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

[Kierdale]

Thank y'all for the kind words, and I look forward to having a go at the current challenge!

Congratulations.

I too look forward to you having a go at the current challenge ;)

 

Edit: corrected 'current' as my phone's bloody autocorrect had put 'cutest'!

[Tenebris]

Indeed, I thank again Kierdale for the idea of the interviews. It is a nice and lean format through which express the views of our anti-heroes and it offers for much creativity. In time I hope we will have a chat with all of our characters and learn more about the many warbands in the Realm of the Eye. 

 

And Az' you really did surprise us all with the interview of your warsmith. I am looking forward your next interview. 

[Carrack]

Congrats Warsmith Aznable, excellent story.


Now dance to the strings of...

The Master of the Marionette

My esteemed Lord Commissar Georgeson,

In the aftermath of our most recent tribulation, a strange incident report reached my attention that I feel your most honorable office must be made aware. As you, I'm sure, are well aware, full order and discipline were difficult to establish after the raid on the munitions factories in the St Celestian district by the fallen angels identified as members of the dreaded Black Legion. Likewise, the after effects of the orbital fire downed our vox network for a full three days, and until then, control was in the hands of the on-scene commander. I humbly beg that you consider this when you bring the Emperor's justice on those deserving of such. Furthermore, I needn't remind you of my family's connections at the sub sector seat and with the Lord Marshal's niece.

Your humble servant,
Colonel Pinot, 227 Chancel Infantry Regiment, Commanding.

Colonel, we have a problem. During the chaos raid on the Chais Manufactorum a prisoner was taken. I know the commissariat is upholding the defense of Chais as an inspirational success, as we were able to repel the raiders there, but things got punkered up during the consolidation. Let me explain,during the raid, a lascannon crew were able to get a shot off that, guided by the Emperor, struck the assault bike of the raiding party's leader. The shot destroyed his bike and severed both of his legs. Unfortunately, Lt Barrow was in command of the defenses, and he died leading a bayonet charge at the enemy's fall back position. He was told to send a runner to battery D with the coordinates and let the artillery deal with the remnants of the raiders, but you know Lt Barrow...

The next most senior member on site was Tac Specialist Devereax from Regimental Command. He took control of the manufactorum and led out on a patrol that discovered the severely injured Chaos Marine. Rather than judiciously apply promethium, he opted to have the tainted marine dragged back to the compound for interrogation. Seriously Sir, with all due respect, where do you find these tactical geniuses? Before we get into the consequences of his actions, here is the surviving vid transcripts.

The subject is Chaos Marine wearing power armor of an unknown mark in the colors identifying him as a member of the Black Legion. His weapons were secured in 1st Platoon's locker, and all visible cabling of his power armor was cut with tools from the manufactorum. His arms were independently manacled to iron fixtures. The Imperial Creed was inscribed on all four walls of the cell. The greatest security measure was the subjects severe wounds. Both legs were severed mid-thigh. Partial cauterization from the lascannon shot along with Astartes physiology kept him alive. The only personal affect the subject was allowed was a small marionette attached to his left hand with bronze chains. It appeared to be a harmless toy that he was trying to distract me with by getting it to dance, he was quite skilled with it, but unsuccessful at breaking my concentration.

D: I am Tactical Specialist Devereax of the Chancel 227th Infantry Regiment. With whom am I speaking.

Subject: Are we speaking or are we torturing?

D: Speaking, but if you fail to cooperate, I will be forced to utilize harsher methods.

Subject. Harsher than this, pointing to the cauterized stumps of his legs?

D: I will ask the questions here.

Subject: (under breath) Great I have been captured by a completely unoriginal dolt. (Directed to me). Very well ask your questions.

D: What is your name? What is your unit? What is your identifying number?

Subject: My name is Ghannor, I am now of the Black Legion, I no longer have any number, but if you must write something down, worm, my number is 9. You don't mind if I call you worm do you? Oh wait, you ask the questions.


D: Uh, uh, Tactical Specialist Devereax will do. You said, "Now of the Black Legion?" What unit were you in before?

Subject: 3rd Company White Scars Chapter.

D: This will go better on you if you tell the truth.

Subject: Hardly. But truthfully I was a proud Battle Brother of a first founding chapter. I served with them for 73 years? Before...,

D: Please tell, what happened that you would join the arch-enemy?

Subject: Hmm, where to start worm. I guess my beginning. When I was an initiate I was subjected to the same gene screens and psychic probes as the rest of my would be brothers. I passed and was not sent off to the black ships, or selected by the Librarium. I survived the rest of my initiation and went on to fight for your Emperor and the Khan for decades.

I was selected for a honor mission to ride in the vanguard of the Emperor's Day Parade on Cadia along with 4 of my brothers. For such a small contingent, contracted passage was booked aboard the rogue trader Zanazar's, Full Coffers, a packet ship. Travel to Cadia, or any place that close to the Eye of Terror however, is not without danger. Yet our voyage seemed uneventful. Uneventful to the rest of the souls onboard, but a spark was set in mine. A spark of power. My mind opened to knew possibilities. My wills and desires strived to become reality. Nothing drastic at this stage, just simple twists. In the heat of sparring with my brothers, I would wish for an opponent to just lower his guard for a second, and he would do so. I would desire the rogue trader to reserve a particular vintage I enjoyed from our first dinner, and he would quickly call for it. Nothing drastic, but I noticed. My brothers didn't lower their guard so easily. The Rogue Trader never served the same vintage twice.

D: You are a, wi..wi...witch?


Subject: Silence worm! Crawl across the floor like the worm you are. (At this point Devereax drops to the floor out of the recorders view, sounds indicate that he is crawling)

I knew my duty to the chapter. I should have submitted myself to immediate confinement until the epistolaries of the chapter could decide my fate. I also knew what that fate would be termination. Worm, do you know the drive and determination it takes just to become an Adeptus Astartes? For me, born of the harsh conditions of Chogoris, this drive was always for survival. It's what allowed me to press on when other initiates, and later brothers fell.

Rather than submit myself to fate, worm, I confided in the rogue trader. He was a corruptible sort, and agreed to whisk me off to safety without my brothers knowledge. When my brothers and I made orbit of Cadia he produced a forged astropathic communique from my Brother-Sergeant requesting my immediate return. My brothers made landfall, it was the last I have ever seen them. As brothers.

Zanazar arranged a rendezvous with someone he claimed could protect me and provide access to ancient teachings that would help me nurture the growth of my new gifts. My survival instincts told me that, unchecked, my powers could destroy me. I saw no other option, and was turned over to the hands of the Black Maw warband of Lord Carrack. I was to become my most hated enemy, a Black Legionnaire.

Now honestly, I tire of this reminiscing, shoot yourself in the belly worm. (A laspistol shot sounds off followed by screams, than moans.) ( After a few minutes pass, a gang of eight manufactorum workers come in with a makeshift litter and take the subject out of the room. Additional footage has been found of the litter being caries out the North gate.)

- - - - - -
Colonel, it took all that remained of E company, the remaining shells from Battery C, and a hellhound squadron from the 224th to suppress the ensuing riots. I have been told by that engiseer from the 224th, you know, the one with the four legged servo walker, that the Chais Manufactorum may be dismantled and used for parts due to the damage sustained.

May the Emperor's Light guide your command,
Major Lafayette.

 

[Kierdale]

Here’s mine.

If I may make one request it is that the next one not be another interview. I need some time to recharge before we continue detailing the big players of our warbands!

“Trooper Holusiax, third squad, second company, Stygian Guard.”

He repeated it each time they pummeled him, for they would get no more from him.

That half of it was a lie caused him no discomfort or shame.

