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

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Zhaharek. Well done.

 

And I think familiars (including steeds, as I understand it) are a fine theme, Excessus :tu:

[Carrack]

Congrats Zhaharek yet again, you definitely are raising the bar here.

[Warsmith Aznable]

In the garden of the Warsmith, where the white roses grow
with leaves that are black and jagged, like little teeth
and, if you look closely enough, every thorn glistens with blood

Here is One who weeps for him

Here is One who sings for him

Here is One who smiles for him

In the garden of the Warsmith, where the green vines climb
and sink their tendrils deep into the stone,
and wrap tightly around the black iron, row upon row

Here is She who stands behind him

Here is She who sits before him

Here is She who dances beside him

In the garden of the Warsmith, where the cool breeze blows
whistling around the corners, a mournful sound
the skittering, rustling leaves of an early Autumn

Her name is Melancholy

Her name is Malice

Her name is Wrath

In the garden of the Warsmith, he sits and sighs in the gloaming,
drinking deep the summer wine, the last of its red vintage,
and takes his counsel with phantasms

Which One will you find today?

Which One is behind you?

Here She is now, turn around and see*!

*final word varies, sometimes “turn around and die” or “turn around and scream” or “turn around and run”

-“In the Garden of the Warsmith”

Alternatively called “Three Ladies” or “The Walkaway Song” or “Down You Go”

This is a song (usually as a slow chant) of unknown origin, universally known among the children aboard the space hulk The Child of Calamity for millennia. It is commonly associated with a group game involving one child choosing (or somehow randomly being selected by) another from among peers, some of whom will have prearranged roles that the child whose turn it is to choose is not aware of until after the choice is made. Different and various consequences are associate with the traditional roles, each of which can be avoided by passing a specific challenge associated with that role. In whatever form it is played (a blindfolded child encircled by singing peers, two lines of children taking turns attempting to eliminate members of the opposing line, et cetera) the game simulates a lone individual lost in an unfamiliar part of the space hulk.

Older children sometimes play a variation where the consequences involve a loser having to perform a test of bravery by actually going down an unfamiliar (and invariably frightening) corridor in the space hulk, the exact location of which is determined by the role of the chosen peer. Of these children, anecdotal evidence suggests as many as 1 in 3 are actually lost forever to unknown fates.

Young children are taught the game by older peers and initially play silly, harmless versions. By the time residents reach adulthood, however, most residents will have played a version with harsh consequences at least once and are likely to know of a peer who was gravely injured or killed in an unnatural accident, or simply vanished forever. Among the grown-ups aboard The Child of Calamity there is a strong belief that the Three Ladies are very real companions of the Warsmith, and that those who are lost and alone in dark, strange corridors of the space hulk might well run into one of them. A persistent rumour holds that at least some of the lost children are rescued by “Lady Melancholy” and taken to the Warsmith, who makes them into Legionnaires for his Grand Company.

The space marines of the Iron Hounds acknowledge no such things and have nothing like the so-called Three Ladies in either their inner cult or the officially sanctioned cult of their servants. But in the rare occurrences when they have encountered children occupying a junction to play the game, the space marines have always given the children right of way and apparently taken pains to not interrupt.

[Monstra Sumus]

Just stumbled across this after seeing the challenge in the Amicus section, think I'll find a second home here. If I've understood right, my submission will be below. 

 

 

Move. Ever moving. No stopping. Never.

 

Jarek's hands twitched and he clenched his fingers tight against his palms in an effort to stop the shaking. He nodded to himself in the crowd of people streaming towards the bastion gates stretching up into the skyline before him. The fighting had begun three weeks ago on the other side of the planet but now it was here, the rebellion had escalated far beyond what was just assumed terrorist actions and now martial law had been declared. There was even a rumour that an Imperial Guard regiment was en-route to the planet. Jarek had been line worker two hundred and ninety of line twenty in district six, that was six weeks ago.  That was before they had approached him. He couldn't remember much about it, except he remembered being snatched on his return from work one night, the van had screamed to a stop beside him and he'd been taken. They didn't care about his money, nor the small autopistol he cradled in his waist band, in fact he remembered one of them actually laughing as they tossed it from the speeding vehicle. All of his possessions gone in an instant, his wife never knowing his fate. All too quickly he was part of it.

