++Inspiration Friday (Chaos Icons. Until 12/18)++

[Kierdale]

Can this include alternate universe legion doctrines? I can provide relevant links and information, if necessary.

Absolutely! :tu:

 

If people want to include homebrew rules/formations too, that's fine (though bear in mind I don't game these days so I won't particularly be looking at that when I choose a winner).

[Carrack]

 

The Riddles of War

 

 

The three Black Legion Terminators stood in their hunched forward, hulking stance at the end of the black draped hall. Smokey torches were ensconced in bronze fixtures to provide a dim flickering illumination. Four chalices rested on a table behind the terminators, one empty, the other three filled with blood, wine, and poison. A single power armored Black Legionnaire bowed a knee before them. "Aspiring Champion Vinno, Lord Carrack says you are to be amongst his chosen." Boomed the middle terminator out of his vox-grill. "Are you prepared to answer the riddles of war?" Continued the terminator. Nonchalantly, Vinno replied, "The poison is Nurgle, the wine Slannesh, the blood is Khorne, and the empty chalice is Tzentch, do you take me for a fool?" The terminators shifted as they conferred with each other internally. The middle terminator again boomed, "You answered correctly, but we know you bribed the Dark Apostle Lavam for this answer, the real question is; how does the Black Maw wage war?"

 

"The spear tip, the swift precision strike that decapitates the enemy leadership, and leaves his forces in shambles." Replied the Aspiring Champion. He continued, "Where we excel is setting up the the final thrust of the spear tip. Gathering intelligence through informants, cults, and sorcery to find the opening for the spear to strike." Vinno paused to spit acidic saliva onto the floor as he mentioned sorcery, the word leaving a foul taste in the devotee of the Blood God's mouth.

 

Vinno went on, "We also make good use of the warp fueled atrocity. The hellbomb on the Red Hive that weakened all of the Siliquastrum sub-sector, and the blood sacrifice of the defenders of Cantu that called forth a horde of Bloodletters to slaughter the entire population, leaving a cleared planet for our settlers and warning others of the folly of fighting the Black Maw, are two recent examples." Vinno further said, "I could of course go on, I have been fighting with the Black Maw, and before that, the Sons of Horus, and the Luna Wolves before that, since before Terra. I have slaughtered millions. I have burnt worlds. I have heard the call of The Warmaster and fought in each of his Black Crusades. I will continue to slaughter and burn till I once again stand on Terra, and I will slaughter and burn there as well. If Lord Carrack, the very Slayer of Multitudes, has elected to raise me to the ranks of his Chosen, who are you to deny his wishes?" With that Vinno turned from the Terminators and walked back down the hall, knowing that if he answered to their satisfaction, he would make the door, if not, he would not.

 

The door clanged shut behind Vinno, Chosen of the Black Maw.

 

[Kierdale]

Strategies of the Psychopomps

Hidden Content

The Phlegethon

A holdover tactic from when the Psychopomps were the loyalist Stygian Guard, the Phlegethon is the coordinated pouring of firepower onto isolated, often surrounded enemy until all are slain. As the centaurs of Dante’s Inferno patrolled the circle, firing arrows at those who tried to rise above, the bikers of the Psychopomps (the Black Stallions and other such units) are tasked with corralling the enemy and containing then via their plasma, melta and flame weapons.

 

The Obol (AKA Charon’s Obol)

While loyal to the Golden Throne this tactic put a single squad of marines into a position of great threat in order to draw out the enemy, at which time the rest of the Stygian Guard forces would strike. It was often a tactical squad as they would have their rhino to both advance and retreat in though in some circumstances the `Obol` unit was instead an assault squad.

After the chapter’s fall to Chaos and flight from its homeworld the Obol is rarely now valuable Astartes but rather a unit of cultists (the majority of the time volunteers though not always). On occasion Rhinos with enemy captives strapped to their hulls have also been utilized.

 

Upon the banks of the Styx

A tactic devised by master Sophusar since the chapter’s fall, the Astartes rather than advancing to engage the enemy as per standard, set up a near-impenetrable wall of fortifications which they man and meet the enemy assault. It is as the enemy near the walls - the bank of the river - that the renegade Astartes call upon their neverborn allies: a tidal wave of Daemonettes, Fiends and Seekers surging up behind the enemy to crush them against the Psychopomp defences.

 

The Scythe

The deployment of the warband’s heavy weapons at the center with dominating fire arcs and a commanding view of the battlefield: the Heel of the Scythe and all the fast elements upon one flank. These latter units form the Blade. While the Heel holds the center the Blade is swept across the battlefield at great speed, tearing into the enemy flank and trampling them beneath wheels, hooves and feet.

 

The Waters of Lethe

In the ancient language of the Greek `Lethe` referred to oblivion, forgetfulness or concealment and it was captain Castor of the Stygian Guard’s 2^nd company who devised the tactic which became known as `The Waters of Lethe`. Captain Castor would lead chosen members of his company in infiltrating enemy territory, sometimes even deep into enemy camps, eliminating the enemy as they prepared or even as they slept.

With the loss of the 1^st company to Khorne on Cyprius III, Castor advanced to become the preeminent captain of the Psychopomps and use of the Waters continued, though his chosen Astartes were equipped with a great variety of appropriated weaponry in order to fulfil their missions.

 

The Cocytus

The River of Wailing. Against heavily entrenched enemy the Psychopomps utilize their sonic weapons to tear into the enemy, spreading panic as the defenders realize the futility of hiding in their bunkers and bastions. Fortresses are torn down by waves of sonic energy, bodies are liquidized as the concussive blasts reverberate within the confines of bunker complexes turning the defences into tombs.

 

The Acheron

The opening act of a great many battles. To the ancients Acheron was the River of Woe and at this point, to the formed up enemy forces, the Psychopomps display those of the foe they have captured prior to battle. These tortured and defiled souls are presented to the enemy as a promise of what fate awaits all.

If i have time I may do a short story including a few of the above, though it's turning out to be something of a busy week.

[EesiOh]

dam I wish the loyalists on the Liber Astartes would get there together and make something like this...

[Kierdale]

dam I wish the loyalists on the Liber Astartes would get there :cuss together and make something like this...

 

Why not suggest it to the Mods? Or start it yourself (perhaps after getting their permission)? It needn't be staff-run.

 

I think it's a great idea and would be very valuable in the Liber.

[EesiOh]

The Bloody Harvest 

 

 

Alesandro and his Blood Wing soared through the air of Averon, laughing at the feel of the wind and rain whipping against their faces. Ahead of them lay their prey, not possible to see with mortal eyes or even Astartes eyes, but the predators eyes that Alesandro and his followers had received their patron, Khorne, could pick out their targets in a night vision-like hue. In actual fact they couldn't see the heat radiating from their targets, they saw the blood. To Alesandro and the Blood Wing, their targets looked like walking bodies of red liquid, waiting to be sucked dry.  

 

Alesandro turned to his trusted right hand man Nerus, and nodded to him. As the other flapped their bat-like wings, long since fused to their backs, Nerus dived in low. Nerus quickly scanned the column ahead and, happy with the week spot he would be about to exploit, dove towards his foe. A terrible screeching noise emitted from his now defunct Jump pack as he drew his beloved twin pistols and emptied both of their clips into Astra Militarum regiment. Guardsmen fell wounded or dying as the mass reactive bolt shells did their grisly work. Still more dove to the ground and tried to shoot at Nerus, but he was already gone, melting into the rain. Alesandro's Blood Wing had been harassing the Guardsmen's line for a week, but in the last few days it had begun to pour with rain. Alesandro had sent a grateful prayer to Khorne for this turn of fate, as it meant that this campaign of fear could be persecuted longer with lower fatality rates then before. Not that Alesandro or Khorne cared much for whose blood was spilled. But Alesandro knew that the more men he had, the more blood they could spill. 