The rebel scum of Cyprius III did not fight an honourable, conventional war, and the Stygian Guard - famed for their cold, emotionless approach to war: ferrymen of the Emperor’s foes into the afterlife - had learned that they would not be able to overcome this foe with conventional means.

The first time in the chapter’s long history.

He thought back to almost five standard years earlier, on his homeworld of Fulcrum. He had accompanied his master: chief librarian Diarthet, to receive their guest alongside the rest of the chapter’s leaders: chapter master Sophusar, master of sanctity Angra, first captain Viphic, master of the forge Zenelaisus and chief apothecary Polus. No less an institution than the holy orders of the Emperor’s inquisition could cause a gathering of such names at such short notice.

Inquisitor Tobias Fen. Ordo Hereticus.

His very presence had raised Holusiax’s heckles, and a shared glance with his master affirmed that he too felt the touch of fate upon this meeting.

Fen had brought a request from Imperium’s most secretive of organisations. The best of the chapter were to accompany him (yea for it was a plea but in words) to the planet Cyprius III. The planet had not paid Terra’s Due in a couple of decades and there were reports of vessels visiting the planet and never returning, amongst other fragments of outrageous hearsay.

Despite the brusque and demanding nature of the inquisitor’s message - the chapter’s first company! - the Guard were of Dorn’s blood. As the Fists had faced their heretical brethren on the walls of the Imperial palace on Holy Terra some ten millennia before, the Stygian Guard would not turn from their duty because the emissary was ill mannered.

Before his departure alongside captain Viphic, Diarthet had shared a jest with Holusiax and the others of the librarium that it would no doubt be a quick, punitive action.

There had been no word of the 1^st for three long Fulcrumese years.

Chapter master Sophusar had called upon the rest of the chapter to assemble and had led them to Cyprius III and a revelation which would change the chapter forevermore.

Observing from high orbit the warships of the chapter had initially found no trace of the 1^st company until their course took them over a mountain range upon which they found the broken corpse of Phlegyas: the 1^st company’s battleship. Suppressing rage at the enemy’s effrontery and the insult to the chapter, Sophusar initiated a tactical bombardment of the planet’s capital before opening vox channels and demanding the planet’s surrender.

Holusiax had been there upon the bridge of the flagship Charon, when not the traitorous natives but captain Viphic had responded, first demanding and they beseeching Sophusar to cease the bombardment and join him upon the surface.

Madness. A madness had come over the veterans of the first company. Had possessed them. The austere armour of the Stygian Guard had been daubed in blood and adorned with gruesome trophies. It soon became apparent that the first company had spent the last years drawing out their war against the corrupt Cypriusians, if indeed conquest was still their aim at all. Mindless bloodshed and murder seemed more likely. Sophusar had been unable to bring his crazed lieutenant to heel and the first company - the Bloody First - had continued to run amok. Holusiax had known they were lost, then. He could feel the warp-taint upon them. There had been no sign of chief librarian Diarthet, and he had not asked, for the Bloody First would answer no more to their former battlebrothers.

The chapter had begun to prosecute the battle against the heretics as was their way: cold. Calculating. Methodical.

And they had failed.

Wave upon wave of enemy cultists and traitor guardsmen. Bolters had ran dry, chainblades choked with flesh. Some then came to question the chapter’s methods. To realise that perhaps...just perhaps...the berserk First had a method to their mad butchery and terror tactics.

It had been master of sanctity Angra who had called for calm, and suggested infiltration: a move which had swung the war in the Guard’s favour. But at what cost?

Holusiax himself had been captured in one of the remaining pitched battles, his lower half blasted away in an ordnance explosion and thus here within a cell he found himself chained.

His torturers appeared to be ex-Imperial Guard: winged skull tattoos upon biceps not entirely erased by the brands which had been pressed over them. The guard themselves bore ritual scarification with spikes, piercings and chains adorning not only their gear but also their faces and bodies.

The spoor of corruption was rank.

They had chained him to a wall within a military brig. His arms were out to his sides, too far for him to spit acid upon the links, and the chains were imbedded in good ferrocrete. It was beyond his strength to tear them out. With his armour powered, perhaps. But not now.

No longer possessed of an abdomen or legs he hung from the wall by his bound arms. The generator backpack of his armour removed, his mark six plate had become an additional restraint and a considerable weight. Thankfully his genenhanced body had staunched the blood flow in the truncated end of his body.

“Trooper Holusiax, third squad, second company, Stygian Guard.”

No matter how badly the beat him, burned him, cut him, that was all he would say.

Thankfully the majority of the populace of the Imperium, scattered across more than a million worlds, had never seen and would never see one of the Emperor’s angels of death during the span of their short lives. Fewer still, even amongst these once-soldiers of the guard, recognized an astartes librarian when they saw one. When his helm had been removed shortly after his capture they had pulled cruelly at the wires of his psychic hood, believing it to be a cybernetic augmentation, and had given up when their efforts had elicited no pain from their captive.

Reciting those eight words allowed him to concentrate on other matters: recuperation, pondering how he might escape and, of most distress to himself, how it was that the warp was inaccessible to him.

Second only to chief librarian Diarthet in his grasp of the eldritch arts, Holusiax, like the majority of those in the Stygian Guard’s librarius, focused his talents into destructive powers. Mental blasts that would flense the very soul, bolts of lightning which arced from foe to foe, vortices of immolating conflagration, these were techniques suited to his chapter’s approach to warfare. And yet he now felt, for the first time in his life, powerless. Even as a child he had had latent talent. Yet now he was as if blind - no, such an analogy was more fitting to diviners, augurs and prophesiers. It was as if his mind was encased in an adamantium cell. His consciousness could not venture beyond the confines of his flesh. He could not even project himself astrally, a technique he had once been taught –but never mastered, only turning to it now in desperation- by one of the less favoured of the librarius.

“What is it you desire?”

His catalepsean node immediately disengaging, Holusiax searched the cell for the one who had addressed him. Within the cell was pitch blank. As his mind brought him back to full consciousness various facts filtered in.

It was the planet’s night cycle.

It has been a female voice.

It was a voice he had never heard before in his over-two centuries of life.

It had come from his right.

Even with his enhanced eyesight (his torturers had forgotten to replace his helmet, which -unpowered- would have truly blinded and deafened him) he could make out nothing in the darkness. The voice had not been stressed nor slurred by facial injuries, ergo she was no fellow captive. A new interrogator, then. He had in his youth while still a mortal heard juves retell tales of the arbites and their nice-judge, nasty-judge approach. He himself had later crossed paths with the Imperial Judges and discovered much to his contrition that there was no nice-judge. A path which had seen him recruited into the Stygian Guard, as fate would have it.

He could not help but snort derisively at the thought that perhaps the base heretics sought to get information from him via seduction. Even when he had still possessed the requisite organs they had been for naught more than waste disposal.

“What is it you desire?” The voice came once more, soft and so, so close. The moment he felt the sweetly perfumed breath upon his cheek he responsively swung his head in that direction, satisfied at the solid crack of bone upon bone and he felt his interrogator fall backwards, the skittering sound of her feet as she stumbled causing him to frown. Not the clump of boots.

A titter of laughter.

She approached again and something cold, hard and sharp pressed against his left cheek. A blade? He could smell something. Not blood. Something musky, almost soporific. That she still stood, her brains had not been dashed, was to her credit.

“What is it you desire?” He thought her no quick learner and planted another headbutt on her, unafraid of the blade against his cheek and unflinching as it cut his skin while she staggered backwards, cackling with amusement.

