++Inspirational Friday - 19/06/2015++

[Kierdale]

It was last year :)

Still, that's absolutely no reason not to have it again! New members, etc.

Especially as some are interested in teaming up.

[Zhaharek]

I'll take that offer Tetengee, my Chaos Dragons have a healthy hate for Horus, and his Black Legion.

[Carrack]

The Black Maw Warband had destroyed an Imperial Crusade to take back the world of Frederic III, when a daemon, Barghast the Painbringer, catastrophically overloaded a lance array at the site of their beachhead.

 

Reflections of Pain

 

 

 

He was left with nothing but pain. The old man had been enslaved by the Tribe of the Greater White Bear, the Urgslatch. He had lost everything in the blast, his friends, his weapons, his freedom, his memories, even his own name did not easily come to his lips. But pain throbbed in his head, seemingly more than what a mere concussion would bring. He wanted to curl up in a tent, away from the ceaseless sunshine of the polar summer, but his captors would beat him again if he did. He had to sleep in the pens of the sled teams, and spend his waking hours cleaning fish with a bone knife.

 

The blast that had traded the old man's life for pain had done far worse to the lands of the Urgslatch. There was taint in the ground that was seeping into everything that lived in the area, the old man included. The growling in his empty stomach seemed to be forming words that he strained to hear, and then strained not to. The bruises on his head had calcified and the old man feared they would sprout horns. He stopped checking them. The sled dogs were also affected. Mankind's oldest companions had become vicious, and lost the loyalty that was their noblest trait. They took an ear when they mauled him while he slept, yet more pain.

 

Something in the core of the old man made him preserve, some remnant of his past self, some kernel of hate. He slipped his bonds when the Urgslatch Braves had gone raiding and began walking south. This kernel of hate drove him on even nourished him at times in the frozen wastes, until he found himself walking not on frozen tundra, but muddy ground. The old man kept walking south, even when trench foot blackened his wet cold feet. In spite of the pain, the further south he walked the more he came to sense his purpose. The land he walked became somewhat familiar. He felt as if he was somehow responsible for this land. But it was hard going, fields were fallow, and game was scarce. Yet he continued hobbling south.

 

He dodged his first patrol in the mountains that he intuitively knew signaled the closing with his destination. They were hard men in black leather jacks with pistols and blades. More disturbing then their weapons and steely gazes were the extra eyes, the tentacles in place of limbs, the marks of the Dark Gods. As he watched them pass from behind a boulder, he felt pity and shame, as if he had allowed these warriors to drift from the sacred human form, odd thoughts for the troubled old man, but not as odd as the intrusive thoughts that told him he should cut them with his bone knife and bring pain to their worthless bodies. After they passed, the old man wept from the mental strain, he stared at his knife and contemplated ending the pain. But when night fell, he picked himself up and continued south avoiding patrols and shepherds with their skinny flocks alike.

 

Eventually the old man hobbled over the crest of a ridge and beheld what he knew to be his destination. A city with several spires poking out over a large curtain wall. The way the wind whipped through the spires made an eerie howl. This was the old man's destination after months if not a year of walking through hunger and pain, ever southward. This was Howler's Charn, the home of the object of the old man's driving hatred, the home of Lord Carrack, Doom of Red Siliquastrum. The old man remembered his name, he was Cardinal Weaver, and this world had once been his parish, until Lord Carrack had taken it from him. Cardinal Weaver strode down to the gate, unsure of just how, but determined to kill the Chaos Lord whom had destroyed or polluted everything that he held dear. But before he could get to the first line of trenches guarding the city he stopped at an old shel crater that had filled with water and gazed at his reflection for the first time on his journey. Smiling back at him was a horror, a black footed wild man, dressed in rags, with unkept beard and long greasy remains of a younger man's hair. But Cardinal Weaver was not smiling, and those calcified bruises had indeed formed horns sprouting from his skull. In a faltering voice, Cardinal Weaver exclaimed, "Bu-bu-but this can't be. I'm Cardinal Weaver." His voiced trailed off as the reflection in the pool spoke back to him, "You are, and you are so much more, you are Barghast the Painbringer, and together we will have our revenge."

 

 

The original Nemesis entry,

 

Nourished by Hate

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

 

My entry for this week is Reflections of Pain. Since it is a continuation of last years Nemesis challenge, I included that as well, if anyone wants to read that one. I wanted to take up someone's challenge, but I've had this story stuck in my head. I hope we challenge each other again.

 

PS. It's 250 words, honest ;)

[Zhaharek]

So this a (late) product of collaboration with Teetengee, which I must thank him for. This weeks story focuses on a pair of Chosen, animatedly discussing a recent development in their war with the Word Bearers. Looks like Lord Zhaharek has a new nemesis...

 

 

KILL ESCHARON

Arioz and Takero fought like daemons, side by side in red and gold. Word Bearers closed in, 7 on 2. Arioz smiled, he liked these odds. He struck aside the first blade, his blazing mace against whirring teeth, and pre-empted the second with a fatal jab. He regarded the dying Legionary as blood flowed from a warped helm. Struck aside a fist, taking the arm with it, without looking. Undeterred, the Word Bearer closed a fist around Arioz's gorget.

Yanked forward, CLANG, glowing spots in his eyes, and a wet concrete numbness in his head. Arioz bellowed, and spat, scraping his left canines together as he did. For a second, his mouth tasted of ash, then his lips began to burn, before his grille clicked open, and fire engulfed the Word Bearers head. He fell back, and Arioz swatted him aside, contemptuous and swift.

 

Cold steel, in his left shoulder, out of nowhere. Arioz turned, and caved in a faceplate, snarling wetly as the sword slipped out of his shoulder. His arm would be slower for a while. As if to prove that point, he barely managed to parry the next blow, from a one-armed Word Bearer with a scorched helmet. Arioz pushed against the chain blade, sparks in his face, roaring at Takero, "Since when where Word Bearers competent?"

The other Marine had to holler over the sound of his bolt pistols, as he laid down withering suppressive fire, "I suppose it might relate to- Down!"

Arioz ducked, the scorched Legionaries blade nearly decapitating him. Takero turned a pistol on him, and the Word Bearer did a bloody, jerking dance, before crumpling.

 

The dual wielder restarted, "I suppose it might relate to their Black Legion allies." He kneecapped a Word Bearer without looking, a meat double-tap. Arioz returned to his feet, taking advantage of the momentary lull in combat. The remaining four had abandoned close quarters, and backed off to form a firing line. Not Veterans of the Long War, evidently just half blooded things, recent additions to the 17th. Arioz suddenly processed what Takero had said, and yelled, "Black Legion?!?"

"Oh calm down, it's just a warband." said the other Dragon, taking a pair of potshots at the firing line. Takero paused. "They've got a flamer."

Arioz laughed, as the two of them were engulfed in promethium. Too often did opponents forget that the "Dragon" part of the Chaos Dragons had significant foundation. They shared a glance, and Arioz charged, Takero's bolts howling past his him.

"How did we make an enemy of this Warband?" Arioz asked, kicking the flamer user in the face, still harmlessly ablaze. The fact that his mace already perpetually whirled with witch-fire added to aesthetic.