 

As Nerus re-joined the Blood Wing Alesandro motioned to everyone to come in close. They all did before landing together in the depression of a large knoll. Each member put on their helmets, now mockeries of the heroic visages they had once been, they were twisted and warped, meant to inspire fear rather than courage and desperation rather than hope. "Well done Nerus" Alesandro's guttural growl echoed over the squads private Vox-Net. "I counted their reaction time, the seeds of fear have begun to take root, and their retaliation's timing was slow enough to warrant the full scale attack. Arren, Tell Gorenash the time is right" Arren nodded before beginning an incantation to boost the squads Vox-Net. Alesandro's Blood Wing once more rose into the air and began circling high above the Imperial column, still in disarray after the surprise attack. That it had only taken the deaths of 20 guardsmen to cuase such panic and confusion confirmed Alesandro's statement, they were ripe for the harvest. 

 

The first sign private Yveil noticed of anything being terribly wrong was the screaming. It was unlike anything he had ever hear before. It was not the screaming of the Chaos Raptors Jump packs, of that he was sure. It was human, but not. He ran towards the Psyker conclave, as that was were the screaming seemed to be coming from. Suddenly he stopped. In front of him the conclave were all clutching their heads as terrible things began to happen. The first Psyker turned as pale as white as his entire blood supply drained out of him, he feel into a pool of dark red. The Next Psyker screamed louder and louder as his blood boiled and then ignited, setting the poor Psyker on fire. The final Psyker just stood watching and gibbering before his eyeballs exploded in spectacular fashion, but before he fell to the ground a force seemed to hold him up, blood spewed from his mouth but he managed to speak in a voice louder than was possible "Gorenash is come, The Harvest Begins, This Regiment Ends" The final Psyker exploded outwards, blood sparying everything. Then came the familiar Screaming of the approach of Raptors 

 

Alesandro's heart sang as he swooped into the camp of the Imperial Guard strafing them with his bolt pistol. He landed and, throwing down his spent pistol and drawing a crackling power Axe, he had been given the Axe when he became 6th Company Captain of the Archangels and it had served him well, it still did now in the service of chaos. Staling through the chaos caused by the 9 other members of his Blood Wing, Alesandro picked out a group of Imperial Guard who looked like they could rally the others, A captain and his flag bearer surrounded by a rabble of veterans and privates. Alesandro Smiled to himself. This would be fun.

 

Yveil stood at the Flag Bearers side, his Lasgun held in surprisingly firm hands as the screams of the Raptors echoed through the mist. Yveil felt something warm splash his face and looked up before crying out in horror, instead of the rain everyone had been accustomed too, the sky wept blood. Yveil felt himself begin to quiver when one of the other Guard Members yelled out a warning, stalking towards them was an Adeptus Astartes, his armour black and crimson like dried blood. On his back sprouted bat wings and what was once a deathmask now portrayed a daemon.  The Traitor Astartes let out a cry in a strange language and charged towards the guardsmen. 

 

Nerus flew above the battle, firing shots into the beleaguered and confused guardsmen. Occasionally swooping low to decapitate Guardsmen, or when he felt particularly vindictive just picked up men and dropped them from great heights, In the distance but getting closer and closer his enhanced sight let him see the charging mass that was slowly solidifying into Gorenash's warband. Led by 50 Khorne Berserkers, the warband was making very good speed. The Blood Wing would not need to distract the pathetic guardsmen for much longer. He scanned the battlefield and made out Alesandro approaching a rallying command squad. Flying to land next to his commander he emptied both his pistols into the squad slaying 7 guardsmen including the flag bearer, but before it fell it was caught by a shaking private. Nerus watched bemused as his old comrade charged into combat with the Guardsmen and mercilessly cut them down  

 

Alesandro charged forwards, splitting the first guardsmen clean in half with his axe, before spinning and beheading 2 more with one stroke. He ran towards the captain who had tried to flee like a coward but had fallen down. As he approached the prone captain a lasblast hit him square in between the eyes and his head snapped back. Alesandro merely snarled and shook his head before turning towards the offending guardsmen. He ran at the shaking private holding the flag and, slinging his axe on his back, simply punched a whole with his fist right through the guardsmen's chest. Turning back to the captain, who had now managed to get up and was attempting to flee, Alesandro contemptuously drew a second bolt pistol and shot him in the legs, watching them explode in twin showers of gore. Holding up the captains body Alesandro removed his helmet and tossed it to one side before violently stabbing his fangs into the captains tender neck and ripping out his jugular. 

 

Yveil lay dying, the dropped banner next to him as he bled profusely through the hole that had just been punched in his chest. In all honesty he had no idea how he was not dead yet, though his vision was rapidly blurring. The last thing Yveil ever saw was Gorenash and his warband arrive, letting the Bloody Harvest begin in earnest 

 

 

(sorry about the lengths, was NOT expecting to write this much)

[Majorbookworm]

BATTLE TACTICS OF THE 157th GRAND BATTALION

 

 

As befits a warband of the IVth Legion, the 157th are well versed in the arts of siege warfare, and most of their tactics justly revolve around the principles of preparation, coordination, and overwhelming firepower. By which is meant that all actions are meticulously prepared for beforehand, carefully planned and executed by major forces acting in concert with each other, and backed by the maximum supporting fire possible. Even in field engagements, there is a propensity to carry out actions in the same way, operating in a manner that some more aggressive Chaos Lords would deem slow and cautious, rarely launching an offensive unless it is a prepared set-piece one, and avoiding rapid, headlong and ad-hoc movements across the battlefield if it can be avoided. Artillery support is plentiful, from legion vehicles such as Basilisks and Whirlwinds, and from vassal Thorakata siege units. The enemy lines are first blanketed in high explosive and pinned in place by waves of expendable Janissary infantry, to adsorb hostile ammo and to identify points of resistance via which units take which casualty rates. Only then will the Iron Warriors themselves move covered by yet more supporting fire from vehicles and Rapier platforms, falling like a blow from a thunder hammer onto the chosen points of the frontline, smashing their way through with brutal force and efficiency. Breacher-fitted Tactical squads and Terminator veterans lead the way, with Iron Havocs and Assault Raptors following up. Dreadnought Talons are directed towards anything even those forces cannot reduce to rubble or scraps.

 

Smoke and artillery fire filled the air all across the city. The surviving guardsmen huddled behind whatever cover the bombed-out shell of the building offered as las-fire whipped around them. None of them could say with any certainty what the structure's original purpose had been, and right none of them frankly cared, occupied as they were by the massive force of Chaotic infantry confronting them. Although armed only as light troops, with simply a lasgun and little body armour, they were nonetheless attempting to storm the city block as if they were space marines, despite the artillery lashing them. Max swore as yet another line came screaming at them, seemingly begging to be cut down, yet in their desperation their fire felled yet more of his shrinking garrison. Suddenly the wordless yells of the foe cut off. Although the crack of las-fire and the boom of impacting shells raged unabated, the sudden lack of that sound made for an eery 'lack' of noise. "Where have they gone?" wondered a corporal as he rose to survey the battle field, before his upper body shattered under the impact of a bolt round. Several guardsmen began to whimper as they realised what was suddenly coming for them. New shapes moves through the ash-haze, hulking figures clad in ancient dull-coloured plate, combi-bolters spitting fire, blasting men away with the inhuman accuracy of consummate killers, and behind them rose the silhouette of some monstrous mechanical beast, roaring forwards at the now shaking humans grimly clinging to their positions.