He soon reevaluated both her toughness and her capacity to endure pain as the ritual was repeated half a dozen more times. He soon realized that the sick bitch seemed to be enjoying it, and that she must have been augmented with some form of dermal armour as the cranium of a mortal human would surely have been smashed at the second impact if not the first.

“Your death, for starters,” he eventually replied to break the monotony, feeling the blood running from the many cuts upon his cheeks congealing care of his Larraman cells.

“Perhaps, in time. What are you doing here?”

“Trooper Holusiax, third squad, second company, Stygian Guard.”

“Why fight the people of this wor-“

“Trooper Holusiax, third squad, second company, Stygian Guard.”

A blow struck him across the right temple, slamming his face against his left pauldron. He could not believe that the hammer blow had been delivered by anyone not wearing powered armour. He would have seen the glow of a powered weapon. Heard the hum of its energy field. Nothing.

Something vicelike and lined with protrusions akin to teeth fastened either side of his face. A servitor’s powerclaw? He had heard no one else in the cell but he and her.

“You are blind here.”

“Without my helmet and its power, yes,” he allowed.

“No,” she spoke again. “You are blind here.” A slender finger touched his forehead.

He raised his chin, despite the vicelike grip on his face. Evidently someone amongst the rebels with more brains than the average heretic had investigated his helmet and noticed it was different from that of his battlebrothers. Perhaps someone had recognized his psychic hood after all.

“Codicier Holusiax, Stygian Guard,” he falsely identified himself as the weakest of the librarius ranks. Let them underestimate him.

“Your labels mean little to us, but I understand your meaning.”

It was possible that the rebels did not know the term `Codicier` even if they did know of librarians, or...Xenos?! came his next thought, and he attempted to gird himself mentally lest the alien witch infiltrate his mind.

The jagged claw holding his face began to tighten and he could feel the scars upon his cheeks reopen. He gritted his jaw against the pain. He had experienced far worse in the nerve glove.

As the image of the glove -that gossamer bodysuit which suspended one in agony without actually harming the flesh- appeared in his mind his interrogator gave a slight cry though he could not discern if it were of pain or pleasure. Such was beyond his ken. That she had already penetrated his mind was certain.

He furrowed his brow in concentration once more, straining his every fiber to conjure a font of power from the empyrean, a flame with which to burn down this witch, but his mental demand went unanswered.

“Such destructive power. Such a wasted mind. So blunt.”

As soon as the claw was removed he heaved at the chains which bound his hands, rising up and swinging down another forehead strike at her but he heard her feet skitter across the cell floor as she danced away.

“So close. So very close to the true path,” she spoke as if to herself, and did not speak again that night.

Day came and the ministrations of the former soldiers continued, them muttering between themselves in surprise at the new scars on his face. So, they did not know about his nocturnal visitor...

When that opiate musk found his nostrils again the next night it was he who spoke first.

“Who are you?”

“A messenger,” came the voice at his right ear, breathing deeply into it. He did not deliver a head-butt this time.

“And what do you want of me?”

“To hear of potential wasted.”

He curled his lip and grunted, “What gibberish is this?”

“Your talent. Squandered.”

“Epistolary Holusiax, Stygian Guard. I have crushed xenos battletanks with my very thoughts. Immolated enemies of Holy Terra-“

She appeared to echo that word in a whisper.

“- at a casual gesture. I have squandered nothing of my power.”

Hubris be damned, he would not let this freak belittle him.

“Power is what you seek. As all men do. And yet...”

Holusiax gritted his teeth, his eyes still searching the cell. The bioengineering which had reshaped his body had also enhanced his natural night vision, but the interior of the cell was completely devoid of illumination.

“...you have always been second best. Your brother.”

Iopeus’ face appeared in his mind, either a product of his own memory recalled naturally or one she had dug up from his mind. He could not tell. Without his psychic hood and unable to tap into the font of power which was the Warp, he was defenseless.

She spoke slowly, as if one were describing things vaguely seen through mist. “A talented youth, a strong man, a famous artist.”

Art, and all forms of expression, were the embodiment of perfection on Fulcrum. Iopeus had become a famous potter, his works displayed in galleries and private villas across the planet and stretching as far as surrounding systems.

“You resided in his shadow. A mischievous brat. Detained by the custodians of your human laws.”

Holusiax grunted dismissively. “I was a willful youth. A past I barely remember. A past which saw me become who I now am. I have no regrets. And my brother is long dead.”

She stalked closer.

“And once more you find yourself eclipsed by a brighter star.”

“You speak of master Diarthet. I have naught but unadulterated admiration for him.” Yet somewhere, deep inside, Holusiax felt doubt.

“And the good pupil followed his master’s teachings unquestioningly.”

He grunted affirmatively.

“In all matters.”

“Epistolary Holusiax, Stygian Guard.”

“Deprived of your mental shield, you hide behind these words,” she mocked. “As you hide behind your betters.”

“I will surpass him in time!” Holusiax spat.

“Perhaps you already have.”

This caused him to falter.

“Your-,” she paused, drawing a term from his mind, ”Bloody First - are pawns of the Lord of Skulls. And what of your master?” That last word was heavy with venom, but he focused on the information about the first company. It was as he had feared. He did not know how it could have happened, but they had fallen to the worship of Khorne.

She hissed as he thought the word.

All of the librarius knew of the four infernal powers and the dangers of corruption. He could not believe that Diarthet too would have fallen. Was it not said that the Lord of Skulls despised-

“Sorcery. Yes,” she mewled, “Your master is no longer what he once was.”

“Then I have surpassed him.” He whispered to himself, though he felt little pride.

“And will die here.”

The night ended, day came and with it the traitor guard. Electrocutions and the repeated reopening of his truncated torso. In truth they were nearing his threshold for pain but still he resisted. He told them nothing, intending to take as damned long as he could to die.

But was that still his plan?

His midnight siren had awakened his survival instincts. If Diarthet truly was no more - he would meditate more on his true feelings toward his mentor in good time - then he was chief librarian of the Stygian Guard now.

By the time night fell and the last team of torturers (for they had to work in shifts, such was the herculean stamina of an astartes compared to a human) left his cell he was exhausted. He hung limp in the chains, his head slumped forward against his breastplate, his armour stained with rivulets and splashes of bodily fluids. He knew he could easily kill one of his foes with a face full of acid care of his Betcher’s gland, but what then? They would remove the skin from his mouth if not his entire face, and continue unabated.

“Free me.”

She did not respond, but he knew she was there.

“Your loyalties lie not with these heretics. They are weak. Free me.”

“And how would you escape? Crawling like a babe?”

“Free me - free my mind - and you will see.”

She clicked her tongue reproachfully. “Fire and lightning. You cannot kill them all. You have learned nothing.”

“I am a warrior,” he spat. “It is my way.”

“And so you will die.”

“Then what other way is there?!” he cried angrily.

“The mind. The senses.”

“You would have me sway them with oratory?” he laughed bitterly. “Then you seek master Angra, not I.”

“A name I shall remember,” she replied. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

A pause. “To the Golden Throne, to my chapter.”

“And you kill in their name. Kill and kill and kill, whoever you are told to slay. Whoever opposes the will of your masters. Man is a fickle, willful beast, unkeen to yield to another’s yoke. And you would kill all who disagree, all who oppose...until you ruled a graveyard?”

He had no answer.

“Rule the senses, rule all.” She whispered in his ear.

“Then get me out of these chains.”

“I’ll do better than that,” she replied, caressing his scarred cheek with a kiss.

Cleng jiggled the power pack after inserting it into his laspistol. It was in good and tight. He nodded to the others. They had failed their master, had failed to get any information from the captive astartes, and so Musars had ordered them to execute him. Cleng dialed down the power setting on his pistol as Beoth drew a serrated knife. Oh, they’d kill him alright, but they’d have their fun first. They’d get a scream out of the big bastard.