 

That was six weeks ago and he had been Jarek, a miserable manufactorum worker producing bonded side plating for commercial shipping containers. Now he was Jarek of the Day One Initiative, a ruthless terrorist organisation who strapped bomb vests to themselves and attacked government rallies, just the sort of people his mother had warned him about. Six weeks later, two hooded van rides and a blood ritual and he was now here, pressing his stained permit papers into a wide eyed defence troopers hands. His eye balls itched and his palms felt as if they were on fire. The trooper looked him up and down and began to tap away on a data slate, Jarek bared his teeth instinctively and swallowed down the urge to bite the man on the cheek. Jarek shook his head and dug his nails even deeper into his palms, splitting the skin and drawing forth blood. It helped him ignore the itching for a while.

 

Do not fret. There will be biting soon.

 

The trooper stuffed the papers back at Jarek and shoved him past the checkpoint. Jarek took them and was swept up with the press of humanity. He let himself be jostled and squeezed, maybe he wouldn't have to do it, maybe he wouldn't be the key. He could hear it laughing at the very notion. He knew he couldn't escape what fate had decided for him. With a sigh that added years to his face he took the autopistol from his waist band and lifted the barrel and shot the man in front of him. Then he shot the woman to his left and the child whose hand she was holding. He shot people until someone put a las round through his chest. The weapons discharge broke the seal on the symbol branded into his skin. As Jarek hit the ground his body exploded outwards in an explosion of gore. Stood in the centre of the steaming blast radius was a thing of red skin, black horns and eyes of pure insanity. It howled something unintelligible before it began to slaughter the people packed into the courtyard. If anyone could have understood it, they'd know it was time for the biting to begin. As the fiend gorged itself on human lives it vowed to seek out Jarek in the tides of the ever shifting and keep him forever. Good little Jarek.  

 

 

Okay, so it's a little over 500 but I got a touch carried away.

[Carrack]

The Reading of the Liber Apocal

 

Lythane the Black prepared himself for a reading of the Liber Apocal. This was no casual reading, precautions must be taken. He alerted his retinue and told them he wasn't to be disturbed by anyone other than the Warmaster himself, as he checked the locks to his quarters. Lythane than lit the eight candles rendered from the fat of murderers, as well as incense stolen from an Imperial cathedral. He then scrutinized the summoning circle for several minutes. The silver engraved circle was bisected with a line of congealed blood, with a small cage on one side and a girl staked into the center of the other. Satisfied, Lythane eased into a trance, contemplating the nature of the profane text.

 

Reading from the Liber Apocal gave Lythane sorcerous power beyond what he usually possessed, but it would wain after a reading, so periodically he must return to the book. When he didn't, his psychic focus would suffer, his temper rise, and his rest would be disturbed. He craved it. This craving was inherent to the Liber, it had destroyed lesser men, for its greatest curse was that it could only be touched by daemonic hands. Lythane brought his staff down upon the sacrifice and began the summoning. He called out to the warp for his familiar daemon. The wretched little monster was pulled from unreality into the cage. Unperturbed by its confinement the familiar made its demands, 6 slaves to enjoy, 7 hours to wallow in the midden, 8 captives to kill, and 9 minutes to share conscious with Lythane. Lythane unlocked the cage and said, "Very well, turn the page."

 

[TDF]

This week I present a sequel to a previous entry.

 

Hidden Content

For years Tyberias had known this day was coming. He had known for years. At first he had thought there was some way to escape but Kanan Raam had disabused him of that notion. How the Dark Apostle had known that Tyberias had discovered the prophecy was unclear; the account of his own death that Tyberias had found in Kanan Raam’s studium made no indication that he went to it knowingly.