 

Takero answered, over the thunder of his pistols again, "Their leader, Escharon. I bore witness to it, he challenged Lord Zhaharek."

Arioz laughed as he STOMP-STOMP-STOMPED on the flamer's chest. Takero shook his head. He'd seen it.

 

The dual wielder had been crouched in by something that clanked and whirred when he'd seen it. This world had probably been a forge world. Lord Zhaharek was standing idle, toying with witch-fire in the palm of his hand. Then, the actinic tang of ozone, teleportation.

 

Escharon arrived, flanked by Terminators in sea green and burnt silver. Takero looked at the Lord, in what could only be Aegis armour. Scarred, and mutilated but nonetheless-

 

"Wait, Aegis armour?!?" Arioz grunted incredulously, punching a Word Bearer.

"Yes, now don't interrupt." returned Takero, pistol whipping a Legionary as he did.

 

Zhaharek had turned, imperious and cold, to say, "Nice coffin you're wearing, did you obtain it through brute strength or pick it off a battlefield somewhere?"

The other Astartes had glanced at the Sorcerer, and sent in his Terminators. Takero hadn't heard the rest what they said to Zhaharek, but it ended with the Terminators opening up with their Combi-weapons.

 

But Zhaharek had already disappeared, and was already trading blows with Escharon, who,

much to Takero's shock, strode through the tirade of witch-fire, to smack Zhaharek back. Just as Takero had seen Zhaharek begin to hold his own, with vicious telekinetic blows, did the ground begin to rumble, and the two combatants split apart. In a few moments, Escharon was gone. And in Zhaharek's distraction, the Seventeenth had gained the upper hand.

 

Arioz back handed, then jabbed to the stomach, then swung his mace around, BAM, to kill the final thin-blooded Word Bearer. Then, turning to Takero, who was taking a moment to lean on a corpse, "So, I can't imagine that Lord Zhaharek is in a good mood." he said.

The other Dragon shook his head, "Enraged, of course."

 

As if on queue, their standing orders changed, and update in their vox HUD. It read simply: "KILL ESCHARON."

 

Arioz laughed. Takero shrugged, an odd motion in power armour, and asked, "What now? It looks like we have a new nemesis."

Arioz hefted his mace. "Can't you read?" He adjusted his grip, and said: "We kill Escharon."

[Teetengee]

“Damnable Miscreant!” Escharon shouted over the screams and machinery of the Beast.

“Sir we are still-

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THIS WILL COST ME! In slaves, in time, in oaths. My forgelords can’t repair damage this extensive and-”

An explosion interrupted him as the Beast was sent several meters sideways and skidded to a halt. An earsplitting roar came from the creature while Escharon and his knights left it to tell the damage. One of the Dragons rushed his position screaming death only to be stopped as the beast opened its tracked claws and tore him in two, still screaming, though the tone had changed slightly.

“Sir, we have to wait here, the right tread is inoperable.”

“...colchashbinyonmorbakhfarnzshtheth….” Escharon chanted, calming the injured creature, while his attendants waited. “Hail Balgo and Ulrick on the vox.”

“Ulrick is nonresponsive, Balgo is here.” said one of the serfs who had just now climbed from the Beast covered in fresh wounds and holding out the speaker of the ancient vox he wore, which Escharon quickly took.

--“Balgo. Orders my lord?--

--“You and Ulrick have command for now, make sure he doesn’t lose too many this time.”--

--“Yes, my liege, I will use the madmen appropriately.”--

Escharon turned to the vox-slave, “Now, hail my scribes, find out who that sorcerer was.”

“Right away my lord.” The remaining serfs furiously began communicating descriptions and battle positions back with the ships above.

“My lord, it appears the offender’s name is Zhaharek, lord of the Chaos Dragons.”

“Very well,” Escharon replied, whilst he and his retinue made short work of the small units that kept bearing down on them near the edge of the battle. “Once we finish what we came here for, send a notice throughout the Tide, any who bring me Zhaharek’s head may ask for one boon. Those who bring him to me alive will be given a weapon from my personal armoury.”

[TDF]

The commanders of the 47th Host stood in the Enlightenment’s war room. It had been a very long time since all of them had been gathered in one place, but this was a most uncommon circumstance. The Long War had lasted for over seven-and-a-half millennia and this was only the Warmaster’s ninth Black Crusade.

 

Coryphaus Xal Guram brought up a schematic of the Black Legion warship Hell’s Graveyard on the pict screen. “What do we know of the Black Brothers?” he asked.

 

Garan Amalphus stepped forwards. “They’re zealots. They were utterly devoted to Horus until Abaddon stole their loyalty at the point of a sword. Now they’re his self-appointed enforcers.”

 

“Can we expect them to interfere with our operations?” Kor Mellek asked.

 

“Without a doubt,” replied Amalphus. “I never had the pleasure of meeting Anaxilas when I fought for the XVI, but I know him by reputation. He is completely inflexible when it comes to obeying orders. The Warmaster only demands that the weapons factories of Tuleien IV be silenced. His directive says nothing of Tuleien VI.”

 

“The sixth planet must die,” Kanan Raam interjected. “The song is very clear on that. I care nothing for the fourth. The Black Brothers are fully capable of carrying out their orbital bombardment with or without us.”

 

“By your Word, Dark Apostle,” Amalphus nodded. “But we should be aware that Anaxilas is likely to react angrily to any deviation from Abaddon’s orders.”

 

“We will keep the Black Brothers’ ships at arm’s length then,” said Xal Guram. “I will relay our formation to the fleet. Dismissed.”

 

As the astartes left the room Xal Guram turned to Kanan Raam. “My lord, would it not be best to delay the destruction of Tuleien VI until after the campaign on Tuleien IV is complete and the Black Brothers have translated out of system?”

 

Kanan Raam shook his head. “When I look to the future I hear a confused cacophony. I do not want to leave this action to chance. It is critical that we destroy the sixth planet as soon as we can before we are knocked aside by the tides of war.”

 

Xal Guram saluted. “By your Word, Dark Apostle.”

[Conn Eremon]

The low growl as Anaxilas leaned down to grip the sides of the holo-projector table came as much from his throat as the servos in his thick plate armor. Black motes slowly danced before his eyes, approaching in formation upon a veritable cloud composed of pinpricks of white light. Distantly, but on the same course, a swarm of red dots surged like a tide of blood. Word Bearers, a warband deluding itself into thinking their ancient, bloated Legion still existed in any relevant manner. Alongside Anaxilas and the Black Brothers, they were rapidly approaching the Imperium's first line of defense in the Tuleien System, close enough to see Tuleien VI, the system's first inhabited world, as a small disk, like a pebble held up close for inspection. But it was the Word Bearers that held Anaxilas' attention.

 

“They are off course.”

 

This was noticed by his brother Hieromathes as well, captain of the Hell's Graveyard and master of the Black Brothers' ships. “Their current path will take them directly into the center of the defenses surrounding Tuleien VI. It appears they do not intend to follow the plan of performing a rapid termination of the target world, and instead intend to take the system one at a time. Should we follow? We will both be more likely to achieve our goals as a combined force.”

