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

[Carrack]

Excellent story, as usual, Kierdale. I preferred the longer, richer one myself, but I was also impressed by how you were able to meet the objective of the challenge with the digested version as well.

[slipknotzim]

My lord the Inquisitor Thrax, how I love to serve at your side, we spend every day tirelessly decoding and dissecting the viral diseases of Papa. Papa who brought us together and I am so thrilled to be granted this chance to help you’re work. First I thought it was Papa’s will that I murder you how foolish I was. You are so driven so passionate about defeating Papa you don’t even notice that every time you cure something you give insight as to how to make it better.  You have not slept in weeks I wonder if visions of Papa have started to fill your vision, as they have mine, but don’t worry as I always have I will stand with you. Papa guides us as we try to crack the code of Nurgles Rot, I can sense Papa’s mark on you now even if you can’t, we are close to a break thru and thanks to our effort you will final be gifted with demon hood and I you’re ever loyal servant will be behind you always. Papa’s plan continues to unfold we just need play our parts. Thrax is a great lord, a true mortal master of the diseases you have saved hundreds of worlds, only to damn entire sectors, this is my lord, but Papa remains my master. In all of our years we have countered most of Papas poisons, and as such you have become a true poison smith, I your Equerry.

 

-Unnamed servant.-

 

i wanted to go off of the normal path for me and show how sometimes obsession can be surely Damning. i hope to capture how even thou we never meet or even hear from Thrax his obsession and inability to see whats happening would shin thru

[Teetengee]

The Council:

“My King, what do you think of the plan of attack?”

“Patience, you have yet to hear the thoughts of the rest of the council.”

“But lord, surely as your equerry in this endeav--”

“No one, man or daemon, is my equerry, so choose your words more carefully Balgo. Only those who intend to die name a clear successor. Now, assemble the others at the black table, and prepare your proposal, some of them are older and wiser than you, and you may well learn something.”
“At once, my lord.”

[Lord Pariah]

So.. I just kept writing... and the pacing may be off, and it may reference thing that is just in my head... and one too many influence of terry pratchet... but i like to think that its different. Not expecting anything, just inspired, that's all.

 

 

 

Trix watched her initiates in the arena. She watched each one of her aspiring sisters prove their worth to her and the others, a farcry from what she once commanded but it was enough.

It was these times that she cherished the most as few of the Astartes ever bothered her down in these parts of the ship. But for every rule, there is an exception. A small, unassuming feline creature walked up to the glass, passed her chair; on it's own, the creature meant nothing but it heralded the coming of one particular demi-god... 

 

"That cat makes it impossible to sneak up on me, Alyxander." she spoke to the darkness, and waited a moment.

 

"It would help if the infernal thing didn't have a mind of its own" spoke the deep, soft, vox filtered voice of the Lord captain. The cat looked at Trix, satisfied with its own convoluted jest.

 

The white and silver of Luna met her as she turned her head and rested on her own hand. While the lord captain stood a head above her, should she have stood toe to toe, he towered above her seat. But Alyxander seemed too preoccupied to enforce the typical astartes dominant stance.

 

"Do I get three guesses?" she asked playfully, not needing any.

 

"Avaton." the word forced it's way out of the Lord Captains vox grille, much like a confession or a worm from a rather tender apple. Trix sighed at the legionnaires' lack of humor

 

"I know..." she started. "I've already drawn my-"

 

"Fifty. Thousand. Refugees. " Alyxander interrupted as he spat with enough poison to corrode the hull itself. Trix knew, that he had already chastised his lieutenant in question, but the great Captain must have had bitterness still left over. The not-so-bright Avaton had took it upon himself to be the single savior of the human race, and had 'saved' what was left of a war-torn imperial colony, and thus subject a large strain on already stressed resources with little gain.

 

"I thought it was forty thousand... someone has been busy." she said with a smirk.. but humor was about as effective as a lasgun. It was the lack of response that unnerved her the most... She knew Alyxander, and if a phrase was to summarize the demigod, it would be: the calm before the storm.

 

Silence was broken by feline scratching and seal lock disengaging. The gloom did little justice to the bare, melta-scarred face of the Lord Captain.

 

"I cannot trust them..." the horse, unfiltered voice of the Warrior echoes through the watch room, as if each word carried the weight of a hundred worlds. This wave of seriousness forces Trix to sit upright, allowing the gloom to highlight her gene-enhances features.

 

"I.. Wha..Why?" she arrived to after an eternity crawled by, drawing from her own experience of command. With that, Alyxander showed a rare moment of humanity, of vulnerability, as father who is afraid of losing his sons.

 

"I cannot them to see the larger issues, the greater plan, always their little worlds... I must guide them constantly, I cannot let them out of my sight." Alyxander deplored, with the same look in his remaining eye as he paced the chamber. "First Jykal, then Plek and now Avaton choosing the best bloody moment to act like a bloody hero. Now the Company is fractured with what kept it in place wither dead, fethed off, growing mad by daemons or doing what ever he damn well pleases.. we can support a couple grand of souls aboard with the supplies that we have, but not fifty!" He exclaimed at no one in particular.

 

The cat looked over to Trix, giving an expression that said, simply, 'and this is what I've been dealing with for the last few millennium'. With a flick of it's ear and a glance in the giant direction, it told of single expression of expectancy.

 

"Why don't you get rid of the extra souls?" Trix asked, finally succumbing to the silence.

 

A perverted Snort escaped the giant. "We are not butchers... note like the VIII or XII... no... not just doing to trow them out the airlock, not yet.."

 

"send them to the lower levels?"

 

"Even worst." Alyxander answered without hesitation

 

"Well, do you even know what use they could be?" Trix asked. the simple pause was all the answer she needed.

 

"Why not?" she asked again.

 

"It would take to long, none would volunteer...too tedious for even mortals to have..." A penny dropped somewhere in the vast galaxy, and the effect of that far off event would be seen on the Lord Captains face.. "and he would see how many he has damned... ".

Trix tried to follow before the realization hit her also.

 

"That's a mediocre punishment for someone who fracked up our ship." She said so matter-of-factually.

 

"But with a one in ten survival chance... only the best survive and the rest die by his hand, and his alone... a lesson that we cannot save everyone." As Alyxander said this, a smile did not come to his face and seconds stretched in minutes as they both contemplated the punishment for the over-compassionate 'captain' Avaton.

 

"Thank you" he spoke finally, something that took Trix completely off guard as he walked up to her throne.