 

“Do not think I do not comprehend the horror of your sacrifice,” Kanan Raam had said. “My brothers and I know sacrifice all too well. First it was our humanity, then it was our faith. Many of us lost our hope in the ash of Terra and the ignominy of defeat. Those of us who cling on must sacrifice our ideals every day. We seek to bring truth and enlightenment to the blind and oppressed, but our every action brings suffering to those we claim to stand for. I am sorry that I must ask this of you, but I see no other way. Tk’kree’ish must be summoned if I am to learn certain truths that will be of great benefit to humanity. Whether you go willingly or not, your sacrifice is unavoidable.”

 

And so Tyberias had come to the summoning chamber. He stood opposite a young man, naked and bound with eight rune-inscribed silver chains. The hollow ruin of the man’s eyes betrayed his allegiance and craft. Kanan Raam’s acolytes stood in an octagonal formation around the two sacrifices. As their chanting grew louder, faster and more intense Tyberias could smell the coppery tang of blood and the electric stench of ozone grow larger and larger. He looked on in horror as the astropath opened his mouth in a silent scream and thick, black smoke poured out. It spilt across his skin, burning it raw like a fire. The cloud of smoke expanded upwards and outwards, the chains straining to contain it. With a final note the chanting ceased and Tyberias sensed the acolytes exiting the chamber. He could not see because his eyes were fixed upon the smoke-daemon.

 

“My master, Kanan Raam of the XVII, greets you, Tk’kree’ish of the Night Choir. He has heard of the great wisdom and dark secrets you are privy to and he humbly requests that you provide answers to a number of questions he has been contemplating.” Tyberias spoke the memorised words with barely a tremble.

 

Tk’kree’ish remained silent for a few moments before replying, his deep, fatherly voice echoing around the chamber. “And what do I get in return for this generous impartation?”

 

“My master offers you his valued servant as payment.”

 

The smoke smiled.

[Lord Pariah]

M'tarr

 

something different, you know the drill

 

 

The sword had laid in its display case for countless centuries, and even though the souls of this hive are gone, it still waited to subdue the crowds with wonder of such craftsman ship.

It is said that this sword can pierce the veil... or was it be the bane of xenos... or was it to divine the future. It's use has been lost, not that this mattered to the 19th Company, for they were told of this artifact to present to the war master, they followed step to retrieve it from a flooded, dead hive.

 

This mattered little when the Eldar sprung their trap, as they knew the mon-keigh of the fallen legion would come. They knew that the Scorched Wolf would come.

The trap failed as the Wolf Pack engaged them as their 'brothers' took the sword. They would be tracked down but the prime concern for the warlock was the Scorched Wolf pressing his blunt tactics against the elegance of the Elder Race in such enclosed spaces.

 

Each trading blows as they knew that each one could be their last, the mon-keigh, to his credit, kept pace. 

The fight turned when the Warlock was finally able to push the great beast with the power of warp. This was not the final blow as the Wolf re-balanced and charged again only to be hit again with a more powerful derivative... There, the Scorched wolf lay, slumped against the wall, his impressive body near-broken.

 

"Fool, you believed that such a prize would be simply left? you only deserve death, like the rest of your kind!" She prophesied.

 

"Why do- Xenos Always- Talk so much... Bloody end it!" The wolf screeched through failed vox grilles and a collapsed lung. The warlock simply sneered as she sent a lethal, ethereal bolt.

 

The bolt Stopped dead between them and detonated, sending her to the other side of the antechamber. 

As the dust settled, it was replaced by a deafening silence that was only broken by a faint 'meow'. The warlock cleared her visor only to find a small cat standing at the epicenter... but this was no ordinary cat... she sensed the distinct tones of the Glysk, the familiar-healer aliens of many maiden worlds, and noble creatures that would willingly die long before casting their souls to such foul creatures as the Wolf... And yet wisps danced into the Scorched Wolf; repairing bones, organs and mutations. 