Cleng hit the switch and the brig door slid smoothly aside. He was about to step inside when the cries and the looks on the faces of Beoth and Lars brought him up short.

“What the f-“

“-in Her name?”

There he was, their captive astartes, hanging from the wall by his arms wrapped in chains, his head resting on his chest but whereas six hours ago his torso had terminated just beneath his navel in a ragged wound they themselves had teased at and burned several times, it now continued smoothly down transitioning from human flesh to the pale purple serpentine scales of a snake’s body a good two meters in length curled under him.

The three cultists shared an uneasy look before they stepped into the cell, weapons pointed at the transformed marine.

“No games, l-l-let’s just finish this,” Beoth muttered and raised his knife toward the marine, his other hand reading out to grab the severed cables which protruded from the marine’s scalp.

Holusiax moved in a blur, first raising his head to spit a spray of acid into Beoth’s face. He went down screeching as the venom ate into his face and throat. Holusiax’s tail lashed out, taking the feet from under the other two and sending their weapons clattering across the floor.

The Stygian Guard stared at Lars, who immediately began to writhe and contort his body, the look of rapture upon his face far more bloodcurdling than the face of anyone Cleng had ever tortured.

As Cleng scrabbled backwards into the corner, the mutated astartes coiled his serpent’s body under him and strained, the ferrocrete of the walls where the chains were bolted began to crack.

Cleng’s eyes darted to his laspistol and he dove for it, fumbling with the power setting and raising it and firing off several bolts as the marine tore his chains from the walls. The laser bolts, those which didn’t spang off his remaining armour, brought a grin to the librarian’s face.

The marine’s arms, chains still hanging from them, pinned Cleng to the floor as he loomed over the prone cultist. Cleng watched in horror as a second, thinner pair of arms unfolded from under the armoured pair. One of them picked up Beoth’s knife while the other waggled a finger back and forth before his face.

Tearing his eyes from the knife Cleng met the librarian’s enchanting gaze.

“You are going to help me escape.”

[Teetengee]

Can we do the old Inspirational Friday prompts even though there isn't anything to win?

[Tenebris]

Sure, feel free to post anything you wish as long as it is related to Inspirational Friday themes in general. The week by week event is continued to explore various aspects of our factions. On the other hand I am full aware that the spark of inspiration is never idle and many a time one would wish to write about something previously discussed or who knows, even an evolution of the past fluff.

 

Long story short, feel free to post on old entries. The only request I have is that you link in the title of your post the Inspirational Friday topic upon which your contribution is based. It serves to keep our record clean and for the potential readers to see where the topic belongs. No need to resurrect old topics, just post here following the instructions provided. 

[Teetengee]

So this is for interview with a warlord, rather than sorcerer, so a little late to the party.

Scribe: Gr...gr...greetings m..master. I am thankful that you graced my humble scriptorium with your presence. I know that your highness is occupied with the efforts of running the warband but please, just a few questions so that my scribes can write down for posterity your legendary deeds.
F...first one,


Escharon interrupts: Firstly, whelp, do not grovel in my presence, were you unworthy you would cease breathing, painfully, but as long as you are not, you will speak strongly and hold your head high. Your service, as all before the four, is important, even though it be replaceable.

Scribe: Yes, m..my lord. Where does your legend begin. Of which legion of old or mighty chapter did you bear the colors in battle and what was your calling in those ancient days?

Escharon: I served the Warmaster. I am a Son of Horus. I fought for the honor of the old kings of Cthonis in whatever manner the Primarch willed.

Scribe: Second question lord. How have you managed to gather such a mighty warband such as this and which is your favorite way to use your warriors?

Escharon: I have always had a talent for binding beasts and monsters to my will. This has lead me to useful deals with many parties, including our mechanicus. It is why we sit in a forge shrine today. Additionally, I have no prejudice against how my knights and soldiers came to be in my service, merely that they serve me.

As for tactics, shock and awe do me well. If possible I rain blood upon the battlefield for up to a day before and throughout the battle. This, succoured by the blood spilt in my wars has will at the end be decoagulated and collected and become a useful psychic and spiritual resource. Meanwhile, the effect on most enemies is quite fortuitous. In fact, it is why we are called the tide of blood.

However, I find that most warriors under my banner prescribe to very specific methods of war, and I do try to use them as they are most fit. Anything else would be inefficient.

Scribe: Can you describe your service to the Dreaded Four?

Escharon: Every action taken, feeds the four. Those done with intent, often feed the taker as well. The true gods give to us in equal measure what we give to them, even if we do not see it at the time. Never is there a choice whether to serve the gods, there is merely a choice of whether to embrace their gifts as blessings, see their gifts as tools, or reject them, out of honor or pride. I prefer to recognize them as tools, although actively seeking mutation is often imprudent in my case due to its very unpredictability.

Scribe: Do you still entertain contacts with your former brothers or do you seek new allies? What do you think of the Warmaster?

Escharon: My brothers are only those who did not abandon our father, to them, everything is due. However, they are few and our enemies are many, as such I always wish for new allies. As for the Warmaster, who I presume you mean to say Ezekyle Abbadon, I have this to say, when the Warmaster once again marches for Terra, we will fight by his side out of our own free will and leaving no resource unspent in that endeavor. But until then, Abbadon gets nothing he doesn’t pay for.

Scribe: Can you explain to me why you arm yourself thusly?

 

Escharon: Ah, yes. My daemon halberd soulthief is for the quick and the many. My powerfist, the few and the dread. A combi-melta is useful for a wide variety of targets. Perhaps most importantly, is the armour I wear. Once it belonged to one called a Grey Knight. It has a vastly increased resilience to warp mutation. As such, I find it useful for my explorations. Now, your time is up. Begone.

 

[Tenebris]

 

A man entered into a wide room, its walls covered in ancient glowing runes and the many tables in it covered in scrolls, tomes and corpses, a lot of corpses. Child corpses, adult male and female corpses as well as the massive bulks of several astartes corpses could be glimpsed. All the corpses were wired to strange machines emitting a sickly green glow or had sinister viridian crystals hammered in the flesh.
 
++No Gaspar, it is not Necromancy what you are seeing, it is called Biomancy. I taught you better than that..++
 
It was the master speaking into his minds, his clarion voice at odds with his towering and deadly form garbed for war. 
 
"I... I meant no o..offence master, it is .. it is just..." 
 
++Unnerving, Gaspar? You should get used to it, this is your new life and all life is an experiment...++
 
The serf clad in a tattered Cadian uniform, still bearing the insignia of a sanctioned psyker, came close to the massive throne upon which was seated a towering astartes, dressed in robes of onyx black and adorned with a single icon of the Octet around his neck. The features of the astartes were lost in the great furrows of his hood, leaving only the sinister gaze of his master lingering from the shadows. 
 
++You have questions Gaspar and I think you deserve answers. After all I am to mold you for the service to the Coven and I would not abide ignorant fools among its ranks. Astro-Telepathy is not an exact science so not only you will have to be strong of body but also of mind. Leave it to the faulty runts of the Astropaths to struggle, your voice will be like a clarion call and I would have it no other way. So ask, apprentice, allow me to dispel your ignorance. This I can do.++
 
"W..we... well master, I.. I am unworthy of such attention y..you should continue your experiments... let not my lowly self... disturb you further..."
 
++Gaspar! That was not an invitation to an idle conversation, that was an order! You are still much ignorant and this only harms your talent, your potential...So ask what you wish to know... ignorance is a crime on this ship...++
 
The serf took a seat on a chair much too bigger for him, his standard issue boots dangling almost half a meter from the ground. With a quill and a piece of parchment in hand, Gaspar collected his thoughts and formed the questions.
 