 

Anaxilas' grip tightened, the metal ridges groaning as he asserted formidable pressure. But instead of answering, Anaxilas turned to look upon one of his men, the former Techmarine Anaecles. “Did the Legion archives have anything on this Host that would explain their behavior?”

 

Anaecles unfolded his arms from across the chest, shifting his weight forward as attention was placed upon him, his mechanical voice emitting directly from where his voicebox used to be. “The 47th Host is led by Kanan Raam, a former Word Bearer who appears to be a rather fey fool. His mind is filled with a cacophony of noise that would make a son of Fulgrim wince, yet he believes that it is a form of music that enlightens him to his destiny. Far as I can tell, he's chosen this path because the singers in his head tell him to.”

 

A derisive, barking laugh came from Erasimedes, the champion of the Black Brothers and the Tyrant's confidante, at his brother's words. “How like the bearers of Lorgar's words, to find meaning in something useless and call it proof of faith.”

 

Hieromathes interrupted Erasimedes before he could continue further, taking a step forward. “I ask again, should we follow?”

 

Anaxilas straightened himself up and looked at his ship's captain. “The Warmaster's orders were clear. Tuleien IV cannot be allowed to supply the front lines against him, and we are to do so with haste and economy, so that we may rejoin the Black Legion whole and unspent. Send a message to whichever ship this Kanan Raam dwells in that his fleet must avoid the defenses around Six and make for Four alongside us, by order of the Warmaster.”

 

Hieromathes nodded his head. “I'll relay the message, but he won't like it. Abaddon is not his Warmaster.”

 

“He can believe all he likes, as long as he obeys. If they do not assault Tuleien IV alongside us, this Host will know that we carry the Warmaster's wrath as we unleash it. If their duplicity loses us our objective, than the knowledge will prove fatal. I will personally see to that.”

 

“Is that wise, Tyrant? Their ships do outnumber ours.” Erasimedes asked, but it was Hieromathes who answered.

 

“They do, but if it comes to that I can make the first hit count, and the second hit count even more.”

 

“Good. Now, bypass Tuleien VI, and pass on my warning.” With that, Anaxilas turned his back from the table and began the trek to his arming chamber, Erasimedes following alongside.

 

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

 

NECRO-DECRYPTION ASTRAVOX TRANSCRIPT

ORDO HERETICUS EYES ONLY

 

Sample Number: 856.235.512.584//841

Transcript Begins: [1v1/932/J.465] 574.M38

 

A: Kanan Raam, this is Anaxilas. Hold fast. Prepare for boarding.

 

K: Boarding? I don't particularly care for the commanding tone. With what right do you think to board us?

 

A: By right of the Warmaster.

 

K: “The Warmaster is not here, son of Horus, and neither has there been contact with him.

 

Vox disruption. Hypothetical: Subject A is growling.

 

A: Your attack on Tuleien VI was not part of the Warmaster's plan given unto us. Your assault has jeopardized our efforts. Whatever power you sought to gain there is by rights due to the Warmaster, by your service to him. We will board, and you will give to us this tithe.

 

K: Be careful of the demands you make, Anaxilas. I serve higher powers first and always, and I act as their will is sung.

 

A: There are no higher powers than the Warmaster.

 

Further vox disruption, from Subject K, suggesting a transformation of his facial features. EDITORIAL NOTE: HE SMILED. ANALYSIS OF SUBJECT K'S FOLLOWING WORDS LEADS ONE TO ASSUME A TONE OF MOCKERY

 

K: I speak of the gods.

 

A: Gods fail.

 

Vox disruption from Subject K ceases, facial transformation halted. EDITORIAL NOTE: SEE ABOVE

 

K: I say this one more time, Black Brother. Be wary of your words.

 

A: Then I will waste no more words, apostle. Prepare your ship for boarding.

 

Transcript Ends: [1v1/937/W.465] 574.M38

 

Necro-Decryption Savant: Membetic 7159 ={LIQUIDATED}=

Auto-Transcriptor Savant: Geshaleph 2153 ={LIQUIDATED}=

[TDF]

The enormous slab of muscle that was once Ezrus Khiyron let out a deafening bellow and charged down the length of the corridor, tossing aside Word Bearers, serfs and Black Legionnaires alike. Kanan Raam followed, executing wounded Black Brothers with precision shots from his plasma pistol.

 

The Dark Apostle cursed himself for his stupidity. Every seer knew the risk that any action taken to avoid a possible future ran the risk of bringing about the very future it was supposed to prevent. His decision to carry out the destruction of the sixth planet had sparked the conflict he had tried to pre-empt.

 

Kanan Raam turned a corner and his self-flagellation was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of the giant chaos spawn lying headless on the ground, its acidic black blood steaming off the power sword of Anaxilas, Tyrant of the Black Brothers.

 

“I will give your head to the gods, Anaxilas!” Kanan Raam roared.

 

“And I will give your head to the Warmaster,” Anaxilas smiled grimly. “Same difference.”

 

Kanan Raam swung his crozius and sparks flew as its energy field collided with that of Anaxilas’ power sword.

 

“You will die for your blasphemy,” the Dark Apostle spat.

 

The Tyrant deigned to answer, instead lunging with a strike that slid down the haft of the crozius and severed three of Kanan Raam’s fingers. The Dark Apostle stumbled backwards and, without thinking, threw down a rune stone onto the deck. There was a crack of lightning and a strong whiff of ozone, and then the corridor was ripped apart as the warp tore its way into the mortal realm.

 

The corridor distorted further and further; within moments the two combatants were over ten metres apart. Anaxilas fired his bolt pistol but the rounds were swallowed up by the gaping warp void. The shots served only to attract the attention of the Plague God’s servants clambering out of the schism.

 

Anaxilas fought the daemons off for a few minutes, sending over two dozen back to the hell they had so recently clawed their way out of. Their numbers were without end, however, and with a bitter Cthonian curse the Tyrant made his retreat.

 

Kanan Raam drew his athame and sliced twin lines down his cheeks. With a murmured prayer he brought the blade down onto the rune stone and shattered it. The neverborn burst open, spraying diseased fluids in every direction. The warp rift imploded with a deafening thunderclap. Kanan Raam turned, passing by the already regenerating spawn. As he walked up the corridor his ears rang with vox-calls from across the fleet, relaying the bloody consequences of his folly.

[Tenebris]

http://shrani.si/f/1a/o3/bgHYhQ/gallery2900410383202531.png
 
Greetings and welcome to Inspirational Friday. First thing first I have to thank the moderator in making Excessus for helping me run the column while I was busy with RL stuff. I really liked the idea of the Chaos Familiar and Nemesis and after reading your contributions I am very tempted to provide a similar cooperative topic in the future. Said so I can say that that this week contributions were epic and every single one sparked my curiosity and I really wanted more. From the superb venom twist to the descent to madness of a Cardinal to the clash between Chaos Lords, everything was very well written and truly inspiring, and for this you have my thanks frater. 

 

So who is the winner this week, well actually there are two winners or better, we have a winning team. TDF and Conn Eremon surprised us all with the good narrative and a nice confrontation between two very different Chaos Warbands and two very different Chaos Lords. Both have their motives, both answer to a higher authority and both and inflexible when comes to obeying the said orders be them spoken by the Warmaster or sung by the Dark Gods. I really liked this exchange between TDF and Conn Eremon and I think that their work is both inspiring and the reason why I plan to present some more cooperative topics in the future. 