 

"How dare you!" the Xeno spoke with palatable venom. "How dare you defile such a magnif-"

 

~Silence~ Interrupted a silk voice, not of hers nor of the mon-keigh. ~you Know nothing, Eldar.~

 

Whether it was this jarring distraction or the blessings that was bestowed on him. With nothing but a blur, Captain Alyxander drew his bolt pistol and fired until the dead-man's-click was the only sound in the ante-chamber. The warlock fared miserably when her wards failed, as she now lie unrecognizable on the rusted floor. The captain got up with not an ounce of grace, grunting at the freshly healed wounds as his armor fell apart.

 

"you could have fixed the 'plate..." moaned the hoarse, unfiltered voice of the captain. M'tarr looked at the pieces of ceramite with a cocked brow.

 

"what am I? Your nanny?... no." The cat responded flatly as it walked off to the distant comfort of the First Promise.

[Teetengee]

A Helping

Hidden Content

I look through cage bars into the depths of depravity. A heretic, raw and bleeding, torn from his formidable but foul armour, one handed and sitting calmly staring at me as his remaining right hand idly carves blasphemous sigils into the pale flesh of his thigh with yellowing and harshly clawed nails. As I turn to walk away he whistles shrilly, summoning a cold dread through the length of my spine. Is that a laugh following, or just the quiet jingle of my keys.

I wake screaming, spiders again. Always spiders, I would rather stare at that captive traitor for one hundred days straight then dream about those spiders ever again. Not that the both I am getting these days is preferable. No more sleep tonight. I pull on my clothes again, already blinking away the tiredness. I walk down to check my charge.

Inside the cage he sits still, but something seems different. The shadows are long and partially hide his form in the low midnight illumination levels. “Gaoler” he hisses out as I walk by. I pause, knowing I shouldn’t but unable to stop myself. His hand is outstretched palm down, fist clenched. A bracelet of what can only be described as black insect legs wraps around his wrist. He must have made it from bugs that crawled into the cage. Still something about it is off putting, I feel like I am missing something. He stands, right arm behind his back and that crawling of a thought at the back of my mind quickens as he walks to the cage bars.

“I waited for you, aren’t you happy?” The chill intensifies as I stare into the black pits which form his eyes. Suddenly it hits me, “Throne, how did you---” but he throws out his arm and his hand flies through the bars and tightens clawlike fingers about my neck. Struggling for breath as I fall to the ground, I tear at my throat trying to break the grip of iron. I am barely aware of him calmly walking to the bars and opening the door. My vision begins to fade at the edges as I watch him take out keys, my keys, though anger for it is soon beyond my ability, and release five of our prisoners. Finally he returns and drops the keys on my chest reaching out the stump of his arm towards the hand around my neck. Tiny insect like legs reached out from its wrist to greedily take in his arm, like some horrible child grasping for its mother. His leering face in front of mine as he crouches and grins is the last I see as my vision finally fades.

[Kierdale]

Got a bit carried away writing this one...

 

 

The Wound

It certainly wasn’t heaven, but Caffa was sure he was dead. Hell then?

All about was black and there was a terrible weight pressing down upon him. His body ached all over and he coughed dirt out of his mouth.

Gathering his strength he pushed downwards, his back rising and the weight falling from it. Light, albeit dim, was restored and corporal Caffa, medic’s assistant of the 984^th Cadian Foot E company, 3^rd platoon found himself upon the battlefield where he had, until an unknown number of hours earlier, fought alongside his comrades. The battlefield was swathed in smoke of several shades, and carpeted with bodies. Some of which he had just pushed off his own back. It appeared that his comrades of his platoon command squad had -likely inadvertently- shielded him with their bodies. Despite the shock rapid setting in in his mind, he automatically took in their injuries. From the way their bodies lay, and their uniforms were torn, their bodies punctured in a thousand places with fragments, it had been either a bomb or an artillery shell. How he had survived was a miracle.