"As you wish master. Tell me then who are you really, to which bloodline you belong, what is your history'"
 
++Let's dispel your ignorance then, slave. I am the son of the arch-traitor Horus himself. He was my father, my primarch, my Warmaster and my lord. I am of the dreaded XVIth Legionnes Astartes, I am a Son of Horus and now both you and I are beholden to the Black Legion, a name which I know you are familiar with. In another age I was an Epistolary, a Librarian of my Legion and I have served my primarch in the faculty of field telepath, seer and augur, as part of the shattered company of which I still bear the mark on my scarred battle plate.++
 
A gasp of surprise, followed by an all to fast beating heart implied that the serf indeed did recognize the names he was spoken to. A sharp gaze from his master quelled his emotions and Gaspar collected himself but his hands were still shaking. 
 
"My lord, you say that you were a Librarian, a battle psyker of the astartes, yet you also say that you were a telepath, a seer and an augur. Now I see you practice Biomancy and on Secoplois V we did summon flames upon our foes, you and I. I knew that the astartes psykers were of a whole different order of magnitude than we lowly battle-psykers of the Militarum but please tell me where your power comes from, how can a mortal, even an astartes harness so much aetheric energy and survive its release?
 
++To begin with, there are many schools and philosophies about the use of the Warp or Warp induced powers. There are disciplines as are instructed by the Ordo Psykana as well as more esoteric schools which fall in the purview of sorcery, in general terms both are right and both are wrong. In the legions of old we were only beginning to understand the use of the Warp and we of the Librarius were considered a novelty by some, a threat by others. Among the Sons of Horus my kind was more feared than embraced, mostly due to the superstitious mien of our Cthonian roots but as the hermetic lodges became a fixture in the XVIth legion we became much more liberal with our powers. I was born with the gift, being a natural telepath but many of my brothers developed the talent in our long tenure in the Realm of the Eye.
 
I consider myself a prime example of the student of Telepathy as both discipline and psychic school but in my long life I have explored countless other disciplines, the last one being Biomancy, which as you can see for yourself, is still eluding my grasp and understanding. My power comes from my inherent talent, the third sight with which I was born with, honed to a razor edge by experience and the advanced biology and mind template of the astartes. As for true power, that which you still refer to as sorcery, well that is a thing I will show you in time, when you will be ready. Let it be said that is as much a result of diligent study as it is a matter of research and even as a product of a contract with the denizens of the Warp. In time Gaspar, you will learn the basics of it.++
 
"I see, but master, I would like to ask you about this "denizens of the Warp", I heard stores, I glimpsed strange shadows as you attacked my regiment, I have seen eerie things about this ship, but daemons, what do you know of them?"
 
++This is the essence of my tuition Gaspar, now you are asking the right questions. Since the ages of old humanity always had a mirror in the Warp. This mirror are the daemons, the shy'than, the Neverborn, call them as you wish, but they are very much real and very much dangerous. In my time I have seen whole companies of my brothers give themselves to the daemons in exchange for power and nigh immortality, I have assisted in countless evocations of minor daemons and I have formed bods with them during my research of the Warp. My intention is to forge you into a wyrd worthy of our warband, you will personally commit the same steps as I did, though to a lesser degree. A word of warning though... my apprentice... the daemons are dangerous, dangerous because they are fickle... you will learn this lesson at heart or your soul would be forfeit.++
 
"A few questions more master. I know that it will probably cost my life asking this, but why have you betrayed the Emperor?"
 
++Worry not slave, I will not punish you for asking the right question, in fact I was expecting it from you. I have betrayed no one, but it is I and my brothers who were betrayed. Once the legions, the true legions, have learned of the truth behind the veil, of the true power of mankind, of our place as gods, of our divine right, we had to illuminate the galaxy. The Emperor, in that dread age, thought to shield his subjects in lies, in deceit. We have fought and bled for the Imperium but we could not stand to live in a lie, to see all our efforts betrayed to a lie. That is why we have rebelled against this unjust king of mankind and that is why my father lies now dead. In time you will understand what I am speaking of, in time you will become a warrior in the Long War, a soldier of the Warmaster. Until then know that you will be considered a betrayer too but you will learn to wear this as a badge of honor and not a badge of shame. In time you will be worthy or you will be dead. That is for you to decide.++
 
"M...master, you speak of me as a weapon, as an instrument in the Long War. What is expected of me, what is expected of us?"
 
++Indeed you will be molded into a psychic weapon or you will be destroyed in the tempering. Our warband is strong in its psychic resources and no expense is spared in keeping this weapon or ours sharp and deadly. You, Gaspar, and the Coven and the Conclave, and me, and my sorcerer brothers, we are all a weapon, THE weapon to win all wars, the weapon to win the Long War. As a sword needs tempering so do we need to train, experiment, study and practice our Art. It is our brotherhood which is responsible for the warp rifts which precede the ground assault of our warriors. It is the Coven which summons the Neverborn to the battle and it is soldiers like you and I who have the duty to break the will of the enemy, to steal the secrets from their mind, to collapse the reality around our enemy. Ours is the duty to shatter the enemy in both body and mind, that is what is expected of you and what is expected of me.++
 
"So we are a psychic weapon to be unleashed upon the enemy. But then why garb ourselves for war if we can scour entire platoons with our sorcery safely hidden aboard the ship, like we did on Gana Secundus?"
 
++On Gana Secundus, my dear Gaspar, we were enacting a ritual to open a Warp rift. Our intervention was not required on the ground and the destruction of that few enemy platoons was a mere side effect of the rent in the reality. In truth, when you will be ready, you will stand shoulder to shoulder with your fellow warriors and you will look into the eyes of the enemy. It is in the crucible of war that our powers vexes stronger and it is the sheer release of emotions that enforces the hold of the Neverborn on reality. That is why I take the field whenever I can, clad in this ancient suit of armor. That is the reason why we are allowed to carry the terrible force weapons which are associated with our kind. You will learn that in the act of slaying an enemy, confronting with your fears or unleashing your dread powers against the living force, there is a resonance, an echo which stimulates the Warp and which allows it to respond to you. It is this release of power which if harnessed makes the difference between a psyker and a sorcerer. Your past as a sanctioned puppet of the Ordo Psykana is over, you now tread the path of the witch. There is an abyssal difference between the two, a difference in power as well as in mind, so you better prepare yourself, for you will crave war soon, like I do.++
 
"A w...witch master... an apprentice. I guess I have really come full circle now... there is no return, is it?"
 
++Mourn not Gaspar. As long as you stay faithful to my teachings and do as you are told you will command the attention of immortals and you will be able to eclipse many lackeys of the False Emperor with your power. Now, lets begin with today's lesson. Grab that green crystal there, we will try to resuscitate a dead squeaker, this vermin are resilient indeed. Maybe this could be an answer to the infestation on Deck 23-B.++

 

[Tenebris]

http://shrani.si/f/1a/o3/bgHYhQ/2/gallery2900410383202531.png

 

We have read about the mighty ships of chaos, we have dared to ask questions to a Chaos Lord and now we have risked our souls in an interview with a Chaos Sorcerer. This week the winner is Kierdale and with his scaly, slithering and alluring Sorcerer Holusiax. I have to compliment Kierdale since he is trying to present a narrative which evolves with his warband and the same compliment goes to Carrack. Both of you are doing a great job. 

 

Step forth Kierdale and claim your reward!