 

The Grand Battalions armored tactics are based around their role of breaching enemy defensive line and positions, as well as countering enemy tanks, and as such they prefer the 'push' of heavy tanks rather that the 'thrust' of lighter vehicles. Land Raiders, backed up by Vindicator assault guns, are the primary vehicles employed by the warband. Specialist formations of rarer tanks preserved by their bonded Dark Mechanicus support the standard Armour Centuries as needed. These include a Heavy Assault Company (Fellblades, Mastodons and Spartans), a Counter-Armour Wing (Tank destroyers and Lascannon Havocs), and a Special Armour Group (Sicarans and Proteus).

 

The heavy elements of the Counter-Armor Wing were sitting behind the concealed berms and firing pits, waiting for the lead echelons of the loyalist tanks. At the center of the line was the formations flagship, the ancient Cerberus Black Lantern. On either flank were the squadrons of Sicaran Venators. The supporting Predator tanks fell back though the ambush zone, drawing nearly a full battalion's worth of Imperial Leman Russ tanks after them. The loyalists, flushed with perceived victory, hurried across the arid landscape after, ahrdly daring to believe that they had bested a force of traitor Astartes. The Sentinel walkers, probing ahead of the tank elements, were the first to realise their depths of the danger they were in, even as precise lascannon blasts began picking them off. Black Lantern's massive tri-linked Neutron Laser Projector adjusted onto the foremost Leman Russ and fired, obliterating the battle tank in a shocking display of overkill. The Venators opened up with their own armaments, a rolling cannonade of dense laser fire tearing into the enemy at ranges in which they could not hope to escape from.

[Kierdale]

Thank you very much for your entries this week. Some impressive pieces!

We had Teetengee telling us of the initial strike of the Tide of Blood, MaliGn's Apostate Council, IF regular Carrack telling us of the recruitment of one of the chosen of the Black Maw and the tactics of that warband, and EesiOh's Blood Wings preparing the battlefield for the assault of the rest of their warband.

But this week I chose not one but two winners. Two entries which I feel fulfilled the challenge brief and thoroughly impressed me. They were also quite different from each other.

Step forth Scourged and Majorbookworm to claim your reward!

I liked the originality of the Djinn's Curse, its attendant Xeras and the devastating effect the weapon had.

And I loved the detail of the 157th Grand Battalion's battle tactics. Very fitting for Iron Warriors.

Excellent work, both of you!

And here begins the next challenge...

Berserkers of Every Creed

With a gory tide of Khornate minis coming from GW this month I thought it apt to have this next challenge Khornate based...though not necessarily entirely dedicated to the lord of skulls.

Tell us about both true Khornate berserkers and ones which worship other gods (or are unsworn to one of the four Infernal Powers) such as Slaanesh-devoted berserkers juiced up on combat drugs, Tzeentch-devoted berserkers whose wrath and might is powered by an innate connection to the warp, Nurgle-devoted berserkers consumed by disease making them rabid for blood...which would be used on the table counting as Khornate berserkers. Tell us of these warriors within your warband and what drives their bloodlust.

The challenge runs until the 28^th of August.

Let us be inspired...

[Carrack]

Hunt of the Blood Eye

 

 

In the silent, cold, desert of the void a hunter stalks its prey. The prey is panicking, venting gasses and jettisoning chaff to obscure the predator's senses. The predator is not so easily fooled. The prey is screaming for help across the vox and out into the turmoil of the warp. The cries for help will not be answered in time.

 

In nature, after the chase, when a predator finally seizes its prey, the prey will die a death as quick and clean as its predator can safely deliver. But the blackness of the void is not nature, and the promise of a quick and clean death is not even a remote possibility. For the prey is a chartered vessel of the Imperium, and the predator is a Black Legion Warship. So the prey, the great liner Sojourner, seeks its own clean death by diving at the massive gas giant on the outermost edge of the system, the edge of the void desert. The Sojourner hopes to keep its overloaded holds of pilgrims from the damnation they will face if they are captured, by crushing all souls aboard in the gravity of the massive planet. But the Sojourners efforts are futile for it can not hope to outrun the Blood Eye, a warship forged with craftsmanship and technology long forgotten, an original Astartes Strike Cruiser.

 

Well short of the terminus of the Sojourner's suicide run, a cutting beam of energy slices apart the main engines in her stern, hobbling her speed long enough for the Blood Eye to come abeam. A single volley from the Arch-Enemy's broadsides opens the Sojourner's flank to the void. The panic of the crew and passengers reaches a crescendo, and they begin to riot, those that are not sucked out into the vacuum of space to freeze as air bubbles in their lungs and bloodstream explode from the pressure change. The rioters know the end is nigh. The Blood Eye launches its Dreadclaws.

 

Once loyal heroes whom strode battlefields at the dawn of the Imperium, run the decks red with the blood of martyrs. With no hesitation they slaughter, for their oaths were broken long ago. Where once they fought for the ideals of a secular society, now they scream, "Blood for the Blood God!" That these beast were once human is terrifying enough, but now they are so much more, more than human and more than terrifying. They tower over their prey in baroque and ancient black armor. Armor that a mere mortal would struggle to lift. Armor festooned with skulls and hooks. Great helms sprout brass tipped horns and the burning rune of the Blood God.

 

Some claim that Khorne is a God of martial prowess and honorable combat. Deluded fools. The berzerkers rip apart the hapless pilgrims with bolt pistols and chain axes, decorating themselves and the Sojourner's corridors with blood and gobbets of meat. Only after an offering of blood is given do the Black Legion relent to take slaves and plunder.

 

The Sojourner was neither seen nor heard from since by the Imperium of Man. Much to the Imperium's horror, the same can not be said of the Blood Eye.

 

[Kierdale]

The farseer watched with a mixture of fear and intrigue as the Astartes - those bastard gene-mutant mon-keigh in their hulking, inelegant armour - ploughed into a squad of his craftworld’s guardians. The taint of Chaos was thick upon the enemy: more than their twisted armour and bodies, their very souls were malformed, corrupted. Doomed. Puppets dancing to their master’s call. This particular squad fought with a martial prowess and ferocity he would have expected in servants of the Lord of Rage but as he studied their way of fighting he discerned the truth of it.

The way they tore into the guardian squad - he flinched as the Astartes slew his kinsmen - their roaring mechanical blades finding every weakness in the Eldar mesh armour and exploiting it. Gore sprayed and bodies toppled. It was as if the Astartes had seen the way the melee would play out beforehand. They knew the steps of the dance and had rehearsed it to a level of finesse only the Rillietann could exceed.

The farseer studied them. There was something...it was as if they had the Sight - recently too - but had shut themselves off from it, sealing themselves into this course of action. The fatalism of it stirred something within him, despite himself.

His heart rose as a squad of Howling Banshees counter-assaulted the foul Astartes. Their soul-quaking warcry echoed across the battlefield and brought with it the promise of a turn in the tide. And indeed their elegant blades did lay low several of the tainted marines, though each dropped calmly even as the Banshees removed their heads, as if having awaited this fate, accepting this roll of the die.

Puppets of the Great Conspirator. He saw it clearly now.