He rolled over and looked about, his breathing quickening. Where they still out there? Those bastard heretics and their chem weapons. His hands flew to his face and he checked the seals of his gasmask. He’d been wearing it for so long now that it couldn’t tell if it was on or off anymore. Everyone in the regiment had developed a wheezing cough a few weeks after planetfall on this blighted mudball. The sound of breathing in one’s mask wasn’t much different.

He then remembered to check his own body and froze when he saw the deep gash in his belly. He hadn’t felt anything and still didn’t.

Shock. It had to be shock.

With shaking hands he pulled out what remained of his medpack from his belt kit. After six months of hard fighting and the last three without resupply, all he had left were some anti-infection unctions (which had proved little good against whatever it was the turncoats had been launching at them), relatively clean bandages and his tools. Reaching over to the body next to him he muttered a prayer to the Emperor and removed the lieutenant’s hipflask.

The Loot wasn’t going to need it anymore. He and everyone else in sight was already with the Emperor in heaven, marching in golden light to glory.

Why then had Caffa been saved? Or denied?

He shook his head. Must focus.

He cleaned his tools as best he could with the spirituous content of the flask and peeled back the torn remains of his fatigues to expose his belly.

He retched and looked away from the sight of the livid rent in his gut, before forcing himself to look upon it once more. Pale, creamy fragments protruded from the lips of the wound. Bone? His? No, it couldn’t be. That of his comrades then. Pouring the rest of the hipflask’s contents over the wound he hissed in pain at the alcohol’s burn and then withdrew a pair of forceps from his kit. His hands shook as he grasped the protruding end of one of the fragments and he cursed his mask’s lenses for misting up as his breathing quickened. His gut roiled as the forceps fastened upon the jagged length of bone and he pulled, trying to withdraw the fragment smoothly.

His mask muffled the sudden almighty agony, and unconsciousness took him.

As soon as he awoke he quickly wrapped the wound in bandages, telling himself that the alcohol would have sterilized the wound and debris in it well enough. Lying to himself. It could wait until he got back to a proper medical facility. It would have to wait.

And still he felt no pain.

 

The smoke that filled the battlefield didn’t seem to shift, for no wind blew. In fact it seemed to now be a cocktail of smoke and mist, Caffa relying on instincts to guide him back toward his own lines. If his own lines still existed… At first he tried not to step on the bodies -both those of his comrades and their twisted foes- but as desperation gripped him he trampled them, muttering apologies and prayers at first and soon giving up on even that.

The silence - but for his panting - was broken by the whine of engines and his eyes searched the mists above. One of the enemy drones, he was sure. Those foul, bloated things. It was like the drone of an overgrown fly. He retched as his guts shifted and he tenderly held his hands over the wound as he quickened his pace toward what looked like a burned out bunker a dozen meters off.

The droning increased in volume before he could make it and he was forced to, with a muffled cry, throw himself atop the carpet of bodies. Once again he played dead.

When the sicky buzz of the machine’s engines had passed, the drone itself but a silhouette in the mists above, he raised his head once more from the cold, wet flesh it had been pressed against. His body caught on something as he rose and he looked down to find an arm seemingly terminating in his belly. Hands trembling uncontrollably he frantically pulled at the arm of the corpse beneath him until he came free, the twisted, mangled hand pulling from within the wound. He rolled over, screaming curses. At his comrades for leaving him, at himself for not following his father’s advice, at the Emperor himself for the situation he was in.

He knew not whether it was shock, some effect of the enemy gas, an infection of his wound or simply the cosmos was unravelling about him. He knew not whether to laugh or cry.

Eventually some form of sanity returned and he hastened to redress his wound, pulling at the bandages which had been pushed into the wound. He forced himself to look at it once more. He had seen so many hideous injuries since planetfall. Far worse than anything he had seen in previous battles.