 

"Good council is rare-" Trix's mind was lost at this turn of events- "and you need to take a better stance within this company." he spoke in his dangerously trusting, fatherly tone.

 

"And what happened to 'mutant abomination with too much power'?" Trix ventured 

 

"The former member of the covenant are too spit to be considered integrated... and fresh, mortal eyes are never a bad thing. You once ruled a covenant of war bands, it is high time You take a more... fitting position." Alyxander said as he reattached his helm.

 

"Alright, now you have me worried, whats with the sudden change?" She asked, Alyxander produced a single, over sized coin bearing a anciant rune and the wolf of luna. he passed it to her.

 

" I never found the use of loges, not because the emperor forbade them but because they didn't really have a place if a company works properly. But this medallion is for your benefit, as any for the legion or the company would not question your rank or worth so long as you carry my token. consider it as a badge of your office, as you have my protection from those that question, you also operate as my right hand, as far as the legion is concerned." 

 

"i'm... honored?" Trix was still reeling from the mental blow of this demi-god bestowing such an important honor to a mutant such as herself, not since the fall of her own command. The lord captain turned to leave

 

"you earned that a long time ago... I know you will not disappoint us" he spoke leaving as the Feline creature smiled as smile  that can only say one thing in satisfied smugness.

 

 

[Zhaharek]

Wretch

 

The soft sound of normal footsteps echoed after the thunderous marching of Brother Arioz. The ceramite clad boots of the Chaos Dragon, echoed by the soft steps of Wretch. Arioz tried not to look at her. Instead, he focused on the walls. Crimson, and gold, patterned wood over thick, heavy plasteel plates, beneath which he knew was rockrete. The splendour of the corridors increased, the closer one became to Lord Zhahareks central hall. Yet, this corridor was... Special. It was the avenue through which his equerry, Wretch was escorted. When he called for her. And of course, it was decorated, across the walls, ceiling and floor, with a gilded mural of how she was taken. The destruction of her "Craftworld."

 

Here, the epic duel between Lord Khauriel and Autarch Jaryliol. There, Warpsmith Malos felling a dreaded Wraithknight. Upon the ceiling, the bisection of Exarch Artaloina, by Lady Anarchia. Across the floor, the murder of Ghost Seer Orlevion, by Lord Crouw. As one reached the end of the corridor, the mural showed the most final, dramatic conflicts in the ruination of the Craftworld. Lord Khauriel unmaking the Infinity Circuit. Lord Zhaherek duelling Wretch, and winning. And, shown above the door, his wings spread wide, jaws open, claws outstretched, Almighty Doomfire devouring the Avatar of Khaine.

 

Beside Arioz, as they reached the door, Wretch let out a low sound, both sigh and sob. Arioz looked at her, and she stared back with her empty eye sockets.

 

************************

 

 

The Word Bearer, was irritated. It was pretty clear from the fact that he had just drawn his sword. Subtle, thought Zhaherek. Merely drawing a blade. How... Dull. Why don't you whisper a word of Enuncia, and remove my connection to The Warp, have my own warriors, your double agents, draw their blades, remotely deactivate my armour, or psychically attack me, or even draw a warp damned gun, since your almost 50 metres way, or even TRY anything slightly interesting, Zhaherek mentally ranted. His irate train of thought continued, But no, you won't do any of that will you? Because you don't know Enuncia, you don't have any double agents, you have no idea how power amour works, you're not a psker, you're only armed for close combat, and you're are boring. And because you are boring, you are about to say:

"This is a grave insult." Spat Dark Apostle Sadaal Karmuk. He stood, clad in the scab red and pitted iron colours of Lorgar's sons, a hissing power sword in his left hand. A barbed chain hung from his right, tipped with a bronze skull. He was flanked by Coryphaus Bol Attek, and Icon Bearer Calzeth, in addition to eight "Chosen of the Word". All but the Apostle, were eerie silent. Looking at the smug zealots, Zhaherek realised that he was quite irritated himself.

 

The accusation was levelled at his brother Khauriel. Khauriel sighed and rose from his throne. Zhaherek remained seated, "diplomacy" had always been his brothers forte. The sorcerer realised, with a light shiver of revulsion, that his and Khauriel's mutual rule of the Chaos Dragons was similar to the Dark Apostle and Coryphaus dynamic of the Word Bearers. Zhaherek sighed. He loathed being unoriginal. "What is it that aggrieves you about our conduct, Sadaal?" returned Khauriel. The Raptor Lord was stifling a smile, and softly stroking his skin cape as he said it. "That's Dark Apostle Sadaal to you." The Word Bearer snarled. "And I am insulted by the disappointment that is your court."

He swept an armoured limb across the non-Word Bearer denizens of the room. Zhaherek looked at those to whom Sadaal gestured. Their number included himself, Khauriel, Warpsmith Malos, their immense ally from the Fifteenth Legion and Lady Anarchia, snarling at the Word Bearer's derision. Somewhere, skulking in the shadows, was Lord Avostos Crouw, their ally in the Eighth Legion. Zhaherek's central atrium was at least 300 metres in diameter, and Dragons and Crucian mortal vassals lined the perimeter. All armed to the teeth. The ceiling stretched up, up and up, beyond sight. Sadaal had managed to anger every Astartes and mortal in the room with one statement. The idiot wasn't done either, predicted Zhaherek.

 

"You wear the marks of the Ruinous Powers, yet defy their hold over you." Continued the mad priest. Zhaherek was sneering now, his all-encompassing black hood hiding it. He was right, the Apostle wasn't done. Oh, how the Seventeenth loved their sermons. "And what is worse, I haven't seen what I came here for yet. I came to bear witness to the Blind Seer, the Stolen Treasure, the great prize of Zhaherek and Khauriel Hazamet. Your... Wretch. And all I see are-"

The timing was perfect. The doors at the back of the atrium, behind Zhaherek, swung open on their hinges. Wretch had arrived. His equerry was here. Finally.