And then came their terrible vengeance. Though they had been bowed they were not broken and their counter assault was an awful flurry of attacks...

It was with a heavy heart that the Farseer signaled for the remaining Banshees to retreat, their Exarch obeying the order with alacrity.

As soon as they were clear he gave a second signal and the Dark Reapers upon the ridge to his left diverted their fire to bombard the Astartes swordsmen. Their powered armour was no match for the Reapers and the Farseer’s face split in a grim smile as he identified the weakness of this new enemy.

 

 

Blade masters of the Thelemic Brotherhood

These fatalistic, elite warriors of the renegade Thelemic Brotherhood (former chapter name: EXPUNGED) meditate upon their role as experts of melee combat upon the eve of battle. They sift the currents of the Empyrean, seeking out the flow of events to come and the path their Wills must take in order to emerge victorious. It is this insight which enables a Brother truly at one with his Will to find the weaknesses in his foes and strike with force beyond that of normal Astartes. Once the play of the battle has been seen they close their inner eye, their fates accepted. Thus, to all but the most skilled and perceptive of psychic observers they appear as if lacking witchsight when engaged in combat.

Unlike the Berserkers of Khorne, these Tzeentch-aligned warriors are calm and elegant swordsmen, slaying their enemies with deft, precise blows whether on the offense or defense.

 

In Game:

Furious Charge & Rage - the Blade Master’s having foreseen the enemy’s weaknesses and being able to strike both rapidly and hard where and when it is most effective. Not applicable to disordered charges: the concentration required is too much to take into account larger engagements.

Counter Attack - Blade Masters are equally deadly in defense, delivering a flurry of blows to those who dare to assault them.

[Teetengee]

Excerpt from the Records of Chronicler Mainok Crull (Executed 999.M41 for Heresy)

Hidden Content

---
The fact that the Tide of Blood attracts an inordinate number of followers of the Blood God is indisputable. What is unclear precisely is why, although most who have the time and desire to hypothesize on such believe it likely that it has something to do with the Tide’s terror tactic of raining blood upon their enemies and then recollecting it for reuse, whether through liberal application of anticoagulants (see record 99832041, the Leaking Clouds Incident) or through sorcerous means (see record 99864141, The Hive Calamities). Yet the leaders of the Tide of Blood (see record 96738836, King of Scars and record 97742939, Thrice Cursed for examples) do not show any of the hallmark signs of the worship of the [redacted].

he use of berzerkers is clearly demonstrated (see record 99864141 above) as a tactic employed by the Tide of Blood. Such warriors are employed as terror troops in the hope that their brutality will cause the enemy to falter. Additionally, they are often used as chaff, being sent against impossible odds as distractions in order to allow more heavy hitting elements of the Tide’s forces to move into position. The low life expectancy of such warriors is evidently understood by those who arm them, as armour (see record 99865041, Enemy Technology at Hive Carnat) taken from these soldiers are found to be, apart from a heavy coat of fresh red paint, in various states of atrocious repair or missing many components important to long term functioning.

The armour and combat function are however few of the only aspects of these servants of the enemy that are mostly uniform. Some (see record 99864941 Enemy Tactics at Hive Carnat subsections d-g) seem to fight while in a state of mindless bloodletting, emotionless and unfeeling. Others are covered in accursed sigils and paraphernalia that complements their deranged rantings and religious fervor. Further of these madmen seem to glory in killing and the taking of heads for its own sake. Finally there are others who scream mad apologies or just guttural howls as they chop down their foes. My assistant Tormada insists that this has something to do with electro-mechanical devices [redacted].

The slapdash armouring of these soldiers and their combat use suggests that they mean little to whatever beings direct the actions of the Tide of Blood. Furthermore, it appears that unit cohesion is mostly ignored, and individuals are assigned more due to number requirements than any other reason. However, due to the mindless bloodlust that grips all of these warriors when in combat, it seems that more complicated tactical decisions, and the squad level harmony required for them, would be a lost cause under even the best of circumstances. The most useful tactics against them appear to have been the application of high powered or high volume medium to long range fire, with complete eradication of the enemy being the only marker for success, as even a few such berzerkers will not hesitate to rush an army thousands strong and do significant damage considering their small number (see record 99864941 Enemy Tactics at Hive Carnat section h). Ignoring them seemed to be too dangerous for the defending army to consider.
---

[EesiOh]

torn between writing something here, and preparing for the most recent Liber Challenge AND getting over this bloody flu 

[Kierdale]

torn between writing something here, and preparing for the most recent Liber Challenge AND getting over this bloody flu

 

Well, you have more than a week left to do the first, a few weeks for the second, and the third sounds like the blessings of Papa Nurgle himself ;) Perhaps Grandfather is entreating commanding you to do a Nurglesque one?

 

Oh, and get well soon ;)

[EesiOh]

torn between writing something here, and preparing for the most recent Liber Challenge AND getting over this bloody flu

Well, you have more than a week left to do the first, a few weeks for the second, and the third sounds like the blessings of Papa Nurgle himself Perhaps Grandfather is entreating commanding you to do a Nurglesque one?

Oh, and get well soon

you make a good point, I was originally stuck for a berserker Idea but thanks to Nurgles Blessing (annoying though it may be) I shall direct my attention towards the Berserker of The Impure

[EesiOh]

++Date Sent CLASSIFIED, Subject CLASSIFIED,++

++Report from High Inquisitor Carrak++

++Begin++

In the northern rim of imperial space there lies a menace to the Imperium, slowly festering away hidden in the warp is a daemon world known as Anthraxis. For nearly 1000 years the blight upon humanity known as The Impure %%Cross Ref; Typhus, Zombie Plague, Fall of Invectus%% has been assailing the forces located there. All raids carried out by those in this Chaos Warband seem to carry the same method. A plague fleet will translate into realspace, and begin immediately deploying troops to the planets of the system its in. The ground forces never seem to be in much haste and simply move through the planet slowly eradicating all life as they go. At the forefront of these vicious assaults are, what in a different army would be Khorne Berserker and yet this is not so in the case of The Impure. They instead use Astartes that have been infected with a special strain of the Plague Zombie virus. These Plague Zombies have no bolters and are instead armed with long plague encrusted swords. They simply charge towards the enemies desperately trying to bite and cut at their defenders, before falling upon their kills in a flurry of ripping and tearing. When the infected marine is finished and moves on to a new target, the fallen victim of its assault stands up and joins in the tide of violence that will soon sweep the unfortunate system. This serves as both a way to gain an numerical advantage over their foes but also as a potent weapon of fear. Fighting against the risen dead is bad enough, but when a zombie wearing power armour, and with the enhanced capability of an Adeptus Astartes is unleashed against a planets PDF or Astra Millitarum regiment many of the men simply break and run rather than fight the unholy horror that comes to seek them out.

++Report is fractured, Dataslate is shutting down++

++The Emperor Protects++

Dam I actually found this really hard to write, I dont know, probably feeling sick and all hasn't helped but yeah, hopefully its not too rubish

[fallenbourne]

Don't post much here but i felt inspired by the contest and I recently started a Khorne Daemonkin army.
 

So here is a short story about the khorne lord.  Raptor Lord Arvolth.

 

Now i am not much of a writer but sometimes the muse does hit me.  Hopefully you like it.