 

I must say that a honorable mention goes to all the writers this week for your contributions kept me behind the PC and now behind the keyboard for a good two hours of real fanfiction. As I have said above, I thank you for this. 

 

Come forth TDF and Conn Eremon and recieve your prize!

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/15/friday-award.png

 

 

As promised this Inspirational Friday will be something special and I kept my promise. Two weeks ago I challenged the frater to a picture competition in the Aedes area and of them all airinhere's contribution was the best. The prize was not only to chose a topic for Inspirational Friday but also to be the judge of the contributions. I want you to welcome airinhere among us and offer him your best. 

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 05/06/2015 - Ruination

 

This week I would like to turn our thoughts to what transpires in the mind of the heretic when he first realizes the finality of his deeds. What surge of endorphin or pangs of regret might he experience as he slowly begins to realize that he is the monster.

 

The Knights of Blood are a chapter of space marine that walks the edge between heresy and honor.  Fleet based operations keep brothers separated by time and space. Yet, as a whole they are slipping slowly into chaos.  Your challenge is to find that moment for a brother in the Knights of Blood chapter and chronicle their story.

 

Not all chapters of Space Marines fall to the temptations of Chaos at once. And not all men find its embrace satisfying.

 

Let us be inspired!

[Castellan Cato]

Desarius sprinted up the winding tunnels with baited breath.  One phrase kept echoing through his mind until he started chanting it aloud into the empty corridor.

 

“Did it work?”

 

He had descended into this ancient crypt on the promise that an archaeotech weapon held at its center would be the salvation of this world.  The cost had been high, his entire command squad had earned the Emperor’s Rest, but he has located the weapon and activated it.  He had heard the ancient machinery grind into action, but his very soul ached to know if it had repelled the Eldar invasion from his beloved homeworld.  He saw light ahead and doubled his speed.  He burst from the entrance portal and he roared out with delight to be in the still open air of Carpathia again.  He saw his Chapter’s keep glimmering on the horizon.  The air was clear of wretched Eldar fighters!

 

His eyes began to adjust to the daylight and his jaw went slack with shock.  On the field below him, where he expected the remnants of his company to welcome him with open arms, was a scene the likes of which he never thought possible.  Hundreds of loyal Marines and Eldar scum alike lay in heaps like refuse unceremoniously tossed into a waste receptacle.  A moment of inspection showed that they had fallen in the midst of close quarters combat.  He paused before a Marine whose combat blade was buried in the shoulder of an Eldar warrior.  What would have been an efficient kill stroke was paused part way through its victim.  Desarius looked for damage on the Marine’s armor, but he could not find any indication of what had sealed the fate of this brave warrior of the Emperor.

 

Desarius fell to his knees unable to bear the grief that was seeping from his heart and into his limbs. Were they all like this?  Had his Chapter fallen despite his efforts?

 

“What has happened here?  Did I cause this?” he yelled, knowing no one but the Emperor could hear him.

 

“You did,” proclaimed a raspy voice behind him.  A skeleton-like hand touched his left pauldron lightly.  “Activating the weapon released an ancient plague on this planet.  All life was terminated immediately.  You have very much pleased the Lord of Decay today.”

 

“What…” Desarius mumbled, stumbling back to his feet.  He turned to the trespasser and found a robed form, roughly the height of a Marine, but with none of the body mass.  The wraith was armed with a large scythe in one bony hand; the other was still extended toward Desarius.  “Who are you?  What is your purpose here?”

 

The phantom chuckled.  “Come with me.  I will show you.  Nurgle has such hopes for you. ”

“Never!” Desarius exclaimed, jumping back away from the creature.  He glanced around for a weapon and raised his guard. “I will not turn from the Emperor! Leave me Daemon.”

 

The dead hands of the specter rose up and pulled back its hood.  Desarius was startled to see his own features looking back at him, although drawn and sickly. “Oh my son… but you already have.”

 

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

 

The warrior formerly known as Desarius of the Crimson Eagles lifted his head to look at the ancient Marine he was keeling before. 

 

“And that was the day that you embraced Chaos?” Lord Skeletus wheezed from his command chair.

 

“No,” Desarius the Worldkiller said “That came some time later; after I had learnt the truth of the Gods and the powers they can bestow.  The story I have related is from my day of ruination, as you asked.  The day the Emperor’s light decided to no longer shine on me.”

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, TDF and Conn. I think more collaborative efforts might be interesting in the future too.

 

And congratulations to airinhere and thanks for the interesting topic for this week.

[Teetengee]

So, do we have to write about the Knights of Blood, or can we do any ruination moment?

[airinhere]

The main idea is the ruination. Knights of blood are a chapter I play, and their half realized fall into chaos has always held my interest. I will favor stories about the Knights, but they are not the only chapter with such stories.

[SlangWhanger]

I've been wanting to join in for a while now, and this seems like a great topic! How long is it until entries need to be done by?

[Warsmith Aznable]

I've been wanting to join in for a while now, and this seems like a great topic! How long is it until entries need to be done by?

 

The contest is Friday to Friday, so get your entries in by the following Thursday night for judging. Other than that, it's been said that past topics are OK to revisit, but they are out of competition.

[SlangWhanger]

As promised, I have attempted a piece of my own. Having reread the brief I realise I may be slightly off, but I wrote about the moment a Loyalist 'clicked' and became one with Chaos. Anywhoo, enjoy...

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Korethann flexed his muscle-bundles for the last time, preparing himself for the final, glorious charge. The dismembered corpses of his three battle brothers were scattered about him in the fox-hole, their armour rent in numerous places. Their left pauldrons all bore deep scrapes and heat warping, results of the Chaplain's zealous removal of any links to their previous Chapter.

 

Korethann looked at his own damaged pauldron and remembered the final, suicidal mission he had been given by his superiors: bring back the head of the Chaos Lord Varr'Brak Nar. In this way would his honour, and thus his place in the Chapter, be restored. The Astartes clamped his ceramite fist around his battered combat knife, his bolter long forgotten as the last of their ammunition ran dry, and gripped the edge of the foetid hole.

 

With a speed and elegance unbefitting one of such bulk, Korethann leapt out of his sanctuary and prepared himself to die with a curse on his lips and traitor blood on his blade.

 

But what was waiting for the Space Marine out in the open paused him in his tracks.

 

Five Chaos Space Marines stood one hundred yards away from him, just looking, bolters hanging languidly at their sides. The one in the centre of the group, wearing greatly embellished power armour, rose an arm in salute, and the five starting trudging forward. Korethann stood stone still, taking stock of the situation. He could take at least two Heretics with him, if not three. Yet he did not.

 

The Traitors stopped a Rhino's length from him, and the ostentatious one stepped forward, offering a disturbingly genuine bow. Suddenly Korethann realised who he was facing. Varr'Brak Nar. His salvation.

 

A curt signal, and one of the Chaos Marines stepped forward, handing the loyalist a loaded boltgun. He stepped back in line, and they all turned their backs to him.

 

This was his chance! He had his honour at his fingertips, within grasping distance. All he had to do was pull the trigger once, and his place in the Chapter would be restored. Four more shots and he would have a chance of returning to it.