The skin of his belly was still pale, but the lips of the wound were now a dark purple-green. He swallowed back bile. At first he could not see the bone fragments anymore and hoped against hope that they had somehow fallen out or come loose of their own accord. But how could they? When he had tried to pull one out before the agony had knocked him out. Teasing the wound open he was revolted to find the gleaming, ivory fragments had curved inwards. Tears began to run from his eyes as he realized it was not fragments of bone but rather...teeth.

His mind now racing, Caffa clambered to his feet, mad laughter escaping his mouth as he staggered off.

 

He stopped some hours later to reexamine the wound, finding himself no nearer to escaping the mist-shrouded battlefield. The remnants of the bandage had been pulled into the wound, along with the nearest scraps of his torn fatigues. The edges ragged as if chewed.

And then, as if upon a wind which did not blow, came a word.

Nu-Nu-Nurgleth.

He ran.

He ran and ran until his limbs collapsed under him and he fell once more upon a pile of bodies. And the mouth began to feast upon the rot..

Nurgleth! came the voice once more. No more a whisper, it was near. Wet and hungry. He wrapped his hands about himself, not daring to touch or even look upon his exposed belly, which had begun to swell.

He was not sure if it happened or he merely dreamt it but he thought he had put the barrel of his laspistol to his head, but had been unable to pull the trigger. He had then put it to his belly only for a thick tongue, seemingly his own viscera transformed, to protrude and lick it.

Nurgleth has much to teach you. Nurgleth has chosen you. You will learn, human. You will learn of life and death.

[Kierdale]

Carrack, I love your use of the sacred numbers at the end :tu:

[Tipper]

Did we start a new thread and no one told me? Who won? Whats next? Should we decide? EPIC RAP BATTLES OF 40K!! 

Got to be honest, that one got away from me a bit.

[Carrack]

Ok so here we go.

 

This OG represents the EOT to the fullest

All y'all haters must be loyalist

I got 16 switches on my Blackstone Fortress

 

Oh wait Tipper was just joking, disregard my horrible rap intro. :) But seriously can we get a ruling on last week's submissions, and a new contest for this week?

 

In my opinion, Warsmith Aznable's story was my favorite out of a lot of good stories this week. I'm willing to put something together for this week if anybody else is interested.

[Excessus]

Ok so here we go.

This OG represents the EOT to the fullest

All y'all haters must be loyalist

I got 16 switches on my Blackstone Fortress

Oh wait Tipper was just joking, disregard my horrible rap intro. But seriously can we get a ruling on last week's submissions, and a new contest for this week?

In my opinion, Warsmith Aznable's story was my favorite out of a lot of good stories this week. I'm willing to put something together for this week if anybody else is interested.

Don't worry, it's being worked on. :)

[Excessus]

http://shrani.si/f/1a/o3/bgHYhQ/gallery2900410383202531.png
 
Greetings and welcome to Inspirational Friday! Due to...let's call it "warp magic"...it's done on a sunday this week and I'll be guest hosting it again. I hope everyone had fun with the topic of familiars, I know I had a fun time reading all the stories! Quite a few good ones, and as an Alpha Legionnaire I love twists and turns in the story. Well done all of you! Though there has to be a decision made about who wins, and again this week I think it was a clear one...a story that made me actually have a nightmare about it the night after I read it, well done!
 
Congratulations Kierdale, come forth and recieve your prize!
 
http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/15/friday-award.png
 
Inspirational Friday-ish - 31/5/2015 - Nemesis
 
This week will be about old enemies, adversaries, sworn oaths and grudges. Long lives of strife can produce some strong bonds between "people" on either side of the fence, and our heretical friends see a lot of strife in their life! I'll start it off with a small one:

 

-Lord Zhaar'l was back at the Daeshaa system again, the same eyesore system where he had gotten bested at the last three raids he had undertaken. The outlying planets had been easy enough to pillage, but the core planets had been defended well beyond their calculated capabilities. There was no sign of astartes involvement on the enemy side, and the raids had taken place long without the reach of mortal lifespans. But captured traders had told the tale of his great enemy. A great cogitator, to where the brainmatter of past strategists and kings were added that guided the armed forces of the system. At the news of this his warband had began to show cracks in their loyality...bested time and again by what was little more than a servitor in their eyes! They would all be in the first wave of the assault of course, the traitors. And this time, it was time to show his power, the capital on Daeshaa III will fall first, the great cogitator desecrated and their armies scattered. This time for sure...
 