 

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

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 06/02/2015 - Chaos Space Marines "Bolter"

 

For this week I have in mind something simple but still very interesting. We will write about the sword of the angels, the roar of the fallen and the main implement of war for an astartes, his bolter. Across the thousands of years of war unending the weapon associated with the chaos space marines is as infamous as they are. Brutal, indiscriminate and defiant with every pull of the trigger, the bolter is the very sword with which the realm of the False Emperor will be cast down and the Long War will be won.

 

Write about a single bolter, who wields it, why it was given to to this marine in particular, what history the weapon has and the lives it cut short. We know that each bolter is a highly personalized weapon, fine-tuned to the astartes who wields it, crafted to exacting standards and as much a symbol of the space marines as the iconic weapon of the 41st Millennium. 

 

The "chaos" bolters are even more important since they are crafted in the many daemonic forges in the Realm of the Eye or stolen as a trophy from the loyalist dead. This weapons have a rich history, a dire history and sometimes this echoes in their machine spirit. 

 

Write about the sword of the angels of death, write about the defiance clad in metal, write about the bolter and the hands that wield it in battle. 

 

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

 

[Teetengee]

Several astartes seeking the blessing of the dark prince tried to kill me once. Their champion bore this. It’s a Flavian pattern bolter with expanded round and slide-lock. Optimized firing mechanism, dual ammunition feeds, lengthened barrel. It is my firearm of choice.

 

I have named it Truth.

-Dievus Gror, Word Bearer affiliated with the Tide of Blood

[Tenebris]

++Record entry 23-456-ADF-Gamma, Armorium Profanis - Weapon Shrine 734-K++

 

Begin record. 

 

Designated Phobos-Hera VI Mark VII Boltgun, Serial number 455-725-11R, consecrated into service with the code signum "Spite". 

 

The serial number implies manufacture on the Daemonic Forge World Delta-Theta 17-71 code "Helicus Minoris" for the armory of the Black Legion under the signet citation bearing ident-codes of the Black Tears warband. The boltgun bears the artificer crest of Warpsmith Devorax and the trimming marks of Magos Artisan Furtan (ident-code 34-098-Zeta) and the Guild of Cadavers. Upon induction into active service to the Black Tears warband sanctioned Chtonian runes of "Ashz, Kalim and Roha" have been acid etched on the carved mechanism housing consisting of the words "Grief, Sojourn and Wrath" thus consecrating the weapon to the warband's cult. 

 

The boltgun 455-725-11R was blessed with holy oils and a tear from an innocent was applied to its barrel as the warband creed dictates. Dark Apostle Nervus invoked the Four in the following rite. 

 

Consecrated by warband law and inducted into the warband armory by this record, I Magos Jural (ident-code 88-989-Beta) do declare this weapon fit for active service and enshrined by the rights of the Machine to the Weapon Shrine 734-K.

 

Note:

 

In the firing range the boltgun 455-725-11R indicated a potentially vindictive machine spirit. Its dismantling of the prescribed target servitors was noted as particularly vicious and its targeting matrix very willing, almost spiteful. Thus the code signum is declared "Spite".

 

Addendum:

 

Due to the idiosyncrasy of boltgun 455-725-11R I advise to bond it with Adeptus Astartes 723 "Nosek", Unit 543 "The Tattered Flag" squad. The character of the adeptus astartes subject complements well the machine spirit of "Spite" and thus I recommend the pairing. 

 

Addendum II:

 

http://shrani.si/f/3J/2s/1vIH3I9p/1/spite.jpg

 

Order:

 

By the authority given unto me by subject 090-171-Epsilon and by my right as master of the Armourium Profanis I order the boltgun 455-725-11R to be dispatched immediately to Deck 12B for trigonometrical adaptation and paralaxus-logis hard-linking with the auto-senses of item D-8178, Mark VI Corvus-Pattern Helmet.  

 

 

Knowledge is its own reward!

 

End record.

 

 

Vox-cypher "Audax" 

 

 

Order: 989-43-Astoris

 

 

++End of Record entry 23-456-ADF-Gamma, Armorium Profanis - Weapon Shrine 734-K++

[Dragonlover]

This is the bolter that killed my father. No glorious death in battle for him, just a bolt round to the chest, and his screaming son being taken the last sight of his dying eyes.

 

It is through no cruel irony that I now bear it, just simple chance. I was inducted into the squad of the warrior who bore it, and took it from his cooling corpse in the aftermath of a skirmish now forgotten. Like all equipment of the Iron Warriors, it is functional, well maintained and unembellished.

 

Well, almost. By the tally I have inscribed, it has taken the lives of three hundred and thirty-one members of the Adeptus Astartes.

 

I am Sergeant Jeddak Hiram, 22nd Battalion Iron Warriors, and this is the bolter that killed my father.

 

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

 

Dragonlover

[Teetengee]

This is the bolter that killed my father. No glorious death in battle for him, just a bolt round to the chest, and his screaming son being taken the last sight of his dying eyes.

 

It is through no cruel irony that I now bear it, just simple chance. I was inducted into the squad of the warrior who bore it, and took it from his cooling corpse in the aftermath of a skirmish now forgotten. Like all equipment of the Iron Warriors, it is functional, well maintained and unembellished.

 

Well, almost. By the tally I have inscribed, it has taken the lives of three hundred and thirty-one members of the Adeptus Astartes.

 

I am Sergeant Jeddak Hiram, 22nd Battalion Iron Warriors, and this is the bolter that killed my father.

 

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

 

Dragonlover

That bolter has killed a ton of marines under that guy's tenure.

[Dragonlover]

Yep. I'm undecided how many of those kills are battlefield executions, how many are stolen kills and how many are straight-up actual earned kills.

 

Dragonlover

[Teetengee]

Fair enough.

[Carrack]

My boltgun? It's the original Phobos pattern boltgun I have used since the beginning of the Long War. Except for the trigger assembly, that was rebuilt with parts I scavenged off a Word Bearer's weapon soon after we fled to the Eye. That and the ejection port, which I replaced after an imbecile from the XII Legion challenged me to a sword duel, he shouldn't have done so from 50 meters away. The skull? That's personal.

 

Well, then there is the feed port, which I modified to accept belted ammo near the conclusion of the 2nd Black Crusade. The pistol grip is actually a Mark IV Fenris pattern, guess where I got that? But I replaced the grips with sharkskin from those nasty black nightmares that swim the seas of Katan II. The bayonet blade was forged from the pieces of Blood Angel power sword that was shattered beyond recovery. Oh, and the heat guards are also IX legion. Then there is the barrel, honestly I stole that out of an allied Night Lords contingent's armory during the 12th Black Crusade. Picture that, stealing from thieves, ironic, no.

 

But the rest is the original Phobos pattern boltgun I have used since the beginning of the Long War. Except the front sight, that I....

[Kierdale]

Find myself already out of likes this day!

Carrack, that was particularly good. And most fitting for a 10,000+ year-old weapon.

[TDF]

The meditation chamber was silent, by most definitions of the word. It was octagonal in shape, with an eight-pointed star engraved into the serpentinite floor. Each corner of the room was wreathed in shadow, hiding the robed and hooded serfs that stood ready at all times. Their master knelt in the centre of the star and for him the room was not silent at all. To Kanan Raam, Apostle of the Word, the chamber echoed with the song of the universe.

 

It was not a song that could be easily described, although there were always hints and whispers of distinct instruments or rhythms. Sometimes the song was as impenetrable as a void shield and other times it was as illuminating as the Book of Lorgar. This was one of the latter times. Kanan Raam knew what he must do.

 

“Prepare Ghizarreck,“ he commanded. The eight serfs silently left the chamber.