 

His grip tightened on the pistol grip, index finger resting gently on the trigger. Aiming down his sights, Korethann lined up the bolter with the back of Nar's head. His finger started to tense. Finally he would be able to complete the mission his Chapter Master had set him. The Chapter Master who had looked at the four Brothers with open disdain. Korethann would be able to return to the hallowed halls of his Brethren and rejoin their mighty ranks. The Brethren which had shunned him. The Brethren which had stood by as he had been given the sentence worse than death. The Brethren which had treated him as they would the Chaos filth that now stood in front of him. As if he would be happy to spill his own Brothers' blood.

 

Korethann lowered the bolter, and vomited violently as the truth suddenly hit him.

 

His Brethren were right.

[Kongou]

 The universe is full of wonders

And I have seen many things

But one thing that has continued to mistify me

through out my life 

is the peoples blinding devotion 

like cattle

to a dead corpse on a throne

Why

why do they give their lives

their children

their materials

their livelihood

to a corpse....

I was one of the blind 

at first

one of the endless number of demigods

guarding the empire

from harm

and yet

the oh so holy order

of the inquisition

wiped my chapter from their records

and blasted my chapters home from orbit

and murders my brothers

un aware

glory lost

sacrifices desecrated

hunted down like dogs

until we

of the second squad 1st company

were the survivors

and you say unto us

why are you here

and I say to you

You act like cattle, mindlessly following a dead mans words without thinking

what are cattle meant for? why are they alive?

Cattle were meant to be butchered

So let us be the butchers on your planet

Pray?

for if you'd rather die tired

who are we to stop you?

~vox transmission to the planetary governor  of achioll terrax

[Teetengee]

“Through work for the Emperor we are saved. Ask not what the Imperium can do for you. Ask what you can do for the Imperium,” I speak defiantly, though I am caged and in chains. My neck restrained and my eyes forced open by metal and leather, for some foul purpose I know not.

 

The woman sits in front of me, her clothing  as neat and sharp as always, surrounded by vidscreens. Her voice is like a gloved gauntlet, soft on the outside, but concealing a ruthless inner strength, “Why not ask what you have done for the Imperium.” Her words were accentuated by a stream of images surrounding her. People screaming and fleeing. Soldiers fighting civilians. Marines butchering mutants. Butchering heretics. Butchering protesters. Butchering children. I can’t close my eyes to the flood of imagery, some of it I remember, but all of it is familiar.

 

“Listen not to the words of the traitor, for they speak only honeyed lies.” The mantras alone keep me sane in my imprisonment.

 

“Who is lying now, soldier?” The screens filled with more images, how they found them I do not know, but they are scenes I was present for the first time. Once again, I cannot close my eyes to the horrors I see. “Look at what you have done for the Imperium. Imperial citizens, put to the sword purely because they witnessed evidence of the lies that the Imperium tells to them. So tell me, what can you do for the Imperium?”

 

“I protect, I am a servant of the High Lords! I kill their enemies with bolter in hand and hate in my heart!” I cannot give in to a heretic.

 

“Of the second I have no doubt.”

 

“I serve the people of the Imperium!” I say it without thinking, even though the words now ring hollow in my ears.

 

“How? By covering the Imperium in a thick layer of their blood so that further generations might be similarly sacrificed? By forcing cruel adherence to a false creed which denies the existence of the true gods, whose servants, you have been shown before? By butchering families whose only crime was giving birth to a child one step too far removed from your genetic normativity?

Who have you served?”

 

“I have served the High Lords…”

 

 

“Yes, and how have you served?”

 

“By killing their enemies.”

 

“Yes, the children of humanity, the truthspeakers, the innocent, and those too brave to be docile in the face of bureaucratic depravity. So who are the enemies of the High Lords”

 

Her meaning struck me with the finality of a guillotine. So many dead, all wearing the aquillas of the imperium, dead to preserve an empire of blood. Yet it is only ever more, there can be no end as long as humanity exists and denies the truth. It has to continue, “Humanity must be sacrificed so that the Imperium can be saved.”

 

“I offer a simple alternative, the Imperium must be sacrificed so that humanity might be saved. Even if the cost to humanity in the short term is longer. I’ll let you think a bit more, I will leave you with more to look at while you do so.” She stood with a jerk and walked calmly from the room, the vids beginning again, showing history and truth and fire.

 

---

The woman sits in front of me, clothes sharp and neat. I open my mouth to speak the only truth that I can now see, “I became a monster trying to save the Imperium from humanity. I must stay the monster in order to save humanity from the Imperium. Unchain me, and show me to the front.”

 

Saying nothing she rises and walks to me, everything so quiet I can hear the whirring of gears in her cybernetics as she unhooks my restraints. My long held limbs drop to the floor and she reaches down lifting my forehead to her lips. “Now rise, blessed by grace, and walk from this room reborn and repurposed. Speak the truth always, and never let unenlightened remain so.”

[Carrack]

Forever Damned

 

 

The Siliquastrum sub-sector was falling rapidly to the Black Maw Warband and their Word Bearer allies. sector command did not have the resources to see to its defense. Instead they had elected to launch a counter attack to retake the sub-sector when they had marshaled sufficient forces. That could take centuries. The Knights of Blood, stretched thin across dozens of battle zones, could not stop the Heretic's conquest, but they did send Wadim and his squad to gather important relics and artifacts that could not be allowed to be desecrated by the Enemy. So at world after world, some already desperately, vainly trying to hold onto their very souls, Wadim would make planet fall hailed as a timely savior, turn a deaf ear to the cries for salvation, retrieve some artifact and leave the world to its doom. It sickened him. To turn from a fight galled his warrior pride, to surrender a sub-sector to the enemy went against the core of Wadim's strategic thinking. But worse was the impotence he felt when the desperate pleas for aide pulled at his hearts, he had sworn oaths to protect mankind, and this felt like betrayal and cowardice. All over baubles and trinkets. Wadim and his men hardened their hearts to the cries of mortals.

 

It did not take long for the Knights of Blood to grow to despise the doomed men, and especially their leaders of this region. Their mismanagement of their own defenses was appalling, and had allowed their fate to be sealed. Their cries for assistance were pitiful, not the actions of competent commanders. Their begging, the actions of those undeserving of command. Wadim elected to bypass the local authorities and seize the artifacts and relics by force, just so he did not have to listen to the pathetic whining of rulers of worlds. But a deeper resentment began to simmer just below the surface of his mind, and those of his squad. They would not voice these thoughts, they were to seditious, but they were there nonetheless. They began to resent their Chapter Master for sending them on this forsaken mission. They knew in their hearts, that the only reason they were collecting these trinkets in order for the Chapter to exchange them for favors that would lessen the scrutiny of their chapter by the rabbis dogs of the Inquisition. Hadn't they proven their loyalty on countless battlefields? Shouldn't that have been enough? Why was the Chapter Master playing politics with the Cretans of the Administratum.