 

She staggered in. She staggered everywhere. She had a slight build, that would've been attractive once. There was no denying that she was an alien though. The pointed ears. Cold, high features. The height, and unnatural litheness. Raven hair, falling in blood, sweat and tear matted rats tails to her knees. Skin, pale like alabaster. All of this, was noticed second to the fact that her eyes had been torn out. The dried blood still tracked her face. Fresh blood joined it, whenever she forgot not to weep. She'd been a farseer once. Now look at me now she thought. She'd once have looked at this room, in the knowledge that she could kill all within, before the monkeigh even knew they were dying. Now, she couldn't look at anything. She saw only with soul-sight. And to look upon the souls of the Fallen was a curse. The Word Bearer's glowed as red-skinned, bat-winged, blind, serpent-tongued behemoths. The Chaos Dragons, coiled serpents of flame. The Neverborn were everywhere. They clustered around... Him. Wretch stared at Zhaherek. He stared back. +My equerry.+ she felt him whisper into her mind. The mind that had been a fortress once. +My... Lord.+ she returned.

 

Zhaherek tuned out the rest of the room. Khauriel was stalling the Apostle, who was ranting about being brought a slave in place of the equerry he'd expected. Imbecile. He spoke to Wretch, the telepathic speech coming easily to him. It was easier for her, he knew. +So, my equerry,+ he said, enjoying the sound of his own mind-voice, +advise me.+

He felt a shift as Wretch tapped into the skein. He had never understood Divination. She deigned not to look at him as they spoke. She merely walked to him, head down. When she was close enough for him to reach out and touch, she replied. +His fate is either to kill you today, and die in one of the mad crusades of The Second King, your Despoiler, at the hand of... Him,+ Wretch pointed to the Coryphaus, +Or to lose his head to your sword. Right, here and now.+

Zhaherek smiled. He was going to enjoy this.

 

 

***************************************

 

 

Sadaal watched as the heathen sorcerer rose to his feet. The Chaos Dragon's armour, and face, were hidden behind a vast cloak of black silk. His brother, Khauriel wore musculature sculpted armour, his regal face and Crucian white hair unhelmed. He hated them both, and would pray for the torment of their souls, upon their death. The sorcerer's xeno-witch-slave had finished whispering in his ear. Sadaal murmured into the vox: "Calzeth, lead the Chosen against their Warpsmith." A gesture of approval from the Icon Bearer, as he shifted the three metre, sigil topped staff he bore. "Attek, follow me." No response from his Coryphuas. The vow of silence was sacred, after all. The sorcerer stretched to his full height. Sadaal heard the smile in his voice as he said: "Kill them all."

 

The gunfire began.

 

The Word Bearers vow of silence meant nothing when everyone in the room was deafened. The Dragons came forth, spitting fire, drawing blades. The first red and gold heathen was felled by Bol Attek's plasma pistol, a hole through his gut. The second lost his head to a Aposlte Karmuk's blade, just as the distance between the two lines met. It doesn't matter that we're outnumbered, thought Sadaal, we have Chaos on our side. A bolt round pinged off of Sadaal's pauldron, spinning him. He turned to face his Icon Bearer. Well, his head at least. The Astartes holding it was clad in midnight. Night Lord. A shark's grin across a pale face. Avostos Crouw. He lunged for the heathen, but he melted into the haze of the skirmish. The Aposlte turned, and was nearly struck by the toppling Coryphaus. Smoke curled from the joints of his armour. The sorcerer's equerry floated nearby, hands glowing. Sadaal raored and charged her, emotion at the death of his Coryphaus delayed by the initial rage. Something pressed against him, then threw him back to the ground. A telekinetic push. He heard a smile in the voice that said: "Enough, Wretch."

 

Zhaherek levitated from his throne, over the remnants of the bloody, and quick skirmish. He drew one of his two swords. The sorcerer glanced over to where Anarchia and Malos were bisecting the last "Chosen of the Word." The Apostle was rising. A sermon began to form on his lips.

 

Zhaherek landed suddenly, at Sadaal's feet. Brought his sword up. Parried. Step back, swing to the leg. Parried again, he turned the swing into a whirl that ended in a lunge. Another parry, to the left, efficient and fast. Zhaherek noticed that everyone was watching, circling them as they dueled. His brother was itching to join in. A swift set of hacks, form Sadaal. Dodge left, right, right again. The last hack removed sliver of silk from his hood. Zhaherek parried another strike, pushing it till he was shoulder to the shoulder with The Word Bearer. He stamped down on the side of Sadaal's knee. The Apostle went down. An elbow crunched into his skull sent him further down. Zhaherek lifted his blade to deliver the decapitating blow.

 

Then something wrapped around his wrist. The chain. The Word Bearer kicked Zhaharek in the chest. Rose, in spite of his leg. Leveled his own sword.

 

 

Then his head exploded.

 

Wretch floated behind the corpse of the Word Bearer, eyes glowing, and she said, +Sorry. Wasn't quite a sword.+

Khauriel growled: "An incorrect prediction again, xenos?" The equerry merely shrugged. Zhaherek sighed, and spoke in his mind-voice, +Advise me.+ Wretch began to speak, and he cut her off, +Correctly this time.+

 

A shift as she observed the skein. She opened her mouth, despite speaking in mind-voice, +The Dragons bring fire to the Bearers of The Blind Priest Word.... And win.+

 

Zhaherek grinned. His footsteps echoed around the atrium as he stored away for the remains of Sadaal, to his throne. He turned. Gestured to Khauriel, the theatrics were more Khauriel's business.

 

The other Lord of the Chaos Dragons spread his arms and proclaimed:

"Chaos Dragons! Lord Crouw! Warpsmith Malos! We go to war, with the Word Bearers!"

 

And Wretch, equerry of Zhaherek Hazamet smiled. Just as planned.

[Beachymike123]

The White Scar Scout Sergeant struck her face for a third time, this time knocking her back teeth out. Methiana saw blood, drool and tooth splatter across the wooden floor, her fists clenching in her shackles as her body almost spasmed from the blow. Her raven hair was matted from sweat, bunched in places across her forehead. As her heart pounded in her chest, she was barely aware that her assailant was screaming at her for the umteenth time, let alone the other three Scouts looking on in amusement. 

"WHERE ARE THEY?" The son of the Khan had a wide eyed frenzied look to him, his tapered moustache ending in small skulls she noted. Before her capture, she had been the personal scribe-slave to General Kryten the Iron Dragon, Master of the Nihilists. It was her duty to ensure his logistics were conveyed when he wasn't able to, from checking munition details to relaying information back to his Iron Warrior masters, a task she loathed at the best of times. But she knew those monsters, they were familiar. Unlike those that now had her shackled and wanted the whereabouts of the Iron Dragon himself, no doubt to end his life. The sergeant leant in closer as she pulled her head back upright, her breathing now heavy as blood ran down the back of her throat. 