 

 

 

Lord Arvolth stood atop the building surveying the battlefield.  The blood was running and fresh skulls were being offered to the throne.  The city was in ruin and most of the planet.  Lord Arvolth and his warriors had made planet fall almost a month ago with only one purpose in mind, revenge.  Arvolth and his kin were unique amongst his khorne brethren.  They preferred the speed that flight gave them.  Whereas most of khornes servants prefer to be on the ground either on foot or riding.  He and his chosen warriors preferred to crash into the enemy from above.  The sound of the ground pound shockwave and the liquefaction of the enemy as they are landed upon.  The shock and awe of seeing your squad mate disappear in an instant crushed all hope in the enemy.

 

Revenge is was what drove him to this place.  The hounds of Huron.  For an unknown reason the hounds have been after someone in his war band.  After countless battles being interrupted by these lap dogs, he had gotten word that the hounds were tracking a rogue corsair on this planet, Arvolth decided to strike first.

 

The first few battles were bloody, the local PDF and inhabitants just getting in the way.  Hounds hunting rogue, Arvolth hunting hounds, too much cat and mouse game for him.  Then more Red Corsairs made planet fall.  Arvolth called in the rest of his war band and the real battle began.  The hounds tracked their prey and cornered the rogue.  That is when Arvolth struck, hard and fast.  Determined to catch the rest of the Red Corsair force off guard and annihilate the hounds.  Of course plan A never survives initial contact.

 

Now he sits atop the building, his personal bodyguard of raptors awaiting his order.  Arvolth sees order within the chaos below.  The handful of Berserkers he has within his war band do an amazing job of being shock troops.  Brethren from his former chapter pound the enemy with plasma fire while advancing.  All the while chanting worships to khorne and his throne.  The symphony of bolter fire, chainaxe’s revving, and slaughter calms Arvolth.

 

He spies the hounds champion and a handful of his squad.  They are charging right into a squad, there bolters streaming constant fire.  “Time to begin the slaughter my brethren.”  Chainaxe’s whirr to life, power crackles across weapons and claws.  Arvolth bellows out a scream “Death to the lap dogs!!”  Jump packs flare up and the 8 of them take to the sky.

 

The hounds slay the last of the squad and begin to rev the engines on their bikes just in time to see fire rain from the sky and land with the force of khornes fist.  On initial landing one biker is obliterated.  The shockwave of 3 raptors landing knock him over and are set upon by claws and axes.  No chance to react.

 

The ensuing combat becomes a whirlwind of blades and bolt pistol fire.  Arvolth immediately lands and hammers into the hounds champion shifting the front of the bike over.  The champion uses the momentum of the shift to backhand Arvolth.  Arvolth recovers quickly and turns to the champion.

 

“CHALLENGE!!!!!!!!”

 

“ACCEPTED!!!!” rages back the champion.

 

Time seems to slow down for a moment.  The noise of the raging battle lowers to a whisper.  Arvolth can hear his twin hearts beating in his head and hears a whisper “Skulls for the skull throne”.  Arvolth full throttles his jump pack and charges the champion.  Caught off guard at the speed that Arvolth is moving at the champion only has time to raise his arm to block the first strike.  Arvolth’s axe cleaves straight through the champions arm.  Arvolth feels the axe feed and cry out for more.  Using his momentum from the first strike Arvolth swings back around for a second swing.  And buries his axe into the chest and partway out of the back of the champion knocking him off his bike.  The ensuing chaos of his raptors and the bikers stop.  Arvolth stands over the champion and removes both his and the champion helmet.  “Remember this face lap dog.  For it is the face that will haunt you while your skull lays at the bottom of the throne.”  Arvolth removes his axe from the body of the champion and with a mighty swing decapitates the champion.  With a roar as mighty as any bloodthirster he raises the head to the sky.

 

In that same instant the clouds in the sky parted and trail of fire passed overhead.  The unmistakable contrail of loyalist drop pods.  Arvolth focused on a pod set to land on the other side of the city.  "Blood Angels" he thought.  He put his helmet back on and voxed "Bretheren the day is not done.  More blood is to be spilled and more skulls collected."

 

 

[Kierdale]

Thank you very much for your entries this week.

Carrack and his Hunt of the Blood Eye, telling us of his blood thirsty Black Legion berserkers.

Teetengee gave us the Records of Chronicler Mainok Crull detailing the ragged-looking berserkers of the Blood Tide.

EesiOh gave us plague-berserkers (a very nice idea!).

And Fallenbourne told us of lord Arvolth, his raptors and berserkers.

There were some interesting reads this week. However I did not feel there was any one submission which particularly stood out, thus rather than awarding everyone instead there will be no Octed awarded for this Inspiration Friday.

Try harder next time, fraters.

And talking of next time here begins the next challenge...

Geneseed - the unique genetic material used to transform a normal human into a post-human Astarte. These artificial organs are a loyalist chapter’s most precious resource and in the case of the traitor legions and renegade warbands, cut off from the boon of Mars, perhaps even more so.

This week I ask you not where or by what means your warband acquires geneseed (for that and the creation of new Chaos space marines shall be covered in a future Inspiration Friday) but I ask you to tell us about the geneseed of your chapter and any mutations or alternations there are. How stable is their geneseed? Which implants have been altered and how? By accident or by design?

While the various loyalist might miss their Betcher’s Gland and Sus-an Membrane, or the Mucranoid and possess pale skin and dark eyes...canine teeth...albinism...a thirst for blood...

What about your marines?

For reference: Creation of a Space Marine

The challenge runs until the 11th of September.

A reminder: entries do not have to be works of fanfiction (though I do find the best of these most entertaining :D)

Let us be inspired...

[Kierdale]

Red Sands, Black Lies

Hidden Content

The red, sandy regolith of Holy Mars shook as the barge flared its retro-engines with a final roar and settled upon the landing pad with a sigh of hydraulics and the creak of its behemoth hull, experiencing gravity for the first time in years. Soon the ping of cooling metal could be heard, though only briefly as the winds of Mars never ceased and the dust-laden gusts soon swallowed the sighs of the settling vessel. Upon its prow was a huge skull: half human, half cybernetic, white and black respectively, framed by a cog-design of black and white. The Opus Machina: the symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicum.
The huge tongue-like ramps around its lower decks did not extend. Not yet, for a most precious cargo was first to be unloaded then the hundreds of skitarii guard, tech-adepts and other members of the priesthood of Mars could disembark. An umbilical corridor telescoped out from the barge’s huge flank and mated with an airlock upon the windswept side of the Helixforge beneath its armoured walls crenelated like the teeth of the hallowed cog. The airlock and corridor were purged of atmosphere before purified air laced with disinfectants and musky incense was pumped in and finally the portals cycled open. A squad of fulgurite electropriests lead the way, electricity arcing from their staves to caress the deckplates and hymns to the Motive Force upon their lips. Servoskulls carrying bronze censers orbited them dutifully. Hulking yet carefully stepping servitors followed next, their limbs reinforced with hydraulics and gyroscopically stabilized (of such import was that which they held), then began to parade from within the barge’s innards carrying forth the irreplaceable cargo now at the end of its long, long journey from the galactic west.
 
Biologis Magos Rho-Majoris, genearchivist alpha-class acted upon a whim. He would not admit that it was a whim, for such activities were indicative of the capriciousness of the flesh, but nevertheless he found himself drawn to the docks and watched as the vast barge was moored and unloaded. In the few minutes it took for the barge to settle and be tethered, the scouring winds of Mars already deposited a thin film of regolith upon the vast spaceship.
While his servants would anoint the ship’s engines with sacred oils to soothe its machine spirit, Mars itself rechristened the vessel’s hull with its very soil. Deep within what flesh remained of his body he felt the impulse to smile but his mechanical visage did not act upon it.
 