 

Finally, on the ravaged world of Cantu, a world where a major Daemonic Incursion had just recently exhausted itself on the slaughter of every man, women, and child, their mission failed. They had made planet fall at the Cathedral of the Aquilla Resplendent, when their frigate was blown out of orbit by a Black Legion Cruiser. For three days they waited in the cathedral, preparing to sell their lives over something they, in truth, no longer believed in. Three days of listening to the whispers of the lingering warp presence. On the third night, they were hailed by a Black Legionnaire who called himself the Dark Apostle Lavam. He told them that he could come down and slaughter them all and take their treasures at his leisure. They did not doubt him. He told them that he knew of their plight, and knew a way that they could have revenge. Revenge against the pathetic mortals they had dealt with, revenge against a chapter that would use them not as the warriors they were, but as scavengers picking over the carcass of a dying sub-sector for political gain. Revenge at the Imperium who would question their loyalty after centuries of doing its dirty work. Before the sun rose on Cantu, Wadim and his men were clad in black armor, forever lost to their chapter, forever damned.

 

[Lord Pariah]

He had walked these halls before, but that was a different age. the recycling manufactorum on Shanxi was the first to be built by lunan hands on this colony, that was rewarded to them.

 

The rust held the memories of the countless years the facility remained active and those souls that tended the great beast. The captain of the 19th toured the hall once more, before. the rest of the legion decended on this place to corrupt the bastion with unholy signs.

The battle was won... yet the old wolf stalked these halls.

 

"They only send ores and ingots back to terra." the young primarch once explained to him, when he shown the xvi legion his pride and joy. "but metals and materials the ancients have made are wasted. so why not rebuild using the best material available." he swelled to the astartes.

 

"is it not cheaper to send such pure metals?" the warrior challenged.

 

"bah." he shrugged his low-grav frame and met the warrior with platinum eyes so indicative of his home, a homage to his genetic heritage. "only the soft concern with numbers, but with the scrap that pass back to solar, it takes Lunan guts to capitalize on that!"

 

the warrior chuckled. "buna forttrack Neilk"

the primarch's grin beamed recognition as the warrior spoke the ancient saying of Luna.

 

 

Now those words were embossed in silver above the control chamber, the wolf allowed a smile.

 

Only he was not alone. a girl, barely old enough to be called a woman moved across the controls franticly. she stopped and turned to the Wolf as he tapped the silver.

 

He knew what she was doing the instant he saw her, overloading the fusion reactor was not all too uncommon. he drew his pistol to fire until his eye caught something, something platinum.

 

She froze in fright as the monster turned the corner, she saw them come to her home and burn it to the ground.. she held only reason to keep her hand over the command node to dump the fuel in the reactor, sending it into overload.

 

"step away" the Wolf commanded in low-gothic, seeing too much of his home to open fire. she remained steadfast to him.

" step away from the console" repeated in high gothic as something stired inside. a memory?

"I beg of you, daughter of lunar, to see reason and step away." he ventured in the dialect of lunar, a quite efficient language.

 

She flinched at her native tongue and met him in her cold stare.

"Daemons speak in your language and bring damnation." she spoke in flawless lunan, as she twisted to slam down on the fuel console... Until a cough of a bolt round slammed into her, severing her arm.

 

The warrior felt regret for the fist time in millennia, not the petty regret of betrayal but of the bittersweet tones of guilt.

Should this woman have smiled, she would have been the image of home. Part of the same memories that held him through horrors, betrayal and the hell he now resides.

 

Those memories were corrupted when he saw the bloodied body before him, slouched against the console. at least her death was swift.

Those sacred memories were replaced by fire, by blood, by the rust and cold eyes that held only monsters in her gaze.

[Lord Pariah]

Edit... Im surprised Im still allowed in here with my shocking disregard for remembering to read the full challenge

[Kierdale]

Belief.

Man has always believed in something, from the ancients anthropomorphizing the sun, the moon and other heavenly bodies through the bloody religious wars of the millennia surrounding man’s first steps into the stars. Some utter in hushed voices that man was once freed from belief before the coming of the Emperor, but it is a foolhardy, heretical soul who makes such claims. Humanity is now, on the cusp of the 41^st millennia, united in the worship of the Master of Mankind. Many sects - a great many across the countless stars of the Imperium - but nevertheless united in one belief, under one god.

Such a belief serves the heaving innumerable masses. Assuages their fears, provides an icon for their worship, a source of hope.

And it provides the Lords of Terra and the Ecclisiarchy with a means to maintain their iron grip on the reins of the Imperium.

But such a belief is not shared by the Astartes. Least not by all. Whilst the Black Templars have their zeal, such is not the case with us of the Stygian Guard, fellow sons of Dorn though we are.

Then what do we believe in? Two thoughts spring to mind.

Duty. Though our chaplains stripped our chapter of all trappings of custom and culture, pomp and circumstance - we have not a funeral dirge for the fallen nor celebration in victory - we have our duty. The mission is paramount and the Guard are willing to go to any lengths in order to fulfill it. Any lengths.

Pain. The one observance of our progenitor chapter - the Imperial Fists - which we have maintained is the nerve glove, also known as the pain glove. It is via this instrument that the Astartes of our chapter purify themselves. Desire, woe, confusion, elation…even pride?...all are stripped away to leave naught but duty.

What then could have caused us to sway from these binary precepts?

To be used, as the mindless weapon we made ourselves, by Terra. The dirtiest deeds thrown to the Stygian Guard: the Emperor’s ferrymen. Some say the tipping point was the Inquisition calling upon the entirety of the first company - the Bloody First - to quell the uprising on Cyprius III. The lack of honour. Respect...and in truth our gall at this was the first indication that the nerve glove had failed to strip pride from us entirely.

The pursuit of duty. Even when chapter master Sophusar summoned the rest of the chapter to Cyprius III, investigating the Bloody First’s disappearance and finding them Fallen, our commander ordered the pursuit of the mission: the quelling of the uprising, rather than dealing with our kin who had turned butchers. Our regular strategies, gleaned from seconding our chaplains over centuries to other chapters, failed against the madness of the cults of Cyprius III. Chaos cults. It was master of sanctity Angra who suggested that we adopt the tactics of our enemy as we had adopted those of our allies since our inception. It began with the scouts infiltrating the native cults. Their garb, their customs even down to the tattooing and piercing, were taken up by our infiltrators and soon appeared as trophies and more on other units. Terror tactics the likes of which harken back to the atrocities of certain traitorous legions of old whose names are now stricken from record. We lied to ourselves that it was duty, while the thrill of such sadistic acts was kindled within each of us.

To a babe who has supped naught but his mother’s milk, the juice of fruit is as ambrosia and to we who had denied ourselves all stimulation but pain, these new experiences - as we steadily delved deeper and lost control of ourselves - were the same.

Rather than being raised, their enemy’s temples were occupied. The heretics’ own tomes were soon being seized rather than burned, and from them we gleaned what ken we could of their dark arts. And used it against them.

Now, our mission complete, the enemy slain and the Bloody First shackled, we set sail for our homeworld of Fulcrum. We know that the deeds we have perpetrated are unforgivable, anathema to the Imperial way and the Codex Astartes. If - nay, when - our treachery is discovered, they will send executioners for our heads.

The Templars, likely.

The Wolves if we are unlucky.