Let us be inspired!
 
Excessus

[Excessus]

Yeah, I'm not good at writing stories or fluff, but I do my best... :D

[Tenebris]

Haha, another Nemesis. Now that is a good topic for all those up for some blood spilling. 

 

I do apologize for not being active in IF of late but I have some pressing IRL situations to deal with but even so I had poor Excessus here act in my stead and I am glad to see that he handled Inspirational Friday well. We also have a victor from Challenge the Traitors and I am eager to see what topic will he offer for the next week. 

 

Said this, my oh my I really need to do some reading, and I am starved for some good fanfiction. 

Tell us who is the Nemesis of your warband. Nothing sparks the heart of a traitor like a good old fashioned feud. 

[TDF]

So does anyone want to pair up and swap Nemesises (Nemesese?)

 

Dark Apostle Kanan Raam of the 47th Host, XVII Legion, stands ready.

[Tipper]

Mine for this week, Oya!

 

It was quiet, the rest of the battlefield, slipped away, it was *that* moment! I saw it, the loyalist saw it, and Nox capitalize . Sliding his left foot forward, through the dirt, and the blood, and the spent brass. Simultaneously pulling his right hand up and across his body, and rotating his hips as he did, sent the blade at the end of the chain screaming strait for the Space Marine Captain's neck. At the very last moment Nox's left wrist rotated pulling in the chain's slack, causing it to come short of removing the Marine's head and instead slice open his throat.

Nox turned to me quickly. "Astron, your Bolter, if you please." His calm voice broke my trance and I passed my weapon. Nox fires the entire magazine into the air, and then presses the red hot barrel to the Captain's wound. Giving a moment for the man to cough up his blood and resume breathing normally, if labored, Nox leans close and whispers in his ear. With a final look into the Captain's eyes, my warlord brought the Bolter's stock into the side of the Space Marine's head, nocking him smooth out.

"Come Astron," he said to me, "we return to the ship."

"Yes my lord, but... well."

"Spit it out man. I don't keep you around for your willingness to be silent."

"Why did you not kill him, and what did you say to him?"

Nox turned to face me then, a gleeful fire in his eyes that I knew well. He always has it when destroying his most hated enemies. Servants of the false god.

"I told him the name of the poison that tipped my blade this day."

I was became clearer to me then, "You poisoned him, then then he will die a slow and painful death."

"Of a sort, my friend, such is the beauty. He will be found alive, the only one of his company. He will tell an Apothecary of the poison that courses through his veins and my plan will be made clear. He will receive an injection to negate the effects of the toxin, and will do so again the next morning, and again the next. Every morning, for the rest of his life, he will awake and need an injection. Every morning he will remember the men, his men, whom he could not save. He will remember that I held his life in my hands, and that I gave most of it back. It will be torture that perpetuates itself, very efficient indeed. After a time he will wish for death, perhaps I will even grant it. To answer your first question I did not kill because death is a mercy. One that the illustrious Captain has not yet earned, but I will see its toll paid."

 

[Tipper]

So does anyone want to pair up and swap Nemesises (Nemesese?)Dark Apostle Kanan Raam of the 47th Host, XVII Legion, stands ready.

I avoid the tread while I write else I would gladly have taken you up on your offer TDF. None the less, if no one else accepts, Nox, beloved son of Papa Nurgle, disciple of Typhus, Warlord of Nosalis Company, Death Guard legion remnant, is more than willing to have a friendly (or not so friendly) rivalry with your Dark Apostle.