"Do you not see he doesn't care for you," came the sound of his voice, the smell of his spice infused breath infiltrating her nostrils."You mean nothing to him. I won't lie,you shall perish at my blade. But do the decent thing, aid the forces of the Emperor one last time and give up his location." Methiana looked up, into that steely gaze of the hunter. She saw he was determined, and began to make a sound.

"H..h..his location," she rasped, beating back lethargy, "is privy to the Dark Gods and my master! Unlike your Emperor, I have faith in my masters, and they are coming!" She spat at the White Scar,an act of defiance she knew would surely sign her death warrant anywhere in the Imperium. Gritting his teeth, the sergeant raised his sword, its blue edge gleaming as she saw the Astartes reach an incredible height. She closed her eyes and felt a slight trickle of urine run between her legs as she prepared to receive her reward for heresy. And that was the last thing the White Scar sergeant felt in that arm. 

A plasma shot rang from an unseen angle. It obliterated Methiana's attacker's arm, knocking him to the floor. The other three Scouts raised their own weapons, their Bolters looking for targets. Within a second, a horde of traitors were upon them. Scores were cut down as they attempted to engage in melee combat, but these weren't the most dangerous ones. From the horde emerged the Iron Dragon and his other assistant, Sergeant Bruno, his affliction from Nurgle worship evident as he fired his melta gun. As the last of the Scouts fell, although Kryten ensured they were alive, the Iron Dragon freed his scribe-slave. 

"Can you stand?" came the authoritive voice. Methiana looked at her dark saviour, knowing she was as damned as ever. She nodded, her head low in his presence. "Good. As a token of my appreciation, is there something from him you want?" A flicker of dark light edged in her eyes. 

"I want his skulls!" Kryten nodded, and with his human arm, the other fashioned into a dragon with a built in plasma pistol, he ripped the sergeant's upper lip from his face, complete with his moustache and skulls. The sergeant rasped as he knew know he was defeated, Kryten's boot on his chest. 

"How did you know where we..." came the barely formed words. 

"I ensure I keep a tab on all of my possessions." These were the last words the White Scar heard as a plasma bolt sheared his head into fleshy sludge. 

 

Edit: I had a real blast writing this actually. Good entries guys as always. 

[Kierdale]

I think we're supposed to keep it close to 250 words, fellow heretics ;)

(Hence I put my unofficial, long, entry in a spoiler)

 

Damned good reads, anyway. :tu:

I particularly like Zhaharek's with that pet Eldar. Manipulative little Xenos! :D

[Tenebris]

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

 

Welcome frater to another Inspirational Friday. This week we were writing about the equerry of our Chaos Lord, probably the second most powerful figure in our warband. I must say that I was very pleased to see so many of you participating this week and I dare say that week after week a GREAT improvement in both writing, theme and atmosphere can be observed, both among the regulars and the new participants. This week the clear winner is Zhaharek and his Wretch, an eldar farseer taken captive, defiled and bound to her Chaos Lord. The contribution was interesting not only because "Zhah" made a xeno his equerry but also because he managed to present us both a credible scene and a plot twist to boot. Two honorable mentions share the podium, Lord Pariah's Trix and Beachymike123's Methiana, both very good posts with a telling character. Good work to you all! 

 

 

Step forth Zhaharek and claim your reward!

 

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

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 10/04/2015 - Chaos Tome

 

Another community request for Inspirational Friday, a writing about a Chaos Tome. What is a Chaos Tome? Well there are many answers to this question, follow me.

 

A Chaos Tome, the object of this week IF, can be any text important to your warband. It could be a grimoire of daemonic names, a spell scroll, a contract with another Warband or maybe even a compact with the Dark Mechanicus. A Chaos Tome can also be the register of pay for your mercenary forces, it could also be a contract signed in blood with a Neverborn patron, or it can be a religious text which has seen entire worlds rise in rebellion against the Ecclesiarchy. 

 

This week's Inspirational Friday is indeed a daunting prospect but also a real challenge. You have full artistic licence with this one and try to keep to the 250 words. As I have said, it makes the challenge more challenging but also forces you to really "choose your next words carefully" as a fellow Commissar of mine would say. 

 

As a help I offer the following advice:

 

"Not all words are written, not all books are bound, not all scrolls are made of paper, not all ink is ink at all, not all scribes know how to write, not all have the eyes to read." 

 

 

Tenebris

[Son of Carnelian]

The Space Hulk Chalice of Tears held uncounted secrets. Forgotten alien races, ancient artifacts of the Imperium, and horrible monstrosities born all resided there before the Crimson Lords purged the wreck with fire and fury. But at the heart of the Chalice of Tears lay a Chaos tome of unimaginable power. Indeed, it represented potentially the first contact humanity ever had with the Warp. The inscriptions written on its surface were written in the blackened blood of the souls it claimed. Ancient words resembling High Gothic twisted themselves in forbidden patterns and staring at them for any length courted insanity. But if one had the will, one might have learned secrets of the Immaterium from the scrawled madness. These words stretched from one metal plate to another, until the observer realizes that the circle the chamber in which they now stand. Once they had realized this, they would suddenly spot an edifice at the center of the chamber, as if it had previously stood invisible. A dark sphere of a monument, unnatural grooves marked its surface. Voices emanated from within it. One could see the faintest phantom of the tome’s first victims, their screaming mouths hanging open and filled with maggots.

 

If all these sights did not collapse the viewer’s mind, they might make it to a dilapidated computer console. They would have seen at name at the console’s base. A name that has echoed down thousands of years on the voices of the oldest daemons.

 

Event Horizon.

[Castellan Cato]

“Bring forth the ancient texts” the sorcerer intoned. The magos at his side turned to his brethren and issued a screech of binary. 

 

Four lesser magos of the Dark Mechanicus came forward carrying a palanquin between them.  They approached the Chaos sorcerer and knelt. A ramp descended and quiet returned.  As still seconds passed, a rustling was heard from the inside the palanquin.  A dead-eyed corpse shambled out and descended the ramp.  While the creature was once a man, it was obvious to any onlooker that it was no longer.  Its flesh and muscle had rotted away and it was animated by a far darker power than nature.  The top of its head had been severed and the brain cavity was hollow and empty, yet somehow it glowed with a faint green light.  The twisted creature took its place and knelt before the sorcerer, bending its head before its lord.  The sorcerer took his place at this malefic lectern and raised his voice to address the winds.