And so master Sophusar prepares us. The next step, we are told, is direct contact with the servants of that Power we now adore. This new belief is yet young in our minds and I cannot yet bring myself to name it, for names have power and, while I hunger with a desire for excess, I dare not draw that Great Power’s attention so soon.

`I dare not`, I find myself thinking. Do I feel fear? The shackles of Imperial Doctrine no longer bind me and I find I do now know fear, a great fear which competes with the hunger for saturnalia...a hunger I can only hope to keep sated 　to keep the fear at bay. To eclipse it with greater and greater pleasures.

[Rain]

He blinked.

 

He had seen dozens of such spectacles, dozens of vessels cracking apart like overdry wood, dozens of flares of plasma and nuclear fire as reactors went critical and spilled their searing blood into the void.

 

Yet he blinked.

 

Did he need to? Was it really his post-human eyes responding to the sudden and intense flash of light in an all too human biological foible? Or was it--

 

"Pity."

 

Crassus spoke with a curt, clipped tone. His words, always few in number, sounding as if they were spit from a mouth full of dust. He had known that Crassus was standing behind him since before the Champion spoke, the whine of Astartes plate accentuated by the low, indistinct murmurs that seemed to surround Crassus at all times. Crassus himself claimed to not hear them, though his head would occasionally tic to the side, as if responding to a call just at the edge of his senses.

 

"Pity Crassus? I would not have thought you familiar with the sentiment." Szadek responded evenly, his voice not betraying his obvious sarcasm, his eyes not leaving the disintegrating wreck as it rolled onto its side and began to separate into hundreds of constituent pieces.

 

"Not for them."

 

Szadek could hear Crassus's armor servos whine louder as he raised his hand to waive dismissively toward the slowly dispersing wreckage. The muttering voices seemed to quiet, as if allowing their host to speak.

 

"For the ship. We could have taken it. Ammunition, promethium, a damned ship. A waste. A pity."

 

Szadek furrowed his brow. Why hadn't he taken it? It was an Astartes Strike Cruiser, a ship of the line; and it would have made a fine addition to Lord Huron's fleet. And yet it was also an insult. A blasphemy, a curse upon the name of the Astral Claws.

 

"I remember her." He responded finally, lowering his eyes from the bridge viewport and running them over the milling human crew, as if inspecting them for laxity or incompetence.

 

"She was there Crassus. She was there at the sacking of Badab, the beat of our legacy."

 

Crassus, who was of Ultramarine stock and had only later joined the Corsairs after becoming stranded on a daemon world at the edge of the Maelstrom and slowly acquiring his ethereal entourage, only grunted.

 

"Is it foolish, do you think?" Szadek continued.

 

"Foolish to have pride in a dead chapter? A legacy of ashes?"

 

"Oh our legacy is ashes brother." Crassus actually chuckled as he spoke, a rarely witnessed sound that reminded Szadek of stones sliding down a mountainside. Crassus chuckled, and the voices chuckled with him.

 

"Ashes indeed brother! Bones and ashes." He raised his hand again and this time pointed straight out toward the now darkened debris.

 

"Bones and ashes! Theirs."

 

Szadek Katarr raised his eyes again. Yes Badab had burned, but in due time, so would Terra.

[Tenebris]

http://shrani.si/f/1a/o3/bgHYhQ/gallery2900410383202531.png
 
Greetings and welcome to Inspirational Friday. This week, as promised, a frater will chose the winner so I will let arinhere's words speak for him:

 

I have decided that Carrack should win.  His story stayed within the limits of the challenge and also was very well written.  It was a close decision though.  I really liked Castellan Cato and his story of Nurgly goodness.  

 

I might even throw my hand into a future challenge as a writer.  Until I posted that picture, I had no idea this thread existed.

 

Step forth Carrack and claim your reward!

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/15/friday-award.png

 

 

I thank arinhere for his participation to Challenge the Traitors and for his awesome topic. I am really looking forward to read your contribution and let it be known that you are always welcome here in Inspirational Friday. 

 

Said that I have more news. I have posted the second Challenge the Traitors event in the Amicus area. Let us see who writes the best Chaos poem for he or she will indeed have some great topics in store for us. 

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 12/06/2015 - Chaos Sidekick

 

Every Chaos Lord has one, and no, I am not speaking of the Horus peluche and nor of the coffee mug with "I was on Terra" on it, no, what I am speaking of is of a slimy, unfortunate and totally awesome sidekick. 

 

One of the many perks of being a master villain is to have a horde of disposable minions at your beck and call, but there is this particular minion which is the favorite one of his master. For this week's Inspirational Friday I want you to write about this lowly sidekick and bonus points will be awarded if the sidekick is funny. 

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

[Warsmith Aznable]

Another adventure aboard the Child of Calamity, a story about two sidekicks. I hope you enjoy it.

 

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The Wretch absently reached up and adjusted the brass collar around his neck. The spikes that pierced the flesh of his neck were no less painful than on the day the collar was forced upon him, but the horrifying nothingness of separation from the Warp had long since faded to a dull throb. Usually he didn't notice even that much, but today, this moment, it pressed to the forefront of his mind once more. His numb fingers hefted the chainaxe permanently chained to his wrist and he increased his pace long enough to resume his place by his master's side.

"Don't fall behind, Wretch."

It shouldn't have been hard to follow the hulking terminator, but a purely intuitive dread made his limbs feel heavy and slowed his tread. The two plodded along the dark, empty corridors of an unused section of the spacehulk Child of Calamity, the Wretch hesitating to break the his master's silence. Anticipation of violence always but his master in a good mood, and the Wretch did not wish to instigate the inevitable wrath early and thus make himself its target.

"My lord, I don't believe..." The Wretch began, then thought better of the phrasing. "My lord, I don't fully comprehend your reasons or your methods in this latest endeavor."

"She's a witch," the brass trimmed terminator lord replied dismissively. "I am going to kill her, paint the walls with her blood, offer her skull to the Skull Throne, then go back to my quarters and watch you clean little bits of her from the teeth of my chain-axe. What's not to comprehend?"

"It will antagonize the Warsmith." The Wretch meant for it to sound matter-of-fact, but knew even before he was finished speaking the words that they sounded as weak and afraid as he felt. The master's warband had a fearful reputation, but it was very plain to the Wretch from the moment he stepped aboard the spacehulk that the Warsmith operated on a level the Wretch had previously believed not possible this far from the Eye of Terror.

"It is meant to antagonize the Warsmith, Wretch."

The shadows closed in, and the Wretch remained silent for a long while, scanning the recesses and corners for any sign of ambush.

"I am a witch, master." The Wretch said suddenly.

The only response from his master was the gentle noise of the skulls and chains clanking against the heavy ceramite armour of the terminator suit, keeping rhythm to the heavy tread of his armoured boots.

"Why do you prolong my suffering?" The Wretch asked quietly, longing for the answer even as he feared the truth of it.

"You have always underestimated me, Wretch." His master replied with an uncharacteristic sigh. "I seek to redeem you, to cure your Warp addiction and show you the true way, the way of the Blood God. Your blood is not yet worthy to spill."

"But all blood is welcomed, master." Said the Wretch, the oft-heard rote phrase springing to his lips.