Nucleoseer 24-Oscar, flanked by a pair of second-rank amanuenses, oversaw the unloading of the geneseed tithe from the planet Fulcrum: hub for both trade and worship in its sector, the planet was also homeworld for the Stygian Guard chapter of Adeptus Astartes. The right arms of his assistants were cybernetic: the digits bifurcated again and again and again so that twelve-times-twelve `fingers` tapped dutifully upon the dataslates grafted into the stumps of their left arms.
As the servitors carried the cryogenic casks past him and his adjutants the cargo was scanned and verified before being sent on for archiving and the checking of its genetic purity. This last point was something of a mockery for it was known - yet never spoken of for such was the foulest blasphemy - that the geneseed of many Astartes chapters had been flawed since the inception of the space marines over ten millennia earlier. Before the Horus Heresy.
The geneseed of the Black Dragons caused bone extrusions due to a malfunction of the ossmodula zygote. The Blood Ravens could not experience R.E.M sleep. A defect of the melanchromic organ caused albinism in the Death Spectres. The Raven Guard lacked the mucranoid and Betcher’s gland. Similarly the Imperial Fists and many of their descendants were missing the Betcher’s gland and sus-an membrane.
But, thanks to the great work of Nucleoseer 24-Oscar’s superior, Biologis Magos Rho-Majoris, (genearchivist alpha-class) the Betcher’s gland had been reintroduced into the Stygian Guard despite them being descendants of Great Dorn. The details of the process and the deals Rho-Majoris had struck in order to achieve it were a secret to 24-Oscar, and likely to most of the Helixforge.
 
He brought up the Stygian Guard geneseed template on the cognis-terminal before him as the various genetic samples were paraded before him and his sensors. There was some variance, degradation of a few percentage points, but within acceptable parameters.
 

1. Secondary Heart – standard [98%].
2. Ossmodula – standard [99%].
3. Biscopea – standard [96%].
4. Haemastamen – standard [97%].
5. Larraman’s Organ – standard [96%].
6. Catalepsean Node – standard [95%].
7. Preomnor – standard [99%].
8. Omophagea – standard [98%].
9. Multi-lung – standard [99%].
10. Occulobe – standard [98%].
11. Lyman’s Ear – standard [97%].
12. Sus-an Membrane - ABSENT.
13. Melanchromic Organ – standard [96%].
14. Oolitic Kidney – standard [97%].
15. Neuroglottis – HIGHTENED [105%].
16. Mucranoid – standard [97%].
17. Betcher’s Gland – RESTORED, standard [93%].
18. Progenoids – standard [98%].
19. Black Carapace – standard [99%].

 
A red light began to flash on the terminal as the samples were scanned.
It has been thus since the chapter’s mission to the planet named Cyprius III. 24-Oscar’s contacts had told him as much. Tech-adepts and enginseers assigned to Fulcrum.
Those who had initiated him.
And as he had done ever since, he disabled the alarm and deleted the record of-
“Nucleoseer 24-Oscar,” came the voice of his master from behind. Not spoken word, for his master had not voiced Imperial Gothic in several decades, but in binaric cant.
24-Oscar jumped, despite himself - a most human reaction, and indicative of his still possessing a great deal of his meat-body. He turned to bow his head and intermesh his knuckles in a cog-namaste, his amanuenses following suit in formation at his sides.
“What was that alert just now?” Rho-Majoris returned the namaste with two of his upper limbs as he floated forwards, his crimson robe, smoking thuribles and gilt cabling trailing behind him. Rho stopped before the inspector and studied him with his three baleful green eyes.
Nucleoseer 24-Oscar had been entered into the Mechanicus orphanage at Sinus Meridiani at a young age. Not actually an orphan but, Rho-Majoris’ records told him, his parents had had four children and, Terrans immigrants following an ancient Terran custom it seemed, they had submitted one of their offspring each to the Imperial Guard, the Imperial Cult, the Adeptus Administratum and to the Adeptus Mechanicum. 24-Oscar had received cybernetic implants and replacement body parts as his duties dictated: datajacks and an ocular implant as a junior techscrivener; replacement lungs, filters and cardiovascular augmentation after mistakes in his initial position saw him effectively exiled by an overreacting superior to the far northern escarpments and salvaging duties. A fortuitous discovery had seen the young man return to the forges, his meagre honour restored and he had been transferred to Helixforge and Rho-Majoris’ service. It was of note that he had never undergone elective procedures - something distasteful to the Biologis Magos, who felt he had mastered all the secrets of the human genome long ago-, and Rho-Majoris noted once again the tattoos - not Omnissiah-blessed electoos but crude ink injections - decorating the man’s exposed flesh: An Aquila. The Opus Machina. Older, faded gang symbols from his years in the Meridiani facility. And one newer pattern. Above 24-Oscar’s exposed belly. An isosceles triangle, the vertex angle obtuse, pointed downward. Within it was an ellipse stretching from the vertex to the midpoint of the horizontal. It took Rho-Majoris microseconds to confirm that it was a symbol unknown to him, Helixforge or the Mechanicus authorities of Mars.
 
“What was that alert just now?” He repeated.
“Scanner miscalibration, master,” Nucleoseer 24-Oscar replied hurriedly in Imperial Gothic. Rho-Majoris made a mental note to have noospheric emitters implanted into 24-Oscar as soon as possible: Rho-Majoris had raised 24-Oscar up to this vaunted position and given him the duty of inspecting geneseed tithes because the man was honest and diligent to a fault, but Rho-Majoris knew that he was not good at detecting lies in those who spoke the human-tongue. Yet he had an inkling that he was now being lied to. With noospheric implants 24-Oscar would not be able to hide anything. His superior would be able to read him, as the ancient Terran phrase went, `like a book`.
 
Rho-Majoris held up his hand and, at a binaric impulse, the procession of servitors halted as one. An Imperial Guard drill sergeant would have eaten his beret with jealousy.
“Then the geneseed will have to be sent back to the barge until the sensors can be checked.”
“But master-“
Rho Majoris noted spikes in the man’s exuding of sweat. Dilation of his one organic eyeball.
“Or destroyed,” Rho-Majoris canted rapidly. That was one advantage of their situation: 24-Oscar understood binaric, but in a mirror of Rho-Majoris’ situation, the junior could not tell if the senior was lying.
“Surely chapter master Sophusar would objec-“
“You presume to know the will of a lord of the Adeptus Astartes?” Rho-Majoris rose up to loom over the genespector.
“I corrected the misalignment, master.”
“Tell me, nucleoseer 24-Oscar, formerly salvage overseer Gamma-7, formerly salvage tech 0487, formerly scrivener fifth-class 34795296279C, Lesti Banil by birth, when did you receive training and qualification in the maintenance of these sensors? When did you receive this knowledge beyond the province of your duties as nucleoseer? Why are these details not in your files? By all means elaborate. If you have, perhaps at some point during your downtime pried open the secrets of the universe and have contrived a method to time travel, by all means share your boon with the greater priesthood!”
24-Oscar quaked and craned his neck to look into the emotionless chrome skull of his superior. Half was anodized iron black as death, the other platinum polished to an immaculate sheen.
A data-tether snaked out from under his robes and jacked into the cognis-console behind nucleoseer 24-Oscar. Rho-Majoris noted no further pheromonal or physiological changes in his junior at the action beyond the stress of being confronted by one’s superior and the fear at his berating seconds earlier. He checked the scanner’s logs and found that no anomalies were recorded.
None.
No record of defects in the Stygian Guard geneseed.
No record of sensor misalignment and subsequent repair.
 