 

“Praise be to Nurgle!  Through his blessings ,even the lowliest of servants can be the bearers of the greatest power.  This one carries the pure word of the Plaguefather etched within his skull. Now, forgotten forefathers of humanity… RISE!”

 

The sorcerer read the incantation memorialized within the zombie’s skull.  The air began to crackle and the ground shook.  From the earth hundreds of hands and arms erupted, reaching out for the first time to grasp at their newfound unlife.

[Teetengee]

Revision

 

Two nearly identical tomes sat open on a table in front of the robed form of Escharon.

The right was blank, the left began as follows:

 

8 160 766.M39

Assault on Avris Prime was successful, but with extreme casualties. False information reports lead to a full regiment of the Scions of the Old Gods and 83 marines being lost (17 knights of the Tide proper and even one member of the council). They were ambushed by the greater portion of a battle company of an as yet unidentified astartes chapter…

Escharon dipped a bone quill into a pot wrought from the skull of an astartes; two service studs in its brow reflected the flickering green candle light. As soon as he put pen to page, both books began to glow with an increasingly bright blue light.

8 160 766.M39

Assault on Avris Prime was successful, but with minor casualties. Half a regiment of the Scions of the Old Gods and 65 marines were lost (all of allied contingents). They were ambushed by the greater portion of a battle company of Silver Wraiths Astartes before Wraiths and they alike were lost in the eruption triggered by digging crews under the direction of our advanced command. Regrets have been sent to their lords, as well as thanks for their service...

 

When the blue light faded the left now read:

 

8 160 766.M39

Assault on Avris Prime was successful, but with minor casualties. Half...

[Kierdale]

`A Draft`

Note: contains something of a spoiler for one story in 'The Age of Darkness'.

 

That a mere book could be responsible for so much upheaval and destruction was, to many minds, preposterous...

Millions turning against the Imperial cult within one week on Getro Prime.

Massed suicides in the Hedusemi western hives.

Planetary defence forces turning their batteries on a Black Ship as it made orbit over Pelusio.

- Companies of Astartes were enroute to put down each uprising and loyalty-proven regiments of the Guard sent where marines could not be spared.

...but alongside the preachers of the eclissiarchy, the commissars of the Imperial Guard and the chaplains of the Adeptus Astartes, the Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition knew that words held great power.

Ordo Hereticus inquisitor Tobias Fen and his chief acolyte Albrecht Rookwood sat at the table, examining the scraps of manuscript before them. Fragments of the incitant tome they had finally managed to recover after months of hard word, watching cities and worlds fall to pandemonium around them. All for the rough script of a madman. And rough it was, seemingly no more than a draft of some greater, blasphemous work. Yet even these scraps had seen the most pious of men tear down Imperial shrines, proclaiming all they had believed a lie.

These apostates foreswore the Emperor’s divinity.

They named the Lords of Terra and the Eclissiarchy as corrupt manipulators.

Madness.

The two looked up as an Astarte strode into the room. An Angel of Death clad in armour unpainted, yet ornately decorated with script.

“My communique was to the lord of my Order,” inquisitor Fen’s brow furrowed at the intrusion, “not to Titan.”

At his side Rookwood’s hand rested atop his holster.

The Grey Knight ignored the threat. “And it was intercepted.”

“You are here to assist us?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The inquisitor cleared his throat in irritation. “We have tracked these uprisings to the work -these rough writings- of one man.”

The marine nodded, arms folded and spoke the author’s name at the same time as the inquisitor did.

“Solomon Voss.”

Fen raised his eyebrows, “You know of this…this Edge of Illumination?”

Brookwood could not hold his peace. “Where can we find the bastard who wrote these lies?”

“He is dead. Long dead,” came the Grey Knight’s response. “The conundrum we must solve...is where this draft came from.”

 

 

I always wondered what would happen if someone in 40K got their hands on such a document, such a relic...

[MaliGn]

Codex.

 

Many times has the tactical masterwork of Roboute Guilliman been reproduced, facsimile and facsimile produced by the data-scribes of the Adeptus Astartes. After all it's content defines what it is to be a Space Marine, and each new recruit must receive this tutelage for fear that they may learn the Truth. As such it had not been the most challenging of tasks for Garet's coterie to obtain a few copies of the Codex Astartes, even if one or two were incomplete or were damaged during their retrieval. Such details would only assist in his plan, as less scrutiny would be given to these volumes once they were returned.

 

Nameless slaves has been busy, driven beyond the brink of madness by the Discords that floated among them; filling their minds with raw chaos, the ritual was prepared, the eight volumes that had been selected were arranged within a giant brass circle, set into the pale tiles of the chamber. One at each point of an eight-arrowed star, the Holy Octed. Above the Octagram rose a twisted stair, raising a great pulpit over the ritual circle. Garet mounted the stair, his feet sure on the unnatural geometry; he wore only a loose robe of sackcloth and the welts on his back still oozed following his cleansing self flagellation. As his waist hung his khantanka blade, a dark ritual athame he has used to perform countless dark rites. The lectern of the pulpit was carved in semblance of a pack of daemons, writhing and cavorting, and atop it was a scroll, stitched from the combined flesh of a seer council of the filty Eldar Xenos. Garet unrolled the grisly parchment, ancient runes of worlds long dead formed, blurred and reformed with new meanings, each more diabolical than the last until he found the passage he required.

 

Garet began to read aloud, the language; although alien to him, came to his lips as though he were native born, as the recited the ritual he felt the power of the warp rise, reality was thinning and the empyrean threatened to break through, slaves prostated themselves around the temple, shrieking in uncomprehending horror as a vortex of wind began to whirl around the room, bearing the copies of the Codex aloft, although they hung still above the points of the great Octed. Garet smiled as he heard his words being repeated back to him in voices not his own. At the edge of sight, among the swirling air he could begin to see shapes forming, pushing at the barrier between realms. He raised the khantanka blade in his left hand, holding the jagged edge across his right palm, before cutting down and allowing his blood to flow; he pumped his fist to summon as much of his vitae as possible before his transhuman physiology healed the wound, before casting the blood in a thick spary into the maelstrom that surrounded him.