"See?" His master did something the Wretch had never seen him do before: he smiled without the prompting of a senseless massacre. "You are learning the ways of the Blood God despite your genetic affliction of psychic predisposition."

"The Witch is a prize possession of the Warsmith." The Wretch, unnerved by his master's attempt at humour, began to reason out his master's plan out loud in an attempt to understand it. "A Witchhunter who has embraced the role of witch and cast aside her faith in the False Emperor. But she is hated by many who would welcome her death. You hope to fracture the unity of the Warsmith's court..."

"Another reason why I haven't killed you yet, Wretch." His master admitted, "You're the only other space marine in the host both sane enough to converse with and smart enough to make the conversation worth the effort."

The Wretch hated himself immediately for the pleasure his master's praise gave him.

++

"You've kept me waiting." The voice of the Witch echoed from the darkness of the long arcade. It still echoed in whispers as she emerged from the shadows of the far end wearing only the long, red robes of her former Order. The Wretch could not help but stare, first at her lack of armour and weapons and then at the twisted vision of one of the rarest of the rare things that existed in the Galaxy: a Sister of Battle willingly turned against the Imperium and its so-called God-Emperor.

"This place is a maze." His master replied to the Witch casually, as if they were old friends. It was another of his unnerving habits, though the Wretch honestly did not know if it was deliberately cultivated for effect.

"Parts of it, yes." The Witch stood just inside the light of a lamp that flickered at long, irregular intervals. The tone of her voice was even and unhurried, but lacked the easygoing attitude of his master.

"You are a whore of Tzeentch," His master stated matter-of-factly, without raising his voice or changing his casual tone. He stalked forward in his Terminator armour and gave his chainaxe a few testing swings as if they were merely entering a practice cage to spar. "Your sorceries will not save you against me. The act of killing you will be less than satisfying, but your death will begin the fall of your Warsmith. That I will find immensely satisfying."

The Witch gave his master no response, but instead looked past him and directly at the Wretch. The bite of the brass collar at his neck raised in intensity. The Wretch gasped, pulling at the collar with his free hand as he stumbled backward under the weight of the Witch's gaze.

Strong, armoured hands gripped him, clamping around his wrists and over his mouth. His legs gave out and his feet were no longer under him. He sank silently to the floor, then began to thrash in an irrational panic as he felt the cold iron of cutting tools pressing against the flesh of his neck.

"Neither will your pathetic thralls save you." The terminator lord pushed his heavy suit into a stomping jog, a wrecking ball gaining inexorable momentum. For her part, the Witch only arched an eyebrow in exasperated scorn.

The Wretch watched his master raise the chain-axe high and begin its swift, deadly descent.

With a metallic snap the collar of Khorne came loose and fell from the Wretch's neck. Its heavy presence had been much more than physical, and the Wretch felt a lightness of being long forgotten. The unnatural darkness clouding the spacehulk's ancient chamber instantly pushed back, and the Wretch beheld the weapon the Witch had brought an instant before his master did. Guttering jets of blue-green fire sputtered and blazed from the blackness, and the heavy smell of machine oil and choking smoke flooded the arcade from the exhaust stacks as the engine labored at the red line to move such bulk with sudden, frightening power.

With an ear splitting report of metal on metal crashing with terrific energy, the terminator lord's mass was instantly denied. The chain-axe flung from his hand and whipped over the Witch's shoulder, it's whirring teeth sketching the thinnest trace of blood from the edge of her left ear.

++THIS WOMAN IS THE PROPERTY OF THE GRAND COMPANY++

The rust covered Contemptor-class Dreadnought raised the terminator lord effortlessly in its enormous seige claw. The cooling coils of its enormous plasma cannon began to glow an unearthly green, made all the more eerie by the heat shimmering in the air around them.

"That is enough." The Witch still did not raise her voice, but the command was unmistakeable.

++I DO NOT TAKE ORDERS FROM YOU++

And yet the light and heat faded from the plasma coils. The Contemptor stood silent for a moment, then turned its armoured head to the struggling terminator in its grasp as if noticing it for the first time.

++WHERE DO YOU FIND SUCH TRASH, WITCH++

With a swift, brutal motion the Contemptor smashed the terminator lord to the deck. Without further comment, the Contemptor stepped over the broken body of the Wretch's master and stalked through one of the archways and into the black depths of the spacehulk.

"Master!" The Wretch struggled ineffectually in the hands of the silent space marine thralls of the Witch as they dragged him forward to kneel over the fallen teriminator lord.

"Master?" The Witch moved to stand opposite of the Wretch, the groaning terminator between them. She was slight and short, barely taller than the kneeling Wretch. Yet the Wretch could now see the power of the Warp swirling about her, caught and bound in the aether by expertly knotted strings of fate. She looked down upon the broken form of the terminator, ignoring the trembling arm that reached an armoured gauntlet toward her throat in vain effort. "This doesn't look like the master of anything."

The Witch pulled an athame from the sleeve of her robe and held it out, handle first, over the fallen lord.

"Time to sign the transfer of ownership, Wretch." The words sounded small and weak to the post-human ears of the Wretch, but to his awakened second sight their power pushed through the aether as undeniable, golden wave.

The Wretch took up the athame and felt its power vibrate in his hand and reality twist around the razor edge of its blade. What a living Hell this blade would inflict! So fascinated by the athame's potential that he was startled by the coughing laugh of the teriminator lord.

"The murder of a brother..." The terminator smiled, blood flecks decorating his face and matting his beard. "I knew you had it in you, Wretch."

The Wretch's former master leaned his head back to bare his neck, but did not close his eyes. In a weak, fading voice he exclaimed, "Blood for the Blood God!"

The stroke was swift. The Wretch reached for and found his long forgotten power and channeled it into the blade at precisely the right moment. As the bright red blood arced through the air, his former master lived an eternity of torment in that split second. Then the first drops splattered across the bulky, crumpled armour plates of the TDA and his soul was annihilated in an instant.

"Skulls for the Skull Throne." The Wretch whispered. Tthe words burned in his throat and he began to laugh hysterically, thankful it gave an excuse for the bitter tears he wept.

++

The Witch kicked the heels of her armoured boots against the wall ineffectively. She struggled in vain to tear the Warsmith's armoured fingers from around her thin neck. She choked and gasped a string of spittle as she laboured for air. The Wretch honestly wanted to intervene, but was cowed by the pure radiance of power crushing through the aether as it emanted from the Warsmith.

"Just a little thrashing to remind you where you stand, woman." The Warsmith finally released the Witch, who slumped to the floor, wretching and gulping for air.

"I would feel neglected and unwanted, otherwise." The Witch managed to rasp out, massaging her throat. She stood on unsteady feet, then faced the towering figure of the Warsmith with brazen impertinence. "So can I keep him?"

The Warsmith stalked out of the side chamber and out into his large throne room without a word in answer or a second look at the Wretch.

The Witch smiled. She had plans for her new thing. It would not be like the others, her mindless bolter carriers and meat shields who fawned so disgustingly over her. This broken thing had true power, and she would make use of it.

"Come, Apprentice." The Witch followed the Warsmith and waved a dismissive hand toward her thralls.

The Wretch... no... The Apprentice scurried after her, taking pleasure in the hateful, jealous stares of her lesser servants forced to stay behind.