of Ordo Libatis, and I am honoured that the Lord Stavrophoian asked for me personally. If you would require of me in the future, do not hesitate in making a personal summon. A pleasure as always. 

 

Yours sincerly

A

[deathspectersgt7]