 

The pandemonium that followed defied description, an incomprehensible combination of daemon, book, blood, slaves, smoke and pain, when the energy of the dark rite has expended itself Garet was slumped in the pulpit, his robes tattered ruins and barely able to stand. He pulled himself up on the lectern and surveyed the horrific scene. What remained of the slaves was smeared in a thin layer over the walls and floor of the chamber, coating everything in a crimson stain. Seemingly untouched by the carnage lay the eight copies of the Codex Astartes. Garet smirked, he lived, so the ritual had succeeded, each volume had been changed in myriad small and indistinguishable ways, once they were returned to the servants of the corpse-emperor they would be the seeds of future betrayals. Lorgar's Word would be spread, and it's divine Truth shared. This was the Long War, and there were many battles to come.

 

*sorry, may have gone a bit over, tried to keep it short though*

[TDF]

Kanan Raam’s studium was the largest private space on the Enlightenment, but it was still too small for the volume of papers the Dark Apostle generated. Parchments, manuscripts, leather-bound tomes and loose pages filled dozens of shelves and stood in orderly piles across the stone floor.

 

The contents of the papers included detailed histories of the Word Bearers 46th Host and the Chapter of the Radiant Star that had preceded it, warp lore from numerous sources, Kanan Raam’s personal notes on every soul he had ever encountered and the arcane knowledge of the past, present and future he had gleaned from listening to the song of the universe.

 

Tyberias, indentured slave to the Dark Apostle, was tasked with locating an account of the Siege of Chaerephon and was having very little luck. He had tried the obvious places; the sections on the Shadow Crusade, the Realm of Ultramar, the XII and XIII legions, the Legio Iaculum. With a sinking feeling he realised that he would have to search the entire room systematically to have any hope of finding the text. It had obviously been misfiled by some idiot, probably Angelica.

 

Seven hours later Tyberias had stopped searching, but not because he had found what he was looking for. The paper he held in his hand was a biography of himself. It charted his capture by the Host on Scraellax Station, his rise through the ranks to his current position and even Kanan Raam’s opinion on his personality and abilities. With a smile Tyberias turned over the piece of paper and was confronted by the longest section of the report. He glanced up at the heading and slumped to the floor in shock. The heading consisted of one word: Death.

[Carrack]

There is a lot of tough competition this week. Here is my submission with all due respects to Glen Cook's Black Company.

 

The Inscribed

 

 

There were signs and portents, for those able to discern them. On the evening of Gelvira's birth, the majestic psyber-eagle that roosted in the bell tower of the Inquisitorial Bastion was evicted from its nest by a huge ash vulture from the wastelands of Siliquastrum, sub-sector capital. On the night that the profane stigmata first emerged onto Gelvira's pale skin, a hivequake rocked the Red Hive, killing or displacing millions. According to sealed astrological records, this was the very hour that the "Inscribed" constellation would have been ascendant on long destroyed Colchis. Ill portents indeed.

 

As for the "Text" itself, it takes the form of a winding red tattoo calligraphing the the long lost 616th epistle of the dreaded Book of Lorgar. The script covers the hive girl's skin from just below her hairline to the bottoms of her feet. The penmanship is said to be identical to that of Lorgar, the Daemom Primarch of the Word Bearers. Gelvira, a rare beauty, from the lower levels of the Red Hive, does not know the nature of the power transcribed into her flesh. She just knows that whoever looks upon her uncovered body goes mad, or worse. Where she walks, the veil of reality weakens; colors shimmer, shadows dance in the corners of her vision, and barely heard whispers promise the impossible.

 

Where once she was merely a great beauty chased by panderers of the hive gangs, soon her hunters became far more sinister; the witch hunters of the Inquisition, and the covens of the Broken Seal to name but a few. But Lord Carrack was the hunter to claim the prize, and Gelvira graces his court as an honored guest, knowing she is in truth but a captive to Chaos.

 

[Kongou]

Introduction

 

The universe is a cold, dark, brutal place. And to worship the rotting sack of bones on the throne means that you will not survive. Whether you are worked to death in the manufactorum, killed in an pointless charge against innumerable enemies in an unknown planet by glory mongering general , or dying in the many different, painfull ways that one tends to die in the imperium,death is a given. How ever, the worship of chaos is a far cry from the empire. In the empire, you are not given gifts  you are expected to work, and work to death.

in the empire,  stature, and rank are the only way to actually live pleasantly in the empire, how ever, the four blessed ones care not for rank, nor stature, all they care about is your allegiance, and in this grim, dark world, you're going to need all the patrons you can get.

 

 

[Tipper]

Man was this thread hard to avoid while I wrote! Here's what I got, I look forward to reading everyone else's.

 

 

 

 

 

I volunteered... in the sense that the reward for doing so too great to resist. Guarded by the Imperium, of only moderate strategic import, and under whatever protection the Nosalis' pull within the forces of the Warp may provide, my home planet may be safer than Terra itself. Whatever perils I may endure, this is justification enough.

 

"Keeper!!" Nox's voice rings out, not with anger but with a sort of joy that always stands in stark contrast to the horrors I know I will soon witness. Nox is not an overly cruel man, in relation to civilians or even Xeno filth, but is strangely happiest when visiting horrors upon servants of the Emperor. I enter the hall to a now familiar sight. This is the fifth such ceremony I have attended in my two years in the service. Each of the previous is tattooed upon my mind, they haunt me when my mind wanders or when nightmares find me, I... I resign myself to the idea that this instance will be no different. My ritualistic robes flow and swirl with the patterns of chaos. Sometimes nothing, sometimes strange characters or symbols that I do not understand, sometimes the wild faces of demons, always unnerving.

 

Tables have been pushed to either side of the hall, servants pass out drinks, the mood light and festive. My terminator armoured body guards quickly part the sea of warriors, as we make our way to the front. "Make way, maggots," they cry, "make way for the Keeper!" I am known by no other name here. In truth with each passing day it becomes harder to remember that Keeper is not my true name. That my true name is... my name... HAMISH, Emperor preserve!

 

The last line of men parts, my guardians stop, I continue up the steps alone. As I ascend, my eyes meet Nox's and he smiles, I look away. My sight comes to rest on the armor piled off to the side of the dias, it is blue and white and gold, its beauty captures me for the span of a breath and I nearly stumble.

 

Focusing now I circle the trio on the level below the throne. I come to a stop before the man in the middle. He is on his knees, arms outstretched and above his head, palms out. I glance for a moment at his hand, seeing it as held from my peripherals, but no the Terminators on either side hold his wrist and with their other hand press into his shoulder, appearing to nearly dislocate the joint. My eyes track to his face, it is scared and freshly beaten. A metal bolt protrudes from his forehead, and his eyes blaze with the fires of defiance, it would seem he does not know what awaits him... but perhaps he is the bravest man I have ever known. His lips move, perhaps in a prayer to the Emperor, but his breathing is labored.