 

With its message imparted the song ebbed in intensity. A sound akin to wooden panpipes struggled to gain existence, only to replaced by a woman’s voice silently singing in Archaic Frankish. When that too faded Kanan Raam stood and let the song fade away into nothingness.

 

Kanan Raam left the chamber and descended to the armoury. On arrival he was greeted by four of the serfs. Two stood guard beside a sealed and warded adamantium chest. The other two each held an ornate wraithbone case.

 

The Apostle drew his athame and knelt before the chest. He pricked the tip of his forefinger with the blade and drew a rune on the lid with his blood. Sheathing the knife, he drew a bronze key from his belt and unlocked the chest. After a short prayer of blessing, Kanan Raam opened the lid.

 

Inside, resting in a velvet-lined niche, lay a boltgun. It was a venerable Phobus-pattern piece, but with several modifications. The most notable of these were the slitted yellow eyes staring out of the stock and the snarling maw where the barrel once was.

 

“Greetings Ghizarreck,” said Kanan Raam.

 

“Dark Apostle,” said Ghizarreck. “Have you come to free me from this prison?”

 

“I am afraid not. I am, however, willing to propose a trade. I will grant you a dozen lives if you will take a dozen for me.”

 

“And then you will release me? I assure you, I am far more potent as an ally in my usual form than when I am trapped inside this metal.”

 

“Believe me, Ghizarreck, I would like nothing more than to break you open and let you regain your former glory, but the song is clear. Warpsmith Quent bound you for a purpose and that purpose is not yet fulfilled.”

 

Ghizarreck spat. “Very well, I accept. Anything is better than being stuck in that gods-cursed box for another century.”

 

“You have my thanks. May I?”

 

“By all means.”

 

Kanan Raam gently lifted Ghizarreck out of the chest. He turned to the serfs and motioned for them to open the wraithbone cases. He selected an engraved bolt and held it up to Ghizarreck’s maw. The daemon scooped up the bolt with its scaly, prehensile tongue and drew it into itself.

 

“These will be the first four of the dozen?” Ghizarreck asked.

 

“Indeed.”

 

Without a word, the serfs closed the cases and placed them carefully on the ground. The four humans walked across to the ring marked on the floor for just this occasion and knelt within it.

 

Kanan Raam pulled the trigger. That part at least was still mechanical, although the Apostle could sense the organic and daemonic components of the weapon convulse as they propelled the bolt forwards. The bolt seemed to fly through the air in slow-motion, trailing green and purple warpfire behind it. The round hit one of the serfs in the middle of his chest and detonated in a fireball that engulfed the other three slaves as well. It took them several seconds to die.

 

The Apostle began to turn away when Ghizarreck spoke: “No. I haven’t finished with them yet.”

 

With a sigh, Kanan Raam approached the smouldering corpses and placed the boltgun on the floor next to them. With a daemonic cackle, Ghizarreck began to feed.

[Soldier of Dorn]

'A bolter is more than a weapon. A weapon is more than a tool. I have borne mine since the very onset of the Long War, since the very first declerations of Heresy upon the black fields of Isstvan. I wielded my bolter during the first Black Crusade, when it struck down Chapter Master Gaius Severus of the Patriarchs of Ulixis, and it has never failed me. Men will fail you, brothers shall turn traitor, but a bolter never fails. That is why I say it is more than a weapon, because it is. Listen. Don't you hear it? The eternal drumbeat of war, born of the will of thirsty gods? Can you not see the muzzle-flare, the light that shall bring true illumination to the servants of the False Emperor? A boltgun is not merely a weapon, not merely a tool. It is the will of the Pantheon, distilled into spiteful iron and brass. Now do you understand? No? Allow me to illuminate you'

[Kongou]

 Hatred is nothing if we do not have a tool to carry it out with. Sure, we have other weapons., like plasma guns, or power weapons. But nothing is more satisfying than feeling the kick of the bolter as you  watch the mass reactive shells enter your target.....and as the shells detonate.. My bolter, it's an umbra pattern bolt gun, like my armour, it is an relic from the heresy.

 modified, tweaked, improved to near perfection..... It is an inseparable part of me.  And it has killed. From the bastard sons of Guilliman on ferrox IV to the templars on damnation, it has taken more souls to the warp than imaginable. And now, it has come to this. You, you're dead, your death is insignificant, just another kill mark on my bolter~  Unknown 

[Kongou]

 

 

F...first one, m..my lord. Where does your legend begin. Of which legion of old or mighty chapter did you bear the colors in battle and what was your calling in those ancient days?

 

MY legend......My legend begins where? I do not know. Time has reduced my memories to a hazy smear. All I remember  was, I was chosen. Now, I wear the desecrated deep blue armour of the Night Lords, and here I am after many years.

Se...sec...second question lord. How have you managed to gather such a mighty warband such as ours and which is your favorite way to use your warriors? 

How my war band came to be is none of your business..... and as for tactics, terror. Terror makes a man blind to almost everything but his own self preservation. Terror breaks ranks, stops hearts, and is far more potent than any blade or bolt round.

Third qu..question. Do you worship the Dreaded Four or your soul answers to only a single god of darkness, or are you not concerned with them at all?

I worship no one, My loyalty is to the Night haunter and his legacy only.

Fourth question. Which is your greatest deed to date?

Ah, I have many. But the greatest achievement.... the sacking of the colony world of cett. The defenders were  lazy., it was a backwater world you see. The only threat of invasion they'd ever had was  an rampant  rat infestation. They grew too lazy. We put an end to that misconception that they were safe. We deliberately transitioned our  barges close to the PDF orbital security. The bastards didn't even try to fight. They tried to run around the single sun of their planet. They were an easy prey for our breachers and in a couple of hours, two new ships were added to our warband. while that was happening we broadcasted the butchery, the defenders screams, the sounds of carnage, over the vox to the terrified populace.then we landed. I'll not bore you with details. Why was it glorious? It was a launchpad, if you will, a gateway to  new planets, ripe fruits, planets in the far fringe, ready to taste the fear of the Night lords.... It was an glorious conquest.....But that is a story for a different time no?

Fifth question. Which is your favorite method of war and why, on ground, in the void?

Void warfare has been my particular method of choice. Why? because there are only so many places you can hide in an ship.

S...sixth q...question. What is the vision you have for our warband, where it will lead us?

Glory, glory, fame, and fortune.

Seventh question. Do you still entertain contacts with your former brothers or do you seek new allies? What do you think of the Warmaster?

Bah, let them offer alliances if they want.... 

Eight question. Where is your place in the Long War?

My place is to kill, to butcher, to loot, before my time in this galaxy expires, and to lead my war band to fulfil the dream. 

Ninth question. Which are your favorite weapons and armor? I understand that our warband is rich in relics and plunder, so which artifacts of old are your favorite my lord?

My favorite weapon? I have none. As long as they do their job and kill, any weapon will be fine.

Tenth question and last. What do you think of the denizens of the Warp, the Neverborn, the Daemonkin?

the bastards of the warp are no ally of mine.

 

 

[MaliGn]

This is my Bolter. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My Bolter is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I master my life.

My Bolter, without me, is useless. Without my Bolter, I am useless. I must fire my Bolter true. I must shoot straighter than any enemy who is trying to kill me.

I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will...

My Bolter and myself know that what counts in this long war is not the mass-reactive rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit...

My Bolter is Astartes, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weakness, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will keep my Bolter unclean but ready, even as I am unclean but ready. We will become part of each other. We will....

Before The True Gods I swear this creed. My Bolter and myself are the Bearers of The Word. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.

So be it, until victory is Lorgar's and there is no enemy, but Chaos.

 

I couldn't resist reworking The Rifleman's Creed for this one.

