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

[EesiOh]

"Arren, please remind me again why we trifle with this filth"  Allesandro spat on one of the blue skinned Xenos corpses. "Because Khorne wishes it, you might be in command of your little party, but even you bow to Khorne" Arren snapped impatiently at the fuming Lord, "what you and the others of your ilk fail to realise again and again, is that blood magic is not the harnessing of the warp like the ways of the librarian, nor is it runic based like the Eldar and Space Wolves. It is not a power formed of collective conscience like the Tyrnaids or the Orks, it is, something greater" As he finished his sentence a long tongued protruded from the permanent darkness of the Haemomancer's ritualistic hooded robes, something he never took off. "Blood magic does not care about such trivial things as Daemons or the Immaterium, it is fuelled by death and blood" Allesandro clenched his fists, Arren Zhou was touched by Khorne, of that there was no doubt, but despite whatever past relationship they had, he had now become a lecturing prick. "That doesnt explain why we are here" Allesandro said spreading his arms to encompass the desolate battlefield, through the rubble and carnage Space Marines and Cultists of the Bloody Harvest looted what they could from bodies, while taking great pleasure in putting any surviving tau they found out of their misery. Arren ignored the irate wingleader and began pacing through the bodies, every now and then stooping down for a moment before moving on. When he looked back at the Marines trailing behind they were not at all surprised to see his robes were now caked in glistening Xenos blood. He continued walking until he found a spot he seemed to like. Beckoning to 5 idle space marines he bid them begin to lay the bodies out in a pattern.

 

Arren had chosen the Tau Ethereal to be his focus point for this ritual for multiple reasons, partly because the blood of a leader or commander was always seemingly richer than that of lesser subordinates, but also because the Ethereal had been the focus of the Tau defence, the most blood had been spilled there, and the most bodies remained. Slowly a pattern emerged, formed by the corpses of the Xenos. Allesandro knew not of the symbols nor their meaning, but new from the way his eyes began to hurt just by looking that despite the heamomancers growing arrogance and disobedience, he truly understood the art he practised. When all the bodies had been positioned Arren walked around the circle with his favoured tool. Arren had once told Allesandro the name of the knife but it had been so long and complex that Allesandro hadnt even bothered to try and learn it. The knife seemed to be forged from Obsidian, and yet blood constantly drenched the blade, no matter how the blade was treated it would continue to bleed. Allesandro didnt know whether this was by dint of Arren, or maybe something older and more powerful, but he also did not wish to know. He watched with silent intensity as the heamomancer walked from body to body, slitting the necks and wrists. Though the corpses had been dead many hours they once again began to bleed as freely as if their hearts were still pumping.  Finally Arren turned to one of the lead cultists and commanded him to step forward, the cultists did so eagerly, as if he had waited all his life for this moment.  Arren held the knife above the cultists head and let the blood run into the cultists mouth. The cultists lapped it up before closing his eyes and standing tock still.

 

Arren began to chant. A harsh tongue not of mankind, nor of daemonkind. The chanting rose in frenzy and in pitch, as Arren chanted a foul wind blew forth, summoned out thin air. The cultists began to contort violently and then, opening his mouth, the cultists screamed. Arren remained as he was, continuing his chant. Blood began to flow out of the cultist, from his eyes, noses, mouth, from his arms. Slowly the cultists was exsanguinated. The tainted blood of the knife, mixed with that of the Tau and the Cultists swirled towards Arren, dancing around his feet and lifting him into the air so that he rose on a pillar of blood. The wind howled and gained strength, a zephyr that carried with it the stench of death. Slowly the bodies of the Tau began to experience the same effects as the cultist had. Allesandro found himself taken aback by the sheer power that Arren was wielding. 'So much for a lecturing prick' Allesandro though to himself grimly. Even Nerus seemed somewhat uneasy with Arren's actions. The swirling blood formed a portal through which a hideous face appeared. As it materialised the pressure in the air intensified and Allesandro felt his ears pop, despite his Space Marine genealogy. Arren and the creature conversed for what seemed to be at least an hour before Arren seemed content. Shouting a single command, the wind died instantly and the blood poured from the sky as rain. Arren walked back to Allesandro, his hood was as impenetrable as always but deep in its recess twin pin-pricks of blood red glowed like coals. "even the Tau have their uses to one who knows" The heamomancer brushed past Allesandro and walked away.

 

(idk, I wrote it as it came out, still involves tau though? mirite? Also for the next challenge can we do the Life and Times of a Chaos Lord, coz i have a fun idea but no where to really put it)  

[Kierdale]

A Sermon

Hidden Content

The priest quailed at the sight before him.

That the xenos envoy had been allowed to make planetfall was blasphemous enough, and now father Julius found himself looking into the skull-mask of an adeptus astartes chaplain, the left side of his ebony armour hidden behind his cloak.

“I-I-I thought to defeat the enemy with rhetoric, master, before the gaze of the faithful masses...” he lied, motioning with a shaking hand toward the crowded city square.

Father Julius had accepted his death when he had formulated his plan: when the alien cruisers had first appeared in orbit over Generoth Prime, he had sent out the order to chapels and chapter houses across the planet to spread the word that the faithful should keep themselves hidden. Patience and stealth would keep the light alive until the Emperor’s retribution could arrive. Certainly there were those so fervent that they would not cast off their worship of the Imperial Cult, even only superficially. These martyrs would die, and those pragmatic enough - like father Julius - would take their worship underground and would survive. He had doubted his faith, yes, for would not a true servant of the Golden Throne lay down his life at the first opportunity to slay the heathen invaders? But his doubt had been brief: father Julius was advanced in age, had seen a great deal, and knew to play the long game. It was how he had gained his current lofty position.

He knew that he himself would perish: either the aliens would make an example of him as the figurehead of the Imperial Cult on Generoth Prime, or whoever was sent to retake the planet would execute him for what seemed like capitulation.

He had however not expected an astartes battleship to decant from the Warp only minutes after the blue-skinned, hoof-footed envoy had landed.

The chaplain looked out from the cathedral narthex they stood within, to the nearest balcony and the vast citizen-filled city square beyond, and nodded.

“A bold course of action, father,” the emphasis on the priest’s title, and the marine’s vox grill, made it almost sound like an insult.

Julius cautiously looked up at the chaplain. The man’s mitre almost toppled from his crown, so much did he have to crane his neck back.

Both were shepherds of flocks, from a certain point of view. Julius that of the church of the Emperor, and the chaplain the keeper of the faith and master of rites of his chapter. Julius understood that the astartes’ beliefs varied from those of the masses, but beyond that he knew not and dared not ask.

“Show me this envoy.”

Father Julius froze until one of the marines accompanying the chaplain hefted a skull-and-hook tipped chain which seemed to extrude from the marine’s own exposed breast - the priest quickly looked away in shock, nodded and bid the chaplain and his entourage follow him into the nave.

Julius had never seen one of the Emperor’s angels of death in person. With only a thousand chapters each of a thousand marines spread over the countless worlds of the Imperium of Man, who could truly say they had been blessed with a glimpse of one of these transhumans in the flesh? Or more correctly `the ceramite`, for none of these before him had removed their headgear. And was it truly a blessing? The sight of one was a terrible thing: their sheer mass and the aura of barely-shackled violence. These marines, they had identified themselves as being of the `Psychopomp` chapter, were clad in armour of pale and varied hues, each decorated differently, the only unifying element being a rose pink. Spikes and chains adorned their armour alongside iconongraphy which sent disturbing shivers up his spine to gaze upon; shivers neither of horror nor excitement but a bastard of the two. That they were powerful apotropaic glyphs to ward off evil, he quickly persuaded himself. Father Julius muttered prayers to Him upon the Golden Throne and wished he were welcoming warriors of the Ultramarines - he had heard tales, nay legends, of those warrior kings and was sure they would both feel and look fairer than these whom he had never heard of and whose heavy steps now followed his own.

`Psychopomps`...their very name meant `those who conduct souls to the other world`, that much he realised. They were bringers of death.

No, it was no blessing at all.

 

Master of Sanctity Angra’s eyes fell upon the alien envoy and its escort. The former was clad in flowing white robes trimmed with red while the bodyguard wore segmented hard armour in a light tan colour which looked insect-like yet efficient and light - certainly lighter than the powered armour of the astartes, but likely offered less protection. They cradled blunt-nosed weapons completely unlike the holy bolt gun of the astartes and sororitas or the reliable lasrifle of the guard. Their helmets were tall and grew outwards toward the top, reminding him of fungi. Lenses glowed a brilliant red. Each was humanoid but their legs terminated in hooved feet. His eyes focused on the diplomat: skin a pale blue not unlike that worn by some of Angra’s fellow renegades. Thin, Angra wagered he could snap the necks of even their warriors with relative ease.

Tasteless, near soulless, our lord has no concern for these beings.

Angra ignored the voice and continued to study the xenos. Flat faced with beady eyes. Noseless and with a depression, some kind of folding of the skin, upon the forehead. The Psychopomps had never faced them before but they knew of the Tau. Knew they possessed fearsome firepower and technology, weaponry which rivaled that of Man during the Dark Age of Technology. He also knew of their `Greater Good`.

Upon seeing the chaplain in his black and pink armour, his left hand concealed in the folds of his cloak, and the six colourfully armoured marines following behind him, the Tau had all but raised their weapons. Heads were now cocked to sides. They were certainly suspicious, but the Warriors looked to the envoy, who gave a brief shake of the head. Angra wondered if that very human gesture was as much for them as for the protectors. They had clearly not expected marines to be present and likely they had never been this close to astartes without the exchange of fire. The marines likely kept their weapons ready but pointed aside.

Let us leave this place.

Angra ignored the voice and followed the priest closer to the xenos.

There are souls to reap elsewhere. Succulent morsels, not these pithless crumbs.

He bit his lip until it bled and the voice sighed at the pain.

As they came to within a couple meters of each other, the astartes stopped. Renegades though they were, they halted with parade ground precision, their final stamp echoing through the marble halls.

“Allow me to introdu-“ the envoy had begun to speak, a chain of beads in one hand, the other gripping a curious knife, blades at each end in the other. His address to the astartes was cut short as Angra swept his left arm from beneath his cloak, the daemonic claw in which the limb terminated extending out to fasten about the alien’s throat.

The envoy’s surprised scream was drowned out by the roar of chainblades and the harsh bang of bolt rounds as the dark apostle’s entourage took down the Firewarriors before a single pulse of plasma could be discharged, the renegades moving with an unnatural speed granted by their dark patron.

Father Julius stood, frozen, watching as his plans were disemboweled before him. The `chaplain` held the envoy by the throat in a great inhuman claw and forced the alien to watch as his protectors were eviscerated. Julius admired the alien’s spirit, as it simply shut its eyes with sorrow, whilst he himself could not help as his bowls voided and realisations he had tried to gloss over with excuses burned their way to the horrified surface of his mind. These were not the angels of the Emperor.

When their work was done and trophies had been taken -the hook wielder forcing its point through the mouth of a severed head- the six renegade marines returned to their position behind the dark apostle.

“This- world-,” the alien spluttered through its constricted throat.

Finish it now and let us be gone! Kill it! Killitkillitkillit!

“-will- burn!”

Angra pinched its head from its shoulders and strode toward the balcony, one of the marines grabbing and dragging father Julius behind them while the rest picked up parts of the fire warriors.

 

 

A cry rose up from the thousands filling the city square before the cathedral as the astartes appeared upon the balcony. Angra sensed mixed emotions from the masses and saw them react in myriad ways. He extended his right hand in a regal calming gesture.

A great many fell to their knees weeping with rapture that the Emperor’s angels of death had arrived to deliver them from the xenos. Many simply expressed shock at the sight of the unexpected. And there were some, unmistakably some, who showed distress.

It was known that the Tau had human agents, sympathisers and even citizens of their Empire. Perhaps they had been on Generoth Prime for some time, sowing dissent. Both sides of his face smiled, for he knew that the Tau were not the only ones to have infiltrated the planet in advance. Even now he saw the ellipse-within-triangle design of the Exalted Fecund in graffiti scrawled upon walls and sewn into banners and garments.

As he thrust the severed alien envoy's head onto one of the spikes lining the parapet, another roar went up from the crowd, increasing in volume once again as his bodyguard cast the bloody scraps of the other aliens down the twenty stories to the flagstones below.

Father Julius was shoved before Angra.

The priest was naught but a worm, but he still had his part to play.

“Our...OUR SALVATION IS COMETH!” he cried out to the masses, “OUR DELIVERANCE IS NIGH!”

Perhaps he meant to trick them with a bluff, hinting that loyalists were enroute.

He lies!

Angra did not need the voice to tell him as much. While one half of his face scowled, the other smiled.

Let us feast upon himl!

The worm, Angra could see, was even now deliberating now he might survive...or at least as many of his flock do so. How very virtuous. The dark apostle had no doubt that Julius now fully realized that the Damned had come to his world.

Angra stepped past the priest, nodding as he became visible to more of the crowd, his claw once more beneath his cloak. Servoskulls, holocams filling their ocular cavities, floated up from the square and began to orbit him. How many thousands were arrayed before him? Surely the majority of the city’s populace, if not more? He rested his right, human hand upon the scalp of the Tau, then patted it.

“This diplomat...this peace-bringer, wished to offer you a place within their empire. Their `Greater Good`,” his voice dripped with scorn and distain. “An equal footing for all. None more powerful than the other, all of equal value. All equally rewarded. Humans alongside myriad xenos species.”

The crowd were silent, unsure of where the chaplain’s speech was going.

“ARE YOU THE EQUALS OF XENOS?” he cried out, to be answered by an angry roar. His voice was amplified by the speakers mounted above his backpack. In combat they could release a torrent of concussive sonics tearing flesh and powdering bone where their waves intermeshed, but in his role as demagogue they could be far more devastating.

“NO!” He joined them. “For more than ten thousand years Man has crushed all before him. It is Man’s nature to claw his way above his fellow Man. To seek reward equal to his effort and his worth. Because it is Man’s manifest destiny to rule to stars, is it not?”

Another roar.

“To crush all who would hold him back!”

Thunderous applause and the priest at his side smiled uneasily, taking a sidestep away from the apostle.

“To fulfill his every ambition!”

Cheers, even from father Julius, buying time. It was clear the worm meant to run. Perhaps to gather his flock and hide themselves. Let the aliens and the fallen angels war upon his world.

“And yet you people...you poor, poor people, have been living a lie!”

Cries of shock from the mass before him.

“The priesthood...this man,” Angra watched as his marines grabbed Julius by his vestment and dragged him close once more. “They have held you back. Kept you under their boot. Subservient. Kowtowing to their rule.”

There were dissenting voices in the crowd now.

“What has the priesthood given you?” he challenged them.

“Faith!” “Safety!”

“Safety?!” the dark apostle roared incredulously and pointed a finger accusingly at the firmament, “a xenos battle fleet lies in orbit!”

“Laws!”

“And what of justice?” he countered, “What see you of the tithes paid to `holy` Terra? Sons and daughters sent to fight on far off battlefields, protecting those who are too weak to fight their own battles? You are not free whose liberty is won by the rigour of other, more righteous souls. You are merely protected. Your freedom is parasitic, you suck the honourable man dry and offer nothing in return. You who have enjoyed freedom, who have done nothing to earn it, your time has come.” he quoted no less than a member of the Emperor’s Most Holy Orders of the Inquisition. Such exquisite heresy.

“You have come to save us?” one of the Exalted Fecund - that diabolical cult and pawn of the Psychopomps - called out, clad in the garb of a manufactorum worker.

“We have come to free you,” and with that father Julius was pushed to his knees in front of Angra. One marine took the priest's mitre and balanced it atop his own helm before taking a fistful of the man’s hair before Angra doffed the priest's head with the spiked and bladed end of his crozius.

There was a roar, mixed shock and elation, from the crowd as he placed Julius’ head upon a spike under his right hand and, revealing his clawed left hand at last, leaned upon the two craniums now adorning the parapet.

“Mutant! Heretic! The Emperor protects!” a man cried out, having climbed atop a statue’s plinth in the middle of the square. Angra could see more Exalted Fecund plants pushing through the crowd toward the man, but he would deal with this one himself.

Not breaking his eye contact with the citizen, he extended his clawed hand toward one of the marines accompanying him and took the proffered bolt gun between its pincers. Quickly and smoothly the former chaplain racked the slide, sighted and put a bolt shell into the man’s torso, obliterating him.

He then looked skyward, extending his arms out to the sides - the bolter quickly accepted back - as if challenging the almighty to strike him down.

“Evidently not,” his voice boomed once more from the speakers above his shoulders.

“We are the Emperor’s angels of death no longer. Like you, we are no longer shackled to a higher power,” he lied. “We are now masters of our own will. I stand before you as proof there is greater power out there than the Emperor. I am returned from death. Transformed. Reborn.”

“What do you offer us?” Another plant.

“Would you fight your own battles? Or hide,” he tapped the priest’s scalp beneath his humanoid hand, “as he would have had you do? We offer you naught but your freedom and a choice. Continue to live under the lies of your priesthood...become the slaves of xenos overlords...or become the masters of your own destiny. Transcend all barriers.”

There was a roar of support and he nodded. This was the signal.

“Then what say you to these xenos overlords who await you above? To those who have oppressed you for countless generations?” he motioned to the other members of the priesthood who stood, frozen with shock upon the steps of the cathedral.

The arrival of the Arbites was the final straw. There were bloody thirsty cries and the crowd surged forward. Some fell upon the priests and the Imperial Judges, others upon the bodies of the Tau and a great many upon one another.

Aaaah! the voice gasped and mewled in pleasure.

At a signal from Angra, Exalted Fecund members began distributing weapons. Those they had crafted themselves, those brought by the Psychopomps, and those from Guard and PDF armouries the cult had infiltrated.

As the hot, scorched smell of gunfire reached the balcony and screams rose, Angra removed his helmet, both the astartes and daemonette sides of his face grinning widely.

Damn the Tau and their technology. He would drown them in bodies.

 

 

I originally intended for the above content to be shorter and then focus on the clash with the aliens, but when I reached the above point it seemed a good place to end it.

 

 

 

EesiOh, we had `Interview with a Chaos Lord` some time ago. While the chance to win the Octed Amulet reward ends each week (or two weeks) members are encouraged to post writing for past topics too. Just be sure to title it something along the lines of Interview with a Chaos Lord: The Life & Times of Chaos Lord Bob.

[Teetengee]

Tau Negotiations

 

Hidden Content

The hulking figure knelt on top of the shattered tau warrior, his elongated clawed hand holding up his barely conscious enemy’s chin. Three sets of slavering jaws, his own and one on either side of his vastly corrupted armour, sprayed acidic droplets across the tau’s face and armour as well as the nearby walls sizzling and boiling whatever they landed on. All three mouths spoke together, “We honestly don’t have a problem with your kind. We don’t think our king does either. In fact, we admire your obedience to a greater goal, your refusal to bow to the corpse god, even if you don’t have fully formed-”

 

“Danerath, quit playing with your food, it’s time to go,” the hollow voice came from a movement in the shadow as Champion Redjack pulled himself out of the corner he was seated in and readied his poleaxe, energy crackling along his left hand into the weapon.

 

“Sorry,” apologized the shoulder mouths as Danerath’s central jaw distended to swallow the tau’s entire screaming head, although whether to Redjack or to his victim, or both, it was unclear.

 

“Oh don’t give him such a hard time, Red, Dan gets tired of talking to himself,” Salt cackled as he bounced back and forth on his reverse jointed feet, falchion swinging loosely in his hand.

 

Percean crouched to get through the doorway, “Dan you’re done?” As Danerath stepped aside with affirmations, Percean opened a ring of muscle in his chest and shoved the last pulse rifle into it.  As it closed with a satisfied sigh, the team followed Redjack back into the hallway.

 

They joined Lacrosa at the blast door, the biomechanical tendrils protruding from his right forarm skittering across the damaged blast door testing and probing the lock and seals. “Damn, these xenos, all we wanted was some of their tech, all this bloodshed and work is entirely unnecessary.”

 

“And inelegant,” Danerath added agreeingly.

 

The door clicked open with a hiss and Lacrosa’s tendrils whipped back into his forearm as the squad spun to either side of the entry point. Redjack signalled to Percean across the door and both flipped around the corner snap shooting bolters before returning to cover as plasma bolts shot by them searing the wall opposite. Redjack raised his hand splaying the fingers wide before conspicuously pushing down two of them with his other hand. He indicated the positions of the enemies before flipping his hand up at Salt. Danerath loosed a few bolts down the hallway as Salt fired on the ceiling above him.

 

Salt crouched low before springing up to the habblock floor above them and rushing down the hallway above the sounds of gunfire. When he judged he was just past the fire team, he cut through the floor and landed behind them blade whirling. Caught by surprise, they only managed  some short words and a single glancing hit off his armour before three tau heads landed wetly on the metal floor. Wiping his blade on their clothing, he looted the rifles and communication gear and tossed them to Percean as the rest of the squad ran down the hall.

 

+++

 

Squad Redjack made its way down three more levels to the power core whose increased output had so puzzled the Tide’s magosi when they had attempted planetfall. Laying krak grenades against the barricaded door, they pulled back to prepare to breach. The implosion was followed by a short firefight as they eliminated the few remaining guards.

 

Redjack coldcocked a tau engineer with the butt of his spear and then gunned down the remainder who tried to flee. “Get what we came for and move, quickly,” Percean grabbed the unconscious xenos as Danerath, Lacrosa, and Salt stripped the surrounding mechanisms of everything that looked even remotely tan or rounded that had tau symbols emblazoned on it. Redjack activated the recall device on his waist with a ten second timer as the power cabling began to grow white hot. The squad assembled around him touching his armour within the time period before the clock hit zero with a soft sucking pop. Screaming colours surrounded them as they were returned to the ship hovering in orbit just as the power core went critical and cascading explosions leveled everything in a ten habblock radius.

 

Upon arriving on the Dauntless Antipathy their tau hostage, cruelly awakened by the short distance warp jump emptied himself over the floor. Redjack looked on with disgust as mechanical attendants dragged off their captive for interrogation and re-education.

[Kierdale]

Thanks all for your entries on the topic of `The Primordial Annihilator versus the Greater Good`. We had a good selection of stories looking at the forces of Chaos clashing with the Tau for various reasons and in various ways.

Darkprincesnun told us of Word Bearers clashing with the Tau in a siege of one of the aliens’ own cities in The Slaughter of Gerivia, in order to unleash a greater daemon caged within the world.

Carrack’s legionnaires fought the Tau for the most pragmatic of reasons: water. I liked this piece as you found a good, basic reason for the attack upon the xenos. It wasn’t about corruption, blood, MacGuffins...simply that which is needed for survival. It also well described the warband’s boarding actions.

EesiOh gave us a lord of Chaos, Allesandro, and haemomancer Arren Zhou. I remember reading your posts in the Khornate sorcerers thread so it was good to see one in fiction. His warband had a good, Khornate reason for attacking the Tau: blood. For the Lord of Wrath cares not from whence it flows, only that it flows.

In Teetengee’s `Tau Negotiations` his chaos astartes tore into fire warriors at close range (a wise move, I’m sure all will agree), stealing xenotech and kidnapping one of their engineers. I particularly liked the descriptions of the squad’s mutations.

And I gave you a tale of the half-daemon dark apostle Angra of the Psychopomps confronting a Tau diplomatic party and causing an uprising on Generoth Prime with the intention of turning the survivors upon the xenos.

I think this week’s winner will come as no surprise...

Step forward Warsmith Aznable and claim your reward!

This week wasn’t a hard one to choose! Though all entries had good aspects, different forms of confrontation with the Tau for varied reasons, the warsmith showed us not only the insidious nature of the alien but also how his warband goes about war on a great scale. The insight into the warsmith himself (the character), his beliefs and motivations (particularly with regard to He upon the Golden Throne) were particularly interesting. Then you go and throw in another intriguing character (in inquisitor Aleister Dashwood). Damn you

And here begins the next challenge...

Replenishments New Meat

How does your warband create new Astartes? Are potentials recruited from their squads of cultists? What form of gauntlet must they run in order to separate the wheat from the chaff? How have these newer recruits changed the warband? Where does the geneseed come from to create these new post-humans? How do these new marines cope with any mutated geneseed (as we looked at Aug 28^th to Sept 4^th)?

Are rival renegade marines captured and brainwashed/converted? Loyalist marines or scouts are turned?

How are the newly initiated trained? How is their loyalty ensured?

The challenge runs until October 23^rd.

Let us be inspired...

[Warsmith Aznable]

Step forward Warsmith Aznable and claim your reward!

I claim this for Perturabo and the IV Legion!

the warsmith showed us not only the insidious nature of the alien but also how his warband goes about war on a great scale. The insight into the warsmith himself (the character), his beliefs and motivations (particularly with regard to He upon the Golden Throne) were particularly interesting. Then you go and throw in another intriguing character (in inquisitor Aleister Dashwood). Damn you

Thanks so much, and I'm glad you enjoyed it! I'm sorry it was so long. Inquisitor Dashwood is definitely someone I want to detail more of, as well as the corruption of his surviving Kill Team members. Maybe I can work that into the next challenge.

How does your warband create new Astartes?

So many different ways...

[Carrack]

Keeper

 

 

Puppy Spit was nervous, not that he would show it to the braves and other boys assembled around the central fire of the Ursgatch tribe's camp. Tonight was the night he would leave the camp to become a man, or die trying. The elders were whispering amongst themselves, no doubt planning some additional hardships for the boys' rite of passage. After the elders were done whispering one stepped close to the fire and said, "We have decided. This year we will follow the old ways. You boys will go out into the tundra, with only the clothes on your back and a knife, and acquire something from the den of our tribe's Totem, the Ursgatch, the Greater White Bear. Should you be to cowardly to become a man, you will keep your child name forever and become a slave to the tribe. Never again will you get another chance to become men."

 

Before they left, skins of Kefinog were passed around the fire, with the elders watching, to ensure the boys drank deeply of the hallucinogenic drink. The rite of passage for the Ursgatch was a spiritual test as well as a physical test.

 

********

 

Three nights later Puppy Spit, the last of the surviving boys, to return, came stumbling back to camp, barely conscious from loss of blood. He had indeed acquired something from the den of a Greater White Bear. He had acquired twin scars and a shattered jaw from a clipping swipe of an Ursgatch paw. The full force would have taken his head off. He wasn't sure if his wounds or the lingering effects of the Kefinog were playing tricks on his mind, but at the fire stood a giant in black robes trimmed with bronze. The giant was the last thing he saw before his eyes closed and he fell to the ground. The last thing he heard before unconscious overtook him was the booming voice of the giant, "I name him Keeper, and I will take him to fight for the gods as we wage war in the stars."

 

*****

 

The pain, it was overwhelming. He couldn't so much as turn his head without vomiting from pain induced nausea. But this was to be the last of it, somehow he had survived the torments of the creatures he called the cutters. He had survived their potions, their needles, their knives, their saws. The cutters told him that should he survive the week, he would become an Astartes, whatever that meant.

 

******

 

Keeper slipped into the barracks just as the waxing moon had set. It wasn't his barracks, it was Levin's squad's barracks. This was the last rite of his training, he had spent countless hours sparring, target shooting, fighting mock battles, and learning the intricacies of fighting in a wide range of terrains, all training to be a warrior. As well as extensive studies of theology, the Black Maw's history, rituals, and customs, as well as those of the parent legion. But this training rite was different, it was an unofficial custom unique to Keeper's own training squad. It was the murder of a rival aspirant. As Keeper cupped the mouth of the sleeping aspirant and slashed the same knife he had taken into the Ursgatch den across the throat of his rival, an urge, a craving, that he had endured since the days of the cutters was satisfied, so blissfully satisfied.

 

******

 

Keeper clutched his boltgun to his chest as he followed his champion, Allep, down the landing ramp. His other three squad mates were newly made Black Legionnaires same as him, but Allep was a Legionnaire of a different sort, he was a one time loyalist, an Angel of Immolation who had seen past the lies of the Imperium, and seen the truth of the dark gods. He had forsaken his livery of red and orange for the black of the legion. They were all labeled "thinbloods" by the ancient veterans of the Black Maw, but with the blessings of the gods, and a long string of victories, they could rise in the Black Maw to levels equal to those of the ancients.

 

Keeper looked out from the circumvallation trenches surrounding massive Calebra Hive as Allep was given the squads orders. This is where my legacy truly begins, he thought to himself. This would be the first of many battles that would leave the hated Imperium fearing the name of Keeper.

 

[Scourged]

I was very happy to see this week's topic. This is an idea I've been bouncing around for a while, so it was a lot of fun to put it to the page. But then I kept writing, and writing, and well... it got a bit lengthy. Jump to Part III if you are just looking to see how the Scourged acquire new members, but feel free to read it all for the full story.

 

A Gift Shared by All

(Or, How to Dedicate Yourself to the Scourged in Five Easy Steps!)

 

Phase I: Collection

By all accounts, the patrol of Sector Karthago, Segmentum Ultima should have yielded no activity of interest, like any other sweep of the sector. This time, however, auspex scans aboard Eurydice’s Song revealed a derelict Imperial cruiser drifting listlessly without power. Initial readings could return no designation or identification to the owner or origin of the vessel. Trajectory reports triangulated that the abandoned vessel would cross the threshold into the territory of the Maelstrom and be lost within fourteen standard Terran days. Rather than risk approaching the perilous warp storm so closely, those aboard the Praetors of Orpheus strike cruiser agreed to let the doomed vessel meet its fate in the warp storm.

 

After three standard Terran days all previous intentions for the vessel were abandoned. Suddenly, a distress beacon within the ship had been activated. The signal was exceptionally weak, nearly buried beneath background radiation from surrounding space. It carried no further identification to the origin or occupants of the craft, only a faint blip of vox code confirming that whatever crew remained required immediate aid. Terminator Sergeant Salazar and his 1st Company Veteran Squad were tasked with boarding the Imperial cruiser and extracting any surviving crew. They launched on an intercept trajectory in less than one hour from the activation of the signal.

 

At 07:43::17, Salazar and his squad boarded the Imperial cruiser, now identified by hull markings as Firebrand; cross-referencing that name through Imperial archives returned no matches, however. Subsequent scans conducted within the vessel confirmed earlier reports from long-range auspex: the plasma reactors were long deactivated and inert resulting in a full power loss with primary and secondary generators, atmosphere levels were nonexistent due to multiple hull breaches, and unsurprisingly zero life signs were detected within the ship. Despite all data indicating the impossibility of such an event, the distress signal still weakly cycled its cryptic message, stronger now inside the ship. Salazar his fellow Praetors to move forward and they began their slow progression to the bridge, ceramite boots soundlessly beating on the metal decking.

 

By 09:03::57, 4th squad reached the sealed blast doors to the bridge of Firebrand. All sweeps, scans, and visual reconnaissance of the cruiser showed it to be an abandoned wreck, with nothing to indicate that the crew - if still on the ship - would even be alive. Brother Teshin noted that Firebrand seemed to show no signs that it had even been in use, beyond battle damage to the hull. Salazar and his Terminators thought little of the observation at first, but enough time spent within the powerless hulk confirmed this observation. At no point did the squad cross paths with a corpse, weaponry, signs of small arms fire, spilled rations, or even an exposed wire from a damaged wall. This vessel did not appear abandoned, but rather as if it was never inhabited.

 

At 09:12::72, the doors to the bridge were forced opened, and every auspex reading immediately  blared with annoying clarity. Evidence of inhabitants and crew had been found, though nothing found was left alive. Every last millimeter of metal and glass was covered or smothered with human remains. Gore and viscera painted the walls, with entrails arranged into symbols and runes around the room. Femurs and other long bones acted as poles to banners of flayed skin. Torn rags of Imperial vestments soaked through and stained crimson hung from the rafters. Loose vertebrae and droplets of crystallized blood drifted in the vacuum, occasionally colliding like miniature asteroids. But in the center of the room - where a command throne would have once rested - was a small dais, encircled with a fence of ribs, where a pool of aetherial miasma was impossibly swirling and boiling.

 

This was a trap, and the Praetors had sprung it without question.

 

Salazar intended to order a full withdrawal from the bridge. His mouth was open and the words had started to form, but the command was never voiced. An abrupt and immense psionic force slammed each Praetor and threw them off of their mag-locked boots into the charnel pit, the bulkhead doors slamming and sealing behind them. Each veteran struggled to find purchase with either fist or foot in the weightless room, but the thick layers of human crew crumbled with their attempts, leaving them spinning in the void. Then, as the Terminator squad flailed helplessly in the room, did the miasmic pool erupt, spewing forth blood, bile, raw energy, and daemons.

 

Salazar tried to remain calm. His men tried to remain calm. Autonomic responses within their armor and biology reacted, flooding their blood with hormones and battle-stims. The hypno-doctrines of their training recited habitually in their minds. Power weapons were activated in one gauntlet as the triggers to storm bolters were pulled in the other. The Praetors of Orpheus expertly exerted themselves into battle, just as outlined within the Codex Astartes. The squad was battle-focused as an infinite tide of gibbering multi-limbed monstrosities flooded toward them all. Salazar ground his teeth as one daemon after the next exploded from bolter round and power weapon. Every man fought with the furious discipline of their Primogenitor as every daemon slayed birthed two more behind it, quickly filling the small chamber. Before long, each of the ten Astartes in tactical dreadnought armor were immobilized by the cocoon of warp spawn surrounding them on all sides.

 

The daemons did not slay them, though. Their clawed hands and taloned feet gripped and slashed, yes, but in no attempt to slay the Praetors. Each Astartes watched as the crazed beings worked in chorus, stripping not their lives but their weapons and armor. Salazar felt the joints on his right gauntlet separate and immediately understood the malicious intentions of the beasts, preparing himself for decompression. This assumption proved false, as his hand was met with a pressurized atmosphere, if a bit cold.  A boot was next, and then the connected greave, and soon his helmet. Whatever the source of this incursion, it brought air and heat to the desecrated room - it wanted them alive.

 

Piece by piece, the daemons funneled weapons and armor down to the floor, working each machined piece in an assembly line of appendages. They pushed the pieces down to the heart of the mob and into the portal that still churned, transporting it all to somewhere unknown. Even after disarmed, each Astartes still struggled to fight the insurmountable walls of warpflesh, but it was a wasted effort. It wasn’t long before the men were soon pushed and pulled down, down to the portal, down to whatever waited them on the other side. Salazar cried out a prayer of protection to the Emperor of Mankind just as his head touched the boiling miasma, and his senses exploded.

 

Salazar had traveled through the Warp countless times, though always with the protection of a Gellar field. When afforded moments of personal curiosity, he had wondered what it would feel like to experience the Immaterium unprotected. Now he knew. The instant his skin touched the portal his body was wracked with violent seizures, every muscle spasming endlessly. He felt the freezing heat and looked at the blinding darkness of a hole that never ended or began in front of him. Direction held no meaning as the universe moved around him. Emotions made manifest washed over his body and flayed him alive just to have the next wave repair him to pristine health. He witnessed the birth of the galaxy and its destruction side-by-side and forgot it had happened before he ever watched it. He was everything and nothing.

 

At 09:43::21, after an instant eternity of travel through the portal, the ten veterans of the Praetors of Orpheus found themselves resting on the cold plasteel decking of a new, different vessel. After the biological shock of their experience, every Astartes lost consciousness, relieved to be free of the Warp, uncaring about whatever new, worse fate awaited them.

 

Phase II: Preparation

After their capture, the veteran 4th squad of the Praetors of Orpheus woke to find themselves with limbs bound and forced onto their knees, the ten of them in a line. Light was scarce - yellow and orange and constantly shifting, throwing shadows irregularly on each surface it touched. Candles, Salazar realized; the room was filled with lit candles. It smelled of the melted wax and burned wick and… parchment? Yes, parchment and ink. And there, soft scratching noises, all around. Irregular, frequent pauses… writing. Three, no, four people were in the room, writing nonstop. But there was another noise. Nearly imperceptible, a constant thrumming drone echoed at a subsonic level. A power pack. Power armor, Mk. IV. But not Imperial. Traitor.

 

Having deduced their captor’s origin, Salazar spat a single declaration: “I will say it once, traitor: every last one of us will die before we betray the Imperium. Do your worst.”

 

“My worst? Really now, you ask for my worst? Certainly there is no need, as you misunderstand my intentions.”

 

Finally, the traitor was stepping into the light. The armor was the deep azure of rich sapphires, save for the gauntlets of a crimson so dark is could pass for black, and all trimmed in an ornate burnished gold. It was old and baroque, heralding millennia of experience contained within the ceramite plates. Daemonic faces were sculpted throughout the plate, or had grown there through a malefic force. Parchment covered in ink and blood decorated the armor, hanging in long drapes or bound into scrolls. Chaotic stars and sigils rested and pointed everywhere, built into the elaborate armor trim or as dangling pendants, with the largest sigil framing the bearer’s head from behind as a corrupted halo. And in the ultimate blasphemy the face that returned Salazar’s gaze was the skull-visage helmet of an Adeptus Astartes chaplain.

 

“Why ask for my worst, when you can have my best, Sergeant Salazar? It’s not as if I am here to do you any harm, or malice. No, my brother, I simply offer the revelation of truth awaiting in your new life!”

 

“Where… did you get that helmet?!”

 

“It’s mine, of course.”

 

“Lies!” Enraged at the covetous heretic, Salazar thrashed at his bonds, wishing so eagerly to pummel the trait to death with his fists.

 

The ceramite skull laughed at him. It was a deep, rich laughter, though distorted and amplified through the vox-grill of the helmet. On and he laughed, even while releasing the seal and pulling the skull away. The traitor calmed himself eventually, taking a long breath in and letting out a sigh.

 

“Forgive me, Praetor, please. It’s just… you can’t possibly know how truly amusing that accusation is. Truly! But do not worry, Salazar, you will. You all will, when enough time has passed.”

 

For the most part, one would not look on the face of this man and think he was aligned with those corrupted by the Warp. His skin was clear of blemishes and had a healthy tan, made richer by the candlelight. His hair was a thick jet black, pulled back tightly in a short knot. And his left eye was a chocolate brown, and wild with life. But his right eye bore the mark of Chaos upon him: The skin had pulled away, as if trying to flee from the sickening green glow that the orb now was. A purple-black rot snaked outward from the socket, uncoincidentally creating another irregular eight-pointed star.

 

“I am no liar, as you will see soon enough. Let me tell you about my helmet, Praetor. There was a time when I was like you. We all were, really, my brothers and I: serving the Imperium with unwavering devotion, working passionately with the Inquisition time and time again, eradicating this galaxy of witch and heretic alike. We sought out the Imperial Truth in the deepest reaches of the Imperium, and zealously so.

 

“In those darker days, I wore the black armor of the chaplain. And I served the office well. My faith in the Emperor ran rich, so deep in those days. Even as an Aspirant, all of my brothers knew I would quickly rise into the Reclusiam, despite my humble protestations. Sure enough, the wiser veterans of our chapter bequeathed me with the crozius and rosarius of 3rd Company. Everyone called me Marcatius then. But, times change. And change cannot be stopped, you know. But do not fear this change, brothers; change is to be praised!”

 

The Astartes that was Marcatius spoke with a grand demeanor, feet planted firmly but arms gesturing lavishly and endlessly, his head turning to address each of the ten men held bound in the room. Each syllable of every word was enunciated and accented to perfectly drive his message across in the warmest of tones. He certainly pontificated as a chaplain would. Both eyes were alive with energy: one with a warm and fatherly welcome and the other a portent of approaching doom. The fallen chaplain continued his speech.

 

“But I digress. As you get to know me, you’ll find I’m prone to such digressions. Change, as I had said, found us all and brought us to where we are today. The facade that the Imperium wears was cast away with a single prayer from our chapter master, and we have since served our rightful master. We were the Seekers of Truth, and in our fervent search the truth found us. Just as we have found you all, Salazar. You heard our invitation and you came so willingly to our home.”

 

Salazar found himself increasingly uncomfortable about his situation the longer their captor spoke. It was not his veiled threats within the sermon, nor the Chaotic iconography plastered all over his armor, nor even the sickening viridian orb barely contained in his face. Finally, the realization dawned on the veteran sergeant: the  fallen chaplain never stopped smiling. Never once did his lips meet. Those shining teeth were always on display. With helmet on or off, the heretical Astartes greeted everyone with an eerie skull-faced smile.

 

“I must apologize, Salazar and company. It has just occurred to me that despite my official welcome to you, I have yet to introduce myself! Allow me to rectify this error. In the days of my chaplaincy, those who knew me once called me Marcatius, as I said earlier. But I now know my true name, and so shall you all. I am Sinschal’ul Bhuramas, Prophet of the False, fallen chaplain of the Seekers of Truth, and dark apostle of the brotherhood of the Scourged. I will be your personal envoy as you all become members of our brotherhood!”

 

This latest declaration was accompanied with a crescendo in the traitor’s voice. The tattered scrolls hanging in the room shook from the reverent force of his words. Salazar and his brothers flinched, just as much from the volume as from the very concept of joining a warband of Chaos. The four shrouded writing men did not flinch, however. They did not move, save for their quills upon the parchment. On and on they wrote, nothing more. What did they write, and why? It really didn’t matter, though - Salazar would snap their necks the moment he found freedom and slayed his captor.

 

“Save it, traitor. We want no part of your brotherhood.”

 

“Oh yes, I know that you don’t! Of course you don’t. None of your thrall ever has. No one would. This is simply the skein of Fate on which we are all transported. You cannot escape it any more than I wish to play my part in it. In all truth, not a soul aboard this vessel wished for this Fate, and yet it was delivered unto us. The Gift was bestowed, and we were forever changed. But oh, have we not been illuminated by it! My dear Salazar and fellow warriors, just as we had no choice to accept or decline the Gift, neither do you.”

 

The prophet’s arms were spread out wide, palms up, welcoming Salazar and his men to their newly promised damnation. Ever still, the apostle smiled at them all, radiating pleasant warmth that belied his sinister nature. But worst of it all, the needling splinter driving Salazar into a concentrated anger, was that the disgusting heretic seemed happy to welcome them. He showed no malice or sadism, but a feigned sympathy for their situation. The damned prophet’s tone conveyed a weight, a burden even, of duty over pleasure. Yes, the most infuriating aspect of Sinschal’ul Bhuramas was that he truly believed he was not an agent of the purest evil.

 

But Salazar would not let his fury overcome him. This all must be a game to the traitor, an impotent grab for perceived power over a helpless prey. But an Astartes is never easy prey. The Praetor would give his captor no such pleasure. He would allow this fallen Astartes no victory in this battle of wills. All it would take is a redirection of the conversation - not the brute force refusal he had been utilizing, but a psychological counterattack. He would force the traitor off balance conversationally and wait for a weakness to show itself, then simply-

 

“It’s a good plan, but it won’t work, Salazar,” the fallen chaplain interrupted, a heavy sigh following. “It never works. Your Codex is of no use here.”

 

The rage was back. How dare he insult the Codex Astartes?! But that anger was of no use at the moment. Salazar pushed it down, saving it for a later moment, and forced a terse response.

 

“I said nothing, traitor.”

 

“And yet I already know the deception you are brewing. The four acolytes behind me know it, and have quite possibly recorded it. Every member of our brotherhood aboard this ship knows it, and most assuredly would mock you for it. Even those of us who are splintered throughout the galaxy know it. We knew of your false intentions before your mind had finished processing the first syllable. This is the Gift we possess, Salazar.”

 

No. The fallen chaplain was bluffing. And if he wasn’t, that meant his soul was twice-damned: first fallen from the light of the Emperor, then further twisted with the sorceries of the Warp. Bile rose in Salazar’s throat at the very thought of warp-magicks.

 

“Enough of your games, sorcerer! I know I speak for my men when I say have grown weary of this gambit. End our lives already, or free us that we may end yours.”

 

For the first time, the heretic’s arms fell to his sides. Was he defeated, so easily? No, not yet. Salazar watched him turn on a heel and walk back to the robed figures in the rear of the room, leaning over them on at a time, saying nothing. He was reading. Grabbing one long sheet of the parchment he tore it apart and brought it forward again, the scribbling man paying no mind and resuming his silent dictation. The dark apostle tossed the parchment at Salazar’s knees, pointed at him, and spoke:

 

“This is not a game, or a gambit. This is not a deception, or a ruse. I speak only of truth, Praetor. I am incapable of doing otherwise… unlike the brothers we have taken you from, and the Imperium you serve. All of us, every single man who has been scourged by the Gift is so afflicted. We hear your lies, Salazar, and we hold you accountable for them. This is punishment, and retribution! And my acolytes, they record every transgression that they can, by the limits of how quickly they can write. Look, there, and see in ink what your mind had planned, each meticulous element of your schemed transgression against me, and know that I speak truth.”

 

Salazar would never believe him. He was a traitor who worshipped the Anathema! He could never be trusted. Yet, there on the paper were his thoughts etched with ink for the entire galaxy to see. Every facet of his intended attempt to secretly upheave the conversation to his advantage was detailed. The description contained counter-plans and backups that Salazar had not even begun to devise. To see his unfinished and unspoken thoughts on the page, completed for him by a man who did not know him, sent a chill through his spine.

 

“How…?”

 

“I told you, veteran Praetor,” answered the apostle, grabbing the thick paper and affixing it to a spiked pauldron, “it is because of the Gift that I possess, that my acolytes possess, that all of the Scourged possess! Through your lies we find the truth. And now, my brothers, it is time for you to share this ability us. Come, and open yourselves to the Architect of Fate and his divine Gift!”

 

Phase III: Initiation

The Prophet of the False took two steps forward, then knelt before Salazar; it was close enough that he could still smell the acrid aroma of warp-taint on the azure armor. The prophet held out a single hand, palm up, between their faces. Both men waited - one face grimaced in rage, the other still locked in a cranial grin - until the tainted green eye of Sinschal’ul Bhuramas began to stir. It folded and twisted within the socket, as if a miniature beast squirming within a tight enclosure. It rolled and curled with sickening slurps of mucus until its true horror was finally revealed. Staring back at Salazar from within the tainted socket was an oval iris of all colors and none, composed of shades and hues that could hemorrhage a mortal’s brain from sheer impossibility. And the pupil... it was more of a mouth, a black void rimmed with tiny fangs of irregular lengths, pointing in all directions, and drooling a pallid yellow spittle.

 

“Yes, look into my eye, Salazar. The Gift is waiting for you in there. Stare into the abyss and feel the touch of the Immaterium caress your delicate mind.”

 

He would not look. His eyes were sealed shut, and would remain that way. No words or physical force could ever make him open his eyes and look again into the bottomless horror of that green eye. The eye was but a nightmarish memory as his eyelids remained closed.

 

“Very good, Salazar. Yes, keep staring. That’s it, my brother. Keep looking deep inside and let the Gift find you.”

 

Was the heretic mad? His eyes were sealed shut! The veteran Praetor would never succumb to such taunts and let his eyes dance over the radiating iris and its wonderful colors. He would never feel the blackness pull at his soul and let it tug him down. No, he would fight it all. Especially the little teeth, and how the welcomed him. How they curled to him, beckoning him, showing him how inviting the black abyss could be. Staring at the eye was so easy to do, and the Gift was waiting for him inside the eye. But he wasn’t staring - his eyes were shut! But then how could he see the beautiful horror? He must be looking into the eye... but that was okay. Inside the eye was the Gift, and Salazar knew the Gift would welcome him. The Gift needed to be shared, and accepted by all. There, there! Deep in the black, that little speck! Was that the Gift? Could he reach it? He must… he must reach it! He needed it!

 

Then it was gone. A crimson-black gauntlet covered the eye and Salazar fell immediately back to reality. The prophet stood again, turning away and wincing as the eye spun itself back around in the socket. Had… had Salazar been looking into the eye? It… it was hard to remember. No. Of course not. He would never fall for the heretic’s deceptions. It would never happen.

 

The Emperor protects.

 

Yes. Yes exactly. The Emperor protects. Salazar knew that. He could hear his brothers chanting it clearly now. It gave him strength. The bond with his fellow Praetors was deep, and they came to him in his time of need, with resolute words to keep their sergeant protected from the nemesis in azure plate. Yes. His brothers.

 

The Emperor protects. The Emperor protects.

 

“Do you hear them, apostle? Do you hear my brothers chanting? Do you hear how they call out when I need them, protecting me from any of your sorcery? That is why you will never break us, traitor. That is why none of us will ever accept your gift. The Emperor protects us all, even now. You would do well to remember that.”

 

The Emperor protects. The Emperor protects. The Emperor protects.

 

Salazar was imbued with a new confidence. Yes, there had been that slight moment of weakness - and if he survived, he would pay repentance for it in his meditations - but his brothers’ faith would protect him. He looked to them now, to bask in their support, and he saw every head turned his way. But their faces did not show the pride of the Astartes, instead they showed confusion… and mouths that were not moving. Their voices… were in his mind.

 

“Yes, Salazar, I hear them. I hear all of them. You, your men, the vermin working on a passing frigate, the native population on the closest planet, your beloved Praetors on the other end of the subsector, and even the droning straight from Terra. I always hear them. Always. And now, so do you.”

 

The Emperor protects. Imperator servat. Tal Aemparadu delefentia. The Emperor protects. Umbasa imperiana. Shuinumia novisono Umpara. The Emperor protects.

 

More and more voices now. Louder, louder. Not all his squad. Men. Women. Elderly. Children. Everywhere. All over. Cities and ships and planets. He could hear them. Salazar listened to them all, each new language and dialect pushing for dominance over the next, droning again and again to fill his mind. So loud. So many. So many voices. They never stopped. Louder and louder, shouting in his mind. Overpowering his native thoughts, silencing them, making him strain to think. On and on, in the name of the Emperor, on and on, never quiet…

 

“Why… why in the Throne’s name would you do this to me? Do… do you not realize that… that… that their voices will empower me, and shield me with… with their faith…?”

 

“Oh, Salazar…” The apostle walked over to him again, resting a light hand on his shoulder - a gesture that could have otherwise been comforting, were it not from a sorcerer, “even you don’t believe that lie. In fact, just trying to say it aloud probably caused you just as much pain as each one of the voices you now hear. That’s what the Gift is, you see… I don’t let you hear them cry out for your Corpse-God to mock you, or sadistically torment you - I am hardly like my darker brothers in that regard. No, Salazar, the Gift our brotherhood shares is that we hear the lies of man. All of mankind. Just like I have told you already, many times. This is what unites us all as the Scourged. And now you know it for yourself, because you are scourged, too.”

 

No! The Emperor does protect, that is truth. It is the Imperial Truth! But the voices wouldn’t stop. More and more, louder and louder, they filled Salazar’s mind, drowning away any other possible thought he could have. New and different phrases now, beyond the simple prayers. So many people, so many languages, so many lies, just a cacophony of endless statements, and all of them lies…

 

I was with Jeremiah last night, I swear! The Emperor is my shield and protector. Jontolandu isa asando sallaramia. Thank you. No, I did not receive those orders, Commander. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh cthulhu r'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Yes, of course. Nachtamkda ichra kudchamcha keetu! All praise to the Omnissiah. I know I lost it somewhere around here. I love you. Fhlumbt ghunghunya aff ifanahl hasssma fhaleet. In His holy name. The Emperor protects.

 

It was too much. It was too loud, too intense, too numerous. So many voices! None of them honest, none of them virtuous. And as he listened, the lies grew deeper and deeper, secrets upon secrets revealed, from the lowliest of omissions to deceptions so grand entire worlds accepted them as reality. He tried to separate them, isolate them, just to have a modest measure of control of the chaos, but he couldn’t. He could not guide the flow and more than attempting to move a river with his hands. It wouldn’t stop. All of humanity would not stop, would not give him rest. Salazar screamed, bellowing anguish and pain, hoping his voice would silence all the rest, but it of course could not. He fought in his bonds, wishing to grab his head to stem the pain, or bash his skull it against the metal decking, anything to make the voices stop. He fought, and fought, and fought, only becoming more and more lost.

 

“Nine days, Salazar. In nine days’ time I will return to this room. I do hope that when we meet again, I will greet you and the rest of your men with open arms into our brotherhood. Sadly, I know I will not. Most of you cannot endure the Gift. You may die, yes. Or you may be driven so mad that we must rip out your minds and make you nothing more than automaton. Some of you may be so lucky to regain your basic functions. And if you are truly blessed by our master’s Gift, you just may find a potential for great power. Regardless, we shall see in nine days. Fare thee well, Salazar, and the rest of the lost 4th Squad.”

 

At some level, Salazar heard the parting words of Sinschal’ul Bhuramas. On the surface, his eyes saw the Prophet of the False kneel in front of each of his men and show them all the same horrible, beautiful eye. Amidst his wails of agony, he listened to his brothers begin to scream with him. It’s possible he saw the fallen chaplain speak to the acolytes writing in the room, but it didn’t matter. The voices were louder and louder still. So many of them. And they all had so much to tell Salazar.

 

Phase IV: Reistance

Nine days passed before Sinschal’ul Bhuramas returned to his private chambers, just as he promised the Praetors. Not that the ten men in the room could call themselves Praetors of Orpheus anymore, no. Their reception of the Gift saw the end of that life in trade for a new one. Some of them would be dead, others lost the voices, and others surviving to be initiates of the Scourged, but none of them were Praetors of Orpheus any longer.

 

The abduction of Astartes and their subsequent conversion was not a duty that Sinschal’ul performed out of amusement. He found no joy in torture or sorrow. Pain and death were a means to an end, but not the end in and of itself. He may be an agent of Chaos, and speak in the glorious name of the Architect of Fate, but such things need not be done with malice. This was simply the task he must perform, and he did it well.

 

So long ago, Apostle Bhuramas had inspired his men with purity and resolve as their chaplain. They would gather around him and absorb his every word, renewed in their spirit that all was right and just when in the name of the Emperor. He would bask in their piety in those moments. Though it may have been improper, but his pride swelled when his men would chant to him after a long sermon. The Chaplain Marcatius, concealed inside the skull-visage helm, would feel himself smile the largest grin in those moments. And in the Warp’s infinite judgments and ironies, that smile was now a permanent fixture. Along with his djinni eye...

 

The chamber door gave way easily as he pushed it open. Ah, mercifully they were not all still screaming. This batch of initiates had been among the more raucous of those that the Prophet had serviced lately. The descendants of Ultramar did always seem to feel the most pain when illuminated with the truth. But after nine days, Sinschal’ul saw that they were finally still. Two were especially still. Dead, yes. Still, twenty percent mortality is better numbers than he typically encountered - also curiously indicative of Ultramar geneseed.

 

Glancing right, he saw two of his acolytes still slaving away, writing the passages and pages for the Prophet’s special project. Every lie told by a human was a special artefact. No two were alike. Even if the words were identical, their intentions were all special. Yes, most were harmless and insignificant white lies or half-truths, barely worth a spare thought. But often, amidst the endless scrolls, Sinschal’ul would come across an elegant deception. From these he crafted his never-ending project: the Tome of the False, a catalog and record of mankind’s most beautiful lies. The Prophet knew it would never be finished, not in his lifetime, but it was a project that kept him sane. But that needed to wait; work must be finished before indulging in his hobby.

 

It was time to release the initiates, and to see who passed the trials successfully. This part never went well. The Prophet hefted the twisted maul that had been his crozius arcanum and activated its power field with a flicker of his mind. Dark and plasmatic energies rippled along the eight-pointed head of the weapon and he turned to face the eight surviving men. Blink-clicking a set of runes in his visor, the mag-locks chaining the fallen Praetors to the floor released, and their bodies slumped. None moved, save for heavy breathing.

 

There. That tickle in the mind. An intuition. The telltale whispers of deception. Two, no, three of them. Three men were going to strike. He could hear the simple plans broadcasting in his mind and betraying the poor rebels. They had planned in secret - or so they thought - for two days now, planning a joint assault. Amazing how many still seemed to retain their sanity. He would advise the Sorcerer Lord that the Praetors of Orpheus make for strong imitation stock.

 

“You all won’t be the first to try these tactics, you know. Nor will you be the last to die from it. But please, by all means, strike at me.”

 

The Prophet waited for the strike he knew was coming. The bald one, Darius, would launch himself vertically, arms outstretched to grab his pauldron and left arm, preventing a sidearm from being drawn. The one with the three service studs in his brow, Tarna, would be swinging his body in an arc, moving to sweep a leg behind Sinschal’ul’s knee and cripple his balance. Darius would be attempting to dislocate his shoulder joint at that instant. The one wearing the bionic eye, Cadmus, would hesitate briefly to deliver a shoulder charge to the apostle’s chest plate, completely knocking him to his back after Tarna’s leg sweep. From there it was an inelegant bout of tearing at joints and beating limbs until the Prophet was subdued.

 

Sinschal’ul exhaled. It was a good plan. A flawed and failed plan, yes, but a good one.

 

Howling, Darius pounced forward, aimed at the unarmed gauntlet. The fallen chaplain crouched and lunged forward to meet the charge, his fingers tightly constricting on the thick neck of the Astartes. The prophet spun counter clockwise, using the momentum of the leaping Praetor to turn and toss him into the wall, smashing his face and cracking the thick cheekbone. That same spin pushed Sinschal’ul backward and out of the range of Tarna’s sweeping leg, leaving his attack exposed and vulnerable to the spiked crozius that came crashing down onto his pelvis, obliterating it with a shower of viscera as the psychically-charged weapon pounded through muscle and bone effortlessly.

 

The efficient counterattack saw Cadmus rise and revise his plan to shoulder tackle the armored warrior. Smart. He instead chose to run toward his bisected brother and grab at the shaft of the accursed crozius. With an iron grip, the Praetor pushed toward the apostle, causing him to shift his heavy boots to compensate for balance, driving the Prophet to his back knee. This new maneuver left Sinschal’ul vulnerable to the approaching fist of the recovered Darius swinging from behind. Very smart.

 

The impact of the fist did little but cause a slight flicker in Sinschal’ul’s visor display, and make a small rune flash that an impact was received. He did need to respond quickly, however, as both hands of Darius were quickly reaching to rip the skull helmet away. It would never happen, of course, but a response was still necessary. The Prophet pushed back on his crozius, keeping Cadmus at bay for a moment, and ducked forward to slip out of Darius’ clutching grasp. A quick snap back of the hips and neck was all that was needed to slam a wall of ceramite and metal into the face of Darius, widening the previous fracture, and more importantly, splitting open his nose and brow, letting blood pour out to blind him, if temporarily.

 

Working with the momentum of the recoil from his body slam, Sinschal’ul grabbed his maul with both hands and pulled it toward his mass while throwing his body forward. Now Cadmus was the one off balance, staggering toward the azure warrior as he refused to release the enemy’s weapon. That foolish determination is what allowed the Prophet to force the Praetor into a vicious headbutt, collapsing his face just like his brother’s. The brutal impact was enough to force Cadmus to release the shaft of the weapon and stagger backward. Quite fortunate, as Darius was recovering quickly.

 

With the crozius wielded one-handed again, the Prophet swung it laterally in a wide arc out to his right. Simultaneously, his unarmed hand snapped to his waist and unsheathed his combat blade, flinging it in a fluid motion to his left. The blade struck its target first, spearing the throat of Cadmus and leaving him a bleeding, gurgling annoying on the floor, incapacitated. The swing of the maul was slow, however, and Darius had the time to dodge, just not the room to do so. The quarters were cramped, and Darius was pinned, leaving his only option to rapidly go to ground and have the maul graze over him. It bought him seconds to live and nothing more. The twisted crozius was soon gripped in two hands, swung in a small arc upward, and then slammed straight down with dual-wielded speed. A bloodied smear and two legs were all that remained of Darius.

 

Phase V: Acceptance

Well... that was pointless. Just an absolute waste of strong initiates. These ineffective rebellions always were. Maybe if all eight of them had resisted and fought, yes, they could have overtaken him. Maybe. But three unarmed, unarmored, and unstable Astartes were no match for him. Still, Sinschal’ul could not blame them for their efforts. Perhaps they wanted to die? If so, he could not blame them for that, either. Not every mind was made to endure the Gift, let alone embrace it. It didn’t matter, however. He retrieved his knife - making sure to decapitate Tarna in the process - and deactivated his crozius once the last of the blood had sizzled away. Half of the Praetors were now dead, in one form or another. Time to see what remained of the other half.

 

Upon inspection, three of them had yet to move in all the commotion. They were alive, yes, and in no apparent suffering. But it would not take an apothecarion to diagnosis them as braindead. The Gift had sundered their minds. It was not surprising, just disappointing. After that bout of strong resistance from the earlier trio, Sinschal’ul had hoped further resilience would carry over to the rest. Sadly, it did not. At least Xeras would be pleased to know he would have three more Revenants for his collection. Not that it mattered; Xeras was always pleased.

 

But the two that remained had already sat themselves up. Both were positioned with legs crossed, so habitually drawn to the posture for meditation. At least these two had found the strength to overcome the Gift. Oh, and Salazar! He had endured! Sinschal’ul was quite happy to see that. He liked the spirit within Salazar. He had a feeling the sergeant would survive the ordeal. Perhaps he still had potential yet to unlock. Ah, well, that would remain to be seen.

The Prophet lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs to match the posture of the two men, and delicately removed his helmet… his now-dented helmet. It would take weeks to repair the damage, thanks to those brutes. Good artificers were so hard to find this far away from the Astronomicon…

 

“Salazar, and Teshin… nice to see you both alive and well. Or alive, at the very least. Neither of you attacked me, and I can feel no sense of resistance from either of you toward me. Have you embraced the Gift? Are you both ready to be welcomed into the brotherhood of the Scourged?”

 

The air in the room was finally calm, once their Astartes senses compensated for the growing stench of new death. The hatred and rage of the Praetors was as dead as their old loyalties. In the nine days listening to the voices, truth had washed over them both, and they listened. Teshin, this time, was the one who spoke.

 

“I… we… yes we are. We are Praetors no longer, Prophet.”

 

“Glorious,” Sinschal’ul exclaimed with outstretched hands, “so wonderfully glorious! You now know the wonder that is the Gift! Go on then, Teshin. Tell me of what you heard. Speak of the voices that laid bare the falsehoods of the Imperium. It is different in each of us, you see… This galaxy is far too large, and far too filled with humanity for each of us to listen to every voice. As such, we each channel a specific vein of humanity, tapping into regions, or related thoughts, or just sporadic noise. I always enjoy hearing which voices our initiates hear loudest. I especially want to know what you heard, Salazar.”

 

Salazar still did not speak, though. He looked away, staring at nothing, but his eyes burned angrily. It wasn’t the defiant rage from days before, fueled with Imperial devotion. No, this was a painful anger, fueled with remorse. This was betrayal. Sinschal’ul had never seen an initiate so furious before. What had he heard? But Salazar would not speak.

 

“Lord Prophet… he won’t answer you. He won’t answer anyone anymore. When my own clarity returned, I called out to Sergeant Salazar, hoping he had survived. He was… calm. He spoke then, not to me so much as at me. He renounced the Imperium, knowing now what he does. The… the Gift illuminated all that we had done under false pretenses. He hates himself, for having spread such ignorance for centuries. To atone, he has vowed eternal silence.”

 

“So I see. You tell me then, Teshin: did our dear Salazar the Silent reveal to you what it was that caused him to make such reparations?”

 

Teshin hesitated, swallowing hard and still shaking, still visibly straining to fight the weight of the voices in his mind. He looked to his former sergeant, seeking permission before answering. Salazar finally turned his head, his eyes locked with the Prophet. That rage burned hot, radiating so many of the feelings that blazed inside him. He nodded slowly, and Teshin answer on his behalf.

 

“What he said didn’t make sense, it’s impossible, but… he said he heard the voice of the Primarch speaking. But he couldn’t have - the Master of Ultramar is in stasis upon Macragge! How could Salazar hear him