Rho-Majoris seized nucleoseer 24-Oscar, clamping his neck with a servo-claw while he retracted the data tether and jacked it into one of the two amanuenses. Therein he found the truth.
24-Oscar had evidently covered his tracks well but he had not yet deleted the event from the memory of his two assistants. Rho-Majoris sifted back further though the tech-scrivener’s memory, ignoring 24-Oscar as he began to strike at the servo arm in a growing panic. He could find no further evidence of the nucleoseer concealing sensor alerts but likely they had been deleted.
There was but one place where such evidence was likely still to be found.
Rho-Majoris voided the amanuensis’ databanks as he withdrew his datajack, the scribe’s body dropping limp to the floor. There could be no risk of contamination and he would do the same to the other in due course, but first...24-Oscar.
The man screamed as Rho-Majoris forced the datajack into the cranial port drilled into his atlas vertebra, and within Rho-Majoris learned the full extent of the man’s treachery.
 
 

 

 

From: Biologis Magos Rho-Majoris, genearchivist alpha-class, Helixforge, Mars.
To: *******, Ordo Hereticus.
I write to you with great haste upon the discovery of heresy within the Adeptus Astartes. It has come to my attention that one of my staff was corrupted by the Infernal Powers. I believe the source of the corruption to be the planet Fulcrum (ref. attached pict of tattoo found on traitor’s body).

 
Rho-Majoris paused and interlaced the fingers of his upper limbs before him. He was torn. Alert the Emperor’s Most Holy Orders to the taint he had discovered within the Stygian Guard and at best Helixforge would come under a full Inquisitorial review. At worst he and all who worked there would be executed and the facility razed. Vast stores of geneseed from a dozen chapters lost.
Images rotated, floating before his eyes in the noosphere. Intricate helixes and schematics of organs. Scarlet text pointed out where taints had been found, biohazard icons indicating foreign materials unknown to man.
`Unknown to man`...not quite.
Daemonic flesh.
The taint of Chaos.
 
Rho-Majoris did not know how it had been done; he could only presume it was the work of chief apothecary Polus, but somehow daemonic...he could not bring himself to call it DNA...daemonic matter had been fused with certain implants. The neuroglottis had, in laymen’s terms, been tasting things which were not meant for human knowledge let alone consumption. It was now sensitive to a spectrum beyond contemplation, and indeed this seemed to be keyed to spread to the entire nervous system of the marine. What sensations they must experience! Rho-Majoris felt, for the first time since he had shed the majority of his meat-bod, a deep jealousy.
He looked at the spectral images in wonder, his fingers tapping against one another.
 
He keyed a query to the planetwide net, bringing up news of the planet Fulcrum and the Stygian Guard chapter. Nothing amiss.
Yet before him lay evidence of their damnation.
Fascinating evidence.
He searched deeper, using his clearance to unlock encrypted communiques, going beyond Holy Mars and into the Terran nets.
He stopped with a most human start.
Orders for the deployment of a Black Templar crusade to Fulcrum.
Support by Tempestus Scions.
And the Holy Orders.
It appeared that someone, extremely recently, had discovered the Stygian Guard’s treachery. He read reports of blood shed between the Guard and the Templars, and he dared not delve further.
The hammer was about to fall, that much was sure.
 
 
He deleted the communique he had begun to draft and signaled for the incineration of the stored Stygian Guard geneseed in Helixforge’s cryo-archives. All would be destroyed.
All but the most recent shipment. That he saw transferred, unrecorded, to his personal labs.
He looked on once more at the phantasmal images dancing before him. At the wondrous, blasphemous knowledge locked within them.
And he smiled.

[EesiOh]

pretty sure entering as a mod is cheating :P but even so, bloody good writing. 10/10

[Kierdale]

pretty sure entering as a mod is cheating :P but even so, bloody good writing. 10/10

Hey, I'm an ex-mod! I hung up my meltagun of moderation earlier this year.

And I always enter!

Though since I'm running it, I can't win anyway :)

[Loesh]

I'v been so busy with eternal crusade that i'v not had much time for write ups like these.

 

As things wind down, I might put in an entry soon.

[Warsmith Aznable]

I've been busy with real life lately, so haven't entered the Inspirational Friday stuff as much as I'd like. I present here an entry for the recently passed challenge concerning berserkers. I haven't yet come up with a geneseed idea, but I wanted to write this one even though it's late:

 

Hidden Content

Blackness. And a dull, distant pain.

Images began to blur into being, but so too did the pain. He tried to move, but this brought the pain into focus. There was a dull throb throughout his body. A distant itch in the lower half of his face. A piercing pain in his right eye. A numbness in his extremities. A dryness in his throat, such dryness.

He attempted to swallow, but nothing happened, nothing moved. Panic began to set in as he realized that his entire lower jaw was missing.

“He’s coming around. Heart rate climbing.”

The cold, sterile voice of an apothecary. Yes.  He was in the apothecarion. This calmed him. He began to recite the Litany of Iron, but movement caught his eye. He focused. Green letters appeared on a dataslate hung near the work bench he knew he must surely be strapped to.

“The Litany of Iron. So he is still with us.”

The hard edged voice of an advisor. The Temple did not usually send someone round until the apothecaries were finished with him. This time must be very bad indeed.

“Oh yes. It is very bad.” The advisor read his thoughts from the dataslate and leaned in. He could not make out the face beneath the black hood of the advisor. Not that it mattered. Uncomfortable under the scrutiny he turned his one good, bleary eye toward the red hooded apothecary.

“The jaw and eye are simple problems. Your limb actuators are intact, so reattaching new bionics will only take a few moments.” The white armoured hand of the apothecary held another dataslate before his one good eye. The apothecary tapped through a series of images showing the extent of the damage and the measures he was willing to take to fix it. The bionics he was being offered were shockingly crude.

“Yes.” The hard voice of the advisor again. One whose voice he had never heard before. Full of dread suspicion, he did not want to look at the grey shape hovering dangerously close to the workbench. “Gone are the days of gold and silver.”

“There is still mercy.” The apothecary placed a hand on his chest in what was surely meant as a soothing gesture, but the weight felt like fire and sparked his anger. The carnifex that the Grand Company’s apothecaries used was no less instantly fatal than those used throughout the Imperium, but much, much less clean. This however, was not what bothered him.

++I WILL NOT BEG FOR MERCY LIKE A SERVANT++

The words scrolled across the black dataslate screen in blocky green letters.

++I AM A WARRIOR++

“A warrior, certainly.” The advisor retrieved his own dataslate and began tapping through the files he kept on every marine under his care. “But a most mediocre example. You barely passed purity standards during initial selection. You barely survived the trials. Your body fought against every single implant. In every single engagement since your ascension to the ranks you have been graded merely adequate by your leaders. In each squad you have served in your comrades have had little to nothing favourable to say on your behalf. You survive when others die, yet there is not a single warrior who will stand in assembly and claim you as a brother or recite tales of your courage and bravery. You have the sole distinction among the brethren of the Grand Company as being the only warrior to have personally attended our famously capricious Warsmith on multiple occasions while earning neither praise nor rebuke, and I don’t think you appreciate how boring that must make you.”