[Conn Eremon]

You know what, I kind of like that idea, of seeing if anyone wants to 'partner' up for a nemesis. I have quite a few Warband ideas kicking around, I'll put up a small hook for each of them. If any of them strike somebody's eye, shoot me a message or something, and we can hash something out. If I get no response, I can always pick two of them myself. I won't be able to do much more than one or two submissions, so first come, first serve.

 

 

"Oh, I'll heed the call of the Primarch and the Warmaster. That's not why I'm killing the messenger. I'm going to kill you because I have to admit, I'm, well. I'm a little piqued. Neither of them thought to ask me themselves? That's just not how things are done." Achsantre Aivas, Chaos Lord of the Highborn, formerly of the Emperor's Children Legion, pledges himself to the 13th Black Crusade

 

 

"I am not asking for your permission to lead you. That is not my question. My question is, are you going to obey me, or am I going to kill you?" Vanov, bastard son of Dorn, challenging a warband of Iron Warriors for dominance

 

 

"Yes, I did say I would help you kill my brothers. And yes, I did help. There was no one on deck 14 when you assaulted, was there? One hundred and thirty dead Night Lords. So I'm not sure I understand. I did my part, and you did yours. Why is there such confusion now? Do my dead brothers not deserve my vengeance?" Rex Talion, the Venger. The giant in terminator plate that he speaks to is unable to form a response, the jagged edges around his torn throat emitting only a gurgling sound.

 

 

"Ha! You won't have to worry about me kneeling to you. I will not kneel before one who would enslave us and call it freedom." First, and last, words of Captain Brute Tyrke to his Primarch, Angron

 

 

"Looking down upon a world, watching as the darkness of the night slowly encircles the globe, can be so . . . Hm. Light chases dark chases light; mad, yet achingly slow . . . How easy it is, for the balance to be tipped . . . Forever . . ." Thanophorus, Harbinger of the Plagueborn, the Wraithes in the Dusk

 

 

"I like this place. It has . . . history. Flavor. Its shape is maddening enough that I can barely pick out a path through. I do like it. It could be a good home for us. Brothers, kill the Eldar infesting our home." Rhodon, brother-master of the monster, witch-commander of the Jade Brotherhood, remnant of Prospero

 

 

"Horus was god. Gods die." Anaxilas, Tyrant of the Black Brothers, sworn servant of the Warmasters

 

 

"The book of the father is clear. Tears of blood pave the way for the chosen to the birth place. Screams of fury and the animal need echo among stars that burn blacker than the night. Let us add to the choir." Gil Avar, the Conquering Beast, the Everliving King of the Chapter of the Malign Star, says the words that will drown a sector in Imperial blood

 

 

"Why do you react so, son of Corax? The man was a heretic, and his words are therefore heresy. Now, he is a dead heretic, who shall speak no further heresy. What does it matter what damning evidence he claimed to be able to level at me and mine? Surely the claim itself would be suspect? And yet, you level such spiteful doubt upon us." Tohm Nultyn, Master of the Adeptus Astartes Chapter 'Honoured Brethren,' among many, many other names

[Excessus]

So does anyone want to pair up and swap Nemesises (Nemesese?)

 

Dark Apostle Kanan Raam of the 47th Host, XVII Legion, stands ready.

TDF, that was a great idea!

 

About the nemesis plural, I have to defer to Casanova Frankenstein for that. :)

 

[Zhaharek]

I think the swapping nemesises idea is fantastic. Does anyone wish to become the rival of Sorceror Lord Zhaharek Hazamet of The Chaos Dragons?

[Teetengee]

Anyone who hated Horus want a rival?

[Kierdale]

I don't think I can top my last 'Nemesis' entry, so I'll sit this one out.

 

It would be very interesting to see a joint effort this time from members. :)

[Excessus]

What the heck, how did I miss that there was another entry witha Nemesis-theme? It's not in the post on the first page as far as I can see...