 

A growl of sorts begins behind me, like a deep bass of someone nearly drowning in phlegm, Nox is laughing. "As promised Space Marine," his voice echoes, to loud at the best of times, "the Keeper has come. Now tell us your name and your brothers will receive word of your deeds. You killed three of my men and wounded two of my honor guard before your capture, this is no meager feat. Especially standing alone before the collective might of the Nosalis. Your gene seed will be a most worth addition to our host!"

 

I write quickly, this is no time to ask him to repeat himself. My quill pauses as I await the reply, I look up toward the prisoner and am taken aback. The accusation in his eyes is all to clear, I want nothing more than to explain. To tell him that I am not with them, I am no servant of the ruinous powers. What I do, I do for my family, for my home world. They offered me a deal, they keep me because I have no bias, who better to write the truth then someone who stands to gain nothing by doing otherwise, and everything to lose if not?! "I would help you if I could," I try to say with my eyes, "I am only slightly less a prisoner than you." I know my cries fall on deaf ears. Finally he speaks.

 

"Life is the Emperor's currency and I have spent mine well." He grunts, a warning push from the warriors that hold him down. He looks up and meets my eyes once again, even knelt down he is a bit taller than myself. "My name is Ricktus Byrdsong and I am the god Emperor's Space Marine, and I SHALL KNOW NO, ARGH!!" The bolt in his forehead comes tearing out, propelled by forces unseen and fly's into the crowd, were a fight promptly starts for possession of it. I scramble to the side and trip on my robes. As I shamefully scuttle away, Nox desends from his throne, "That's quite enough of that, I think." His eyes are aglow with an unholy purple light, and his hand is outstretched. Just before Nox grabs the Marine's head, his captors release him and step down the stairs, reasonably afraid to be to close.

 

Nox continues his chants to Nurgle as he makes contact, causing the Marine's screams to redouble in intensity. Doing so again as Nox's finger finds its way into the hole in the Marines cranium. It begins, as it always does, in the extremities. Whatever foul power that Nox summons forth begins to eat away at the hands and feet of his victim. The screams echo throughout the hall and the gathered warriors quickly join the chorus. Some with song, some with praise to the dark gods, others still with nothing more than primal screams of their own, the cacophony is deafening. Only the mans torso remains, whether my Nox's strength of arm or by the powers that he wields, suspended mid air. I wish nothing so much as to look away but I can not, someone must view this without pleasure, this stalwart servant of the Emperor of Man deserves that much.

 

Finally it ends, the marines body consumed and his gene seed left untouched, servants quickly come to collect. I am taken back to my quarters and told to compose a message for Macragge, one that conveys both honor for a fellow warrior, and a warning to any that would stand before the might of the Nosalis. I set to my grim work again, after this I will go to the hanger and record the names of the fallen and the new equipment tallys. I will not sleep tonight...my home planet may be safer than Terra itself. Whatever perils I may endure, this is justification enough.

 

[Kierdale]

Some great pieces of work.

I'm glad someone went the 'tattoo' route, and so well done Carrack.

And I really need to watch that film again, Son of Carnelian :D

 

I'm away for the next three weeks but will catch up on entries when I get back. :)

[Son of Carnelian]

Some great pieces of work.

I'm glad someone went the 'tattoo' route, and so well done Carrack.

And I really need to watch that film again, Son of Carnelian

I'm away for the next three weeks but will catch up on entries when I get back.

"Liberate tuteme ex infernum!" It holds up super well and it spooks me to this day. What a brilliant film.

[Lord Pariah]

The Wall.

 

Before I get started, I would like to both curse and praise Tenbris eight fold times, For this 250 word 'limit' has caused my Daemonic muse to see that as a challenge... and therefore, I do believe that I can never adhere to it... may not win the special chaos badge of inspiration but I can never speak out against the inspired muses that I have some how got my hands on.

 

Like last time, I will find a million mistakes after the fact but I did try to experiment somewhat... like I had a choice..

 

 

As a rule of thumb, the Pariah Wolves company is does not venerate the octed as gods. This would lead many Apostles of the dark faith to believe them to be faithless cowards who want nothing of power... but, as with many a war band of the legion, what is present on the surface, is seldom the case.

 

It is no secret that the Lord captain Alyxander is one of the handful of Legionares of the XVI legion to come from Terra, to still be alive, and active in his corporial state the 41st millennium. Given this, it would not be too much of a stretch to say that this particular commander has been exposed to very old traditions: traditions that have been spawned from mankind's home world during the age of strife, or even earlier.

 

Many such traditions trace such lineages back to a time when the gods of the warp had first formed from Man's collective indulgences for self harm. An attentive scholar of the damned may be able to notice mannerisms or phrases that date back to these times: Signs such as slaves showing the backs of their hands as salutes and phrases such as 'bloody' replacing some baser curses.

 

But these are mere varnishes to the old practices that the Pariah Company divulge themselves in. For if said scholar was particularly knowledgeable of primeval human traditions, they would know that many practice soul binding and and exorcism rituals. While many died out during the age of strife, some did survive on the ruins of old Luna and other such places.

These rituals are crude precursors to the far more elaborate spells of the chaos sorcerers,  but much like solid shot firearms, they are still as useful in this time of ending as they were when mankind called to the darker creatures that lurked int the depths of the warp

 

Unfortunately, to a Aspiring sorcerer who may wish to learn of these very rituals, they are all close guarded secrets within the company. For only they have access to the Auxiliary Cargo hold 2734-B or -with it's rather flamboyant name- The wall on board the First Promise. 

 

Here, in this candle lit enclosed hall, resides the rather unimpressive but expensive silver plated walls. But before a would be salvage team would set to work with plasma cutters, first they would find the displeasure of the company, But they would note the names inscribed on the wall itself... and this is what makes this room most sacred to the company.

 

The names upon the wall are all the names of the 19th company that has fallen since it's inception... 

 

What makes this overdecorated storeroom so prized by the company, is not the silver walls, but is the fact that a single Shaman -officially a Librarian to any imperial tax officer, when the company still flew the imperial banner- had bound many lost souls of warriors- brothers into the very walls of the ship as so they are not consumed by the beasts beyond the veil.