[Kierdale]

Long story short, feel free to post on old entries. The only request I have is that you link in the title of your post the Inspirational Friday topic upon which your contribution is based. It serves to keep our record clean and for the potential readers to see where the topic belongs. No need to resurrect old topics, just post here following the instructions provided. 

Could people please remember to put a title mentioning which entry they're writing for if it isn't the current one? It makes things easier to read.

 

Here is my entry for the current challenge:

An explanation of why the terminators of a formerly codex-compliant chapter no longer wield storm bolters, if you will...

 

 

 

Thenaros-pattern combi-bolters

There were two key factors in the Imperium’s discovery of the Stygian Guard’s fall to Chaos.

The first was the spread of the corrupt Exalted Fecund cult. Once an innocent sect of the Imperial Cult, upon the Stygian Guard’s return from the site of their corruption: the planet Cyprius III, chapter master Sophusar commissioned master of sanctity Angra with the turning of the group to the worship of Slaanesh. While half a dozen sects held equal prominence on the planet Fulcrum (with a dozen more minor creeds) the Exalted Fecund was seen as the most suitable: their faith believing the best way to serve the master of mankind being the feverous production of offspring to serve in His armies. Elevated to dominance, the cult was spread to neighbouring systems...and its steady perversion drew the attention of the Ordo Hereticus.

The second was a single act of fratricide on the planet Berolar XII. The Stygian Guard fought once more alongside their cousin chapter the Black Templars. For years Dark Eldar reavers had plundered Imperial colonies and ships in the area of goods and lives. Having tracked down the pirates’ current hideout -for they were known to be nomadic- the two chapters struck as one. By this point the Guard were heavily corrupted and the prospect of capturing the Xenos for their own use, even under the guise of vengeance for the acts perpetrated by the aliens, was opposed by the Templars. Blood was spilled, a life taken, and the bond between the two chapters sundered forevermore.

It was a combined assault by these two: the agents of the Inquisition and the Black Templars, which saw the Stygian Guard’s homeworld of Fulcrum fall and the traitor chapter, along with hordes of their followers and fell creations, flee. During the flight the Psychopomps -for that is what the Stygian Guard now called themselves- lost a great deal of materiel. The majority of their landraiders, drop pods, predators and vindicators and all of their whirlwinds, razorbacks and thunderfire cannons. This necessitated a rethink in the chapter’s tactics, and gave birth to the Thenaros-pattern series of combi-bolters.

 

As in other codex chapters, tactical dreadnought armour was reserved for the veteran first company, the majority of which in the case of the Psychopomps had fallen to the worship of Khorne on Cyprius III. While some of the Bloody First was captured following the Cyprius Campaign, those clad in terminator armour unfortunately had to be destroyed, proving too dangerous to capture. Those veterans who had not been dispatched to the World of Cults, and were able to be seduced by the Dark Prince, became some of the most prized elite of the renegade chapter. They were in later years joined by Psychopomps elevated to the elite and clad in repaired terminator armour taken from other chapters fought and bested in battle.

Possessing so few suits of this ancient armour, lord Sophusar ordered master of the forge Zenelaisus’ successor Thenaros to rebuild their stormbolters. Their accuracy and high rate of fire needed to be sacrificed for the installation of more specialist weaponry: plasma, melta and flamer elements. Thus warpsmith Thenaros oversaw the removal of half of the bolt gun components from each of the storm bolters, and the adaption of plasma gun, melta gun and flamer parts to create the combi weapons, anointing each newly forged weapon with the blood of the marine who would wield it, mixed with that of one of the chapter’s Eldar captives. Once handed over to the warriors who would use them the weapons were subsequently adorned with decoration suiting the individual’s tastes: spikes, horns and teeth were common and the feed ports of many became leering daemonic visages.

Organised into ternions of three warriors each, the warband’s terminators would teleport onto the battlefield to target the enemy elite: commanders, special forces and largest battle tanks, laying waste to them with one destructive volley before wading in with the bolt gun element of their weapons, and melee weaponry.

[Lord Pariah]

lord Alyxander looks at the requests of the legion, he passes many on to their perspective captains; the iconography on the vessel he sends to the company's mechnicum adepts, the requests for armor adherence was passed on to the various armory slaves with a personal note of his orders and the requests of dark priesthoods are sent to training grounds for ranged training rites..

But the requests of the legion chroniclers.... He ponders for a moment, casting his mind back the days before the great betrayal, in the innocent times when the legion was plagued by remembrancers; unlike the rest of of the XVI legion, he has nothing but fond memories of his time with that chronicler... he decided in the jade light of the stratagem to light his own path. He found his helm, quieted the cries of a disgruntled, sleep ridden familiar and set off to find his master of mortals... He had a remembrancer to train.

(a thousand curses on auto correct... and a thousand more on my impatience)

[Son of Carnelian]

The blood soaked ground had hid it when the scavengers first came. Submerged in carrion-filled mud, the serfs of the Iron Hands legion had never found Brother Archelaus' bolter. There it lay, in the cold ground of Medusa V, a relic of an earlier war that the Imperium would forget forever. The Heresy erupted, the galaxy spun in its endless mad dance, and still the bolter rested beneath the ground. 

 

But the ground itself would not remain still. The Warp storm that isolated the system with alarming regularity changed the surface of Medusa V in subtle ways that only the most ancient landsmen would see. But change it did, remaking the planet at a distance that most Inquisitorial experts on the subject would have found alarming. The bolter's will shaped the soil around it, fueled by the power of the Warp. Where it had once laid motionless, a dead relic of an earlier time, now it corrupted outwards like a cancer. Crops in the surrounding fields died, animals would not graze on the black grass that grew above it, and all the water of the nearby streams cackled ever so softly when unknowing shepherds drew their water there.   

 

Eventually, the land had become so fallow that no one could live there. The eye of the Imperium, ever watchful for a loss in productivity, turned its efforts on that section of Medusa to mining ventures. The Geyron Strip Mine came into being, digging deeper and deeper into the surface of Medusa and ever closer to the corrupted bolter. As they unwittingly neared it, the accidents began. Whole tunnels would collapse in bursts of ash and dust. Men would go missing for days, only found again when their fellows discovered them wandering the lower tunnels with tears in their eyes. Superstitions began forming. The workers of the Geyron Mines began offering drops of their blood before entering, letting it sink into the black earth and unwittingly fueling the powers of the bolter. 

 

But the bolter's secret nature would not stay hidden forever. When Ygethmor and his Black Legion came to Medusa V, the sorcerer could immediately sense the power of a malign Warp entity beneath the surface of the world. He ordered whole squads of his warband into the tunnels of the Geyron Mine, commanding that they return either with his prize or not at all. For weeks they searched the labyrinthine tunnels below the surface, butchering the few miners that had taken refuge there rather than defend the planet at the governor's orders. With every crime the black-armored warriors committed in that hellish place, the bolter's call drew stronger until it at last filled the minds of the Legionaries. It was then that they ceased all contact with their forces above. 

 

Of course, history shows that death would continue soaking the earth of Medusa. At the very close of the campaign, when all forces made their retreat whether in victory or ignominious defeat, one member of the Black Legion finally found the bolter. It had called to him since the start, choosing him as its worthy disciple. But only now did he discover it. Spat up from the ground as the planet rocked in its death throes, it no longer resembled the proud legion weapon it had once been. Crude sigils of hate crossed it, it leaked a black fluid constantly from between its plates, and when it fired, it either laughed maniacally or screamed its name into the minds of all around it.  

 

KANTUS! THE BLACK SOUL OF MEDUSA!

 

​And in the hands of this Black Legionnaire, the story of Kantus would truly begin.