++JUST FIX ME AND SEND ME BACK TO MY SQUAD++

“There is no squad for you to be sent back to.” The advisor tapped on his dataslate some more. He silently flicked through the most current version of the Grand Company’s TO&E for many unbearable heartbeats before drawing a deep breath and continuing. “The survivors of your artillery battery have been reassigned, and the battery itself deactivated. The guns were all destroyed, you see, so the few remaining warriors went to replace losses in the Havoc squads.”

There was silence in the apothecarion. His world became the sound of his own labored breathing and the rushing of blood through his ears. He was furious and in pain, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to take this advisor by the neck and scrape the flesh from that face with his teeth.

In a moment of sudden clarity he knew that he could make that grim thought happen.

All the pain could be gone, the stress relieved, the doubt erased. All his failures could be drowned in the blood of his so-called brothers, and he could cast aside the crude, weak bionics that made up most of his body now and replace them with the living flesh of his victims. He felt a climax of pleasure creeping through his ruined body, on the verge of eruption, the edge of a precipice.

He allowed himself just a moment to wallow in his misery, then he steeled his resolve. The temptation had been there a long, long time, he realized. It had for years been whispering excuses for his failures, rationalizations for his compromises, jealousy toward his brothers, hatred for his leaders. It had been resentful of his bionics, and had eased the pain of his mutations. And now that he recognized it for what it truly was, he rejected it altogether, once and for all.

The pain, the full measure of the true pain he had earned, all came rushing upon him at once.

“He’s going into cardiac arrest.” He heard the apothecary’s voice. “What is your verdict?”

++FROM IRON COMETH STRENGTH. FROM STRENGTH COMETH WILL. FROM WILL COMETH FAITH. FROM FAITH COMETH HONOUR. FROM HONOUR COMETH IRON. FROM IRON COMETH STRENGTH. FROM STRENGTH COMETH WILL.++

“Can you stabilize him?” He heard the advisor ask. His one good eye flashed stars of pain, and then tunnel vision turned the inspecting face of the advisor into a retreating smear of light in a black void. There was nothing then but a raging sea of pain, and the Litany of Iron was all he had to hold on to.

“The warp infection has not penetrated his primary nervous system. He will not last long, but there is enough salvageable for your purposes.”

+++++++++++++++++++

He was online now.

The fog of induced lethargy slowly rolled away, and his senses began to return.

++ONE LAST TEST++

The words, scrolling in bright green letters superimposed over his vision of the blasted battlefield were not his. He intuitively knew they were the words of the advisor.

++IT IS PASS OR FAIL. GO OR NO GO. THERE ARE NO RETAKES.++

“What is the situation?” He had his own voice back, somehow. It was modulated and shot through with static, but it was his own. A bionic, crude but effective, and one he was extraordinarily grateful to the apothecary for. Another crude bionic, he felt chemical sympathisers automatically stimulating his awareness with direct injections to his brain.

As soon as he asked the question his vision became overlayed with tactical maps and picter feeds. He did not need a visual compass, coordinates, or azimuth. He simply knew where he stood in relation to the order of battle and the myriad phase lines. He knew the breach in the fortress walls was close. He knew the enemy was near. He felt the other members of his new squad around him. He was not surprised that he had been on the move through No Man’s Land long before he had become fully conscious.

Shapes moved among the fire and smoke, and tracers streaked in all directions. The concussion of explosions and stinging grit of ejecta were nothing to him. Death was all that mattered.

Death.

His failure had always been the secret fear of it.

A horde of ragged soldiers hastily assembled in ranks before him, desperately trying to secure the breach or at least escape the brutal Commissar urging them forward. They leveled bayonets and muzzles in his direction, too many to count, it seemed. In a heartbeat he would be among them, if only the fear of death did not cause him to hesitate even a fraction of a second.

He took direct control of the chemical sympathisers embedded along the length of where his spine once was and made his own adjustments. The angry fire of a fatal overdose coursing through his veins, he revved his built-in chainsword and was among them with hatred and fury.

“IRON WITHIN!” His unnamed sergeant at his side called out as his comrades plunged into the melee after them.

“IRON WITHOUT!”

The rest was madness.

[TDF]

Haven't been paying attention to this for a while. Gutted I missed the movie synopsis challenge.

 

When broken and warp-damaged navigator Theodore Stryker follows the woman he loves onto a civilian transport ship he little suspects the peril that awaits him. But when a Nurglite cult spreads a virus that kills the ship's navigator only Stryker can pilot the ship back into Imperial space.

[Kierdale]

Better late than never, Warsmith Aznable and TDF.

And those are two excellent pieces! :tu:

 

Now, does anyone have any geneseed?

Would you like me to extend the deadline a week?

[Carrack]

Returned

 

 

One...three...four....five....the Gene-thrall counted off the numbered alcoves, the same repeating 18 numbers, over and over again, until he reached the first empty alcove marked XVI. All the alcoves were sealed behind coded security doors, but unlike all the other plain stainless steel doors, the doors marked with the XVI were faced with jet, and trimmed with pure gold. These were the alcoves considered the most sacred to the gene-thralls of the Black Maw.

 

The gene-thrall entered the 10 digit coded sequence and the black door slid open to reveal two basins. The basins were a combination of a work of art, and a technological marvel, and something else. The exterior of the basins were carved from a beautiful black marble with veins of gold. The basins were filled with a glowing green gel. Tubes and wires, all sheathed in gold, protruded from the backs of the basin into the wall of the alcove. Some maintained a constant temperature, some pumped oxygen into the gel, some kept a steady electrical charge consistent with human neuro-electric activity during deep slumber, some did things that the gene-thrall could not comprehend. They all provided the perfect environment to store their sacred offerings.

 

There was something else going on in the alcove that the gene-thrall could not see. There always was when a XVI was opened. Eight of the other numbers had similar phenomena, but not to the extant that the XVI alcoves did. There were whispers when the alcoves were opened. To listen to the whispers was to spend the rest of your life a raving lunatic. The gene-thralls were surgically deafened. The alcoves would sometimes change colors, not normal colors meant for mortal eyes, but colors so vibrant, so intense, that to see the colors would lock a man in place, to stare away in total disregard for everything else, even the need to draw breath. The gene-thralls eyes were altered to only see in black and white. There was sickness in the alcoves. Not a normal sickness, but to draw breath from the alcoves would invite a spiritual sickness, a corruption, a sickness so infused with despair, that as the body rotted away, the victims could do not but laugh, as the slow and painful death was a joy compared to living with the rot infecting the soul. The gene-thralls' lungs were ripped from their bodies' by the chirurgeons and replaced with augmetic lungs with their own oxygen supplies. The alcoves were filled with emotion, hatred. It was so thick, it was palpable. Opening such an alcove was to remember every slight ever done to you, and unbidden, a plan for revenge would take root in your mind. The plans always involved bloodshed, and if the perpetrator of the slight was already dead or unreachable, well someone else would have to pay the blood-price. The gene-thralls were given paralytics before their duties with just enough onset time to complete their tasks. Afterwards, their frontal lobes were wiped clean, and their personalities were constructed anew.

 

The gene-thrall placed the two progenid glands into the twin basins uttering the Sacred Words, "We Are Returned." and sealed the door. He wondered how many times he had performed this ritual. He would never know.

 

 

Most of my creative writing has been taken up with a project I have started over in the fan fiction sub-forum, The Assault on Calebra Hive. But I just couldn't break my IF streak. I know I didn't answer all the questions in this week's challenge, but this is the Chaos Forum, we can't always follow all of the rules :) oh and please extend the deadline to let more people submit.