 

The Wall serves as both remembrance and place of sanctity, were all of the company have come at one point or another, seeking answers to questions that many a mortal cannot answer in good conscience. It is said that even a non-believer would soon change his/her mind when he/she would see the shadowed hands pressed against the reverse of the mirrored surface, offering comfort to their living brothers.

 

While all those outside of the company are forbidden to see the names; any visitor to the ship would see shadows move from the corner of ones eye, this would not be a unfamiliar feeling, given the company the legion keeps, but the more battle weary would not be able to shake the feeling of sights trained on their backs.

 

Many minions of ambitious and/or foolish lords that have been sent to snoop or steal artifacts on board the First Promise, have always been found with countless injuries from small arms to anti-armor weapons... but what makes this peculiar, is not their deaths but how these injuries were incurred without a single scratch to the would-be thief's armor... Boarding parties' fates are never spoken aloud

 

 

[Urauloth]

Some great pieces of work.

I'm glad someone went the 'tattoo' route, and so well done Carrack.

And I really need to watch that film again, Son of Carnelian

I'm away for the next three weeks but will catch up on entries when I get back.

"Liberate tuteme ex infernum!" It holds up super well and it spooks me to this day. What a brilliant film.

Inferis ;) (and yes, it really is a classic)

[slipknotzim]

This is the Eye of Esstek

It is the right of passage for the Warriors of the Bleeding Sun. to an out sider it appears as simply a trinket but once held and gazed into it transforms its holder, some are branded the rubric of Ahiriman deemed unworthy of the eyes gifts, others those deemed worthy bye the changer of ways are given something much darker. They relive every moment in time that led to the current moment, all in a flash, even the powerful sculpting of the astartes cannot handle this over load and they are driven mad with visions of the past and present intertwining. This cruse of knowledge also grants those deemed worthy tremendous physic might, amplifying any latent psyker ability’s to that of a sorcerer master.  Of course the cruel joke of the changer of ways is that all who look upon the eye are turned to bodies with the rubric and only the highest leveled sorcerers in the cabal of the Bleeding Sun know the truth, this cursed eye has allowed the cabal to hold power for century’s and replenish their ranks as needed with foolish astartes who drift to chaos. The Bleeding sun have gained much favor in the eyes of the their patron for their manipulation and guile, and it’s the eye that ensures there power will contu9ine to grow. Until of course the changer; changes and the eye begins to work as promised again.

[Tenebris]

Chaos Tome

 

 

 

For thousands of years the Chapter of the Broken Seal sailed the stars in search for long lost lore, secrets and tomes of forbidden knowledge. Many important finds were taken to the Chapter Librarius, finds like the Tazana Chronicles, the Liber Oriensis, the Document of Phu and the Scrolls of Atlah Halau, yet all this finds pale in comparison with the Tome of Marko, an unassuming book with leather covers and fine parchment but what secrets it held…

 

Marko is said to be one of the Seventeen Prophets, a spiritual guide, a high vizier and an academic of the occult and the esoterically, he was indeed one of the main philosophers of ancient Pre-Unification Terra. This book, this tome of Chaos, was found by the Word Bearers on the world of Karst in Segmentum Obscurus, a remote and dangerous world, with a long lost civilization of mystics.

 

Initially the Tome of Marko was considered the highest heresy; naming spirits, describing mystical vision quests and telling about a dimension were everything is possible. The tome was hidden by the Chapter of the Broken Seal  due to its highly detailed description of the Empyrean and it was soon revealed to be not only a journal of a Warp traveler but also a testament to a great mind, unbound by morals, emotions and concepts, truly ancient Marko was a master to all the philosophers.  The Tome of Marko is to date one of the most detailed guides of the Empyrean. 

 

 

[Tenebris]

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

 

Greetings fellow writers and welcome to Inspirational Friday. This week we had a great time writing about a Chaos Tome, one of the forbidden texts and perhaps the most relevant words for a warband or a scion of Chaos. I must compliment you all for the sheer number of contributions as well as for the quality which kept me behind the screen for a good hour, well done indeed. The winner for this week is TDF. His contribution is one of those snippets of fanfiction which could really be present in any Black Library novella and he also managed to bring forth the "gothic" feel of the 40k setting, the grimdark. A honorable mention goes to Lord Pariah, Tipper and MaliGn, all three showed that they are writer material and the many ideas of how a Chaotic text looks and feels is very interesting and inspiring. Good work everyone!

 

 

Step forth TDF and claim your reward!

 

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

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 17/04/2015 - Chaos Crossover

 

This week the task is simple, choose an unit from a non-Chaos codex and make it Chaotic. It can be everything, from a Tau Battlesuit to a Tyranid bio-horror. Simple, yet complex, aim for uniqueness but provide a reasonable background for the corrupting influence of the Warp and the fall to Chaos of the chosen unit. 

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

 

[Teetengee]

Drehzrhe

     Drehzrhe stepped over the dead kaballites at her feet. <I was right in this,> she thought to herself, <none should question my killing of them.> She shook away the whisper of more at the back of her mind. Tipping her head back, she feasted on the waves of pain emanating from the survivors still crawling and screaming about her bedroom on stumps, their limbs strewn over the alabaster floor. She focused down to the slightest sounds, shutting them out, only letting herself know the drip of gore slowly slipping from her axeblade.

     <But my sisters will ask.> Drehzrhe knew they would wonder how she received forewarning. She couldn’t tell them that the axe woke her long before. That she had lain in wait to ambush them, blood pumping with combat drugs even as they conceived of the final stages of their plan. That she hadn’t killed them to save herself, but just to see them die.

     “Who sent you?” her voice calm, there was no need to intimidate them now. Drehzrhe reached down and stroked the forehead of one of her victims, quickly dying from the four stumps where his limbs used to be. “Hush now, answer me quickly and I shall ease your passing.”
     The pitiful creature looked up at her not with hate as she expected, nor even fear, but awe. Eventually he started in ragged tones, “Your sisters feared you. They were wrong, fear is pointless.”

     “Thank you,” she took the curved blade from his waist, a blade meant for her throat. Drehzrhe appreciated that irony for a moment and then drew the blade down and through his neck, severing it at the base. The rest she left in their suffering, none would save them now that they had failed in their task and their skulls were not worthy.

http://heretherebemonsters40k.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-chaos-eldar-project-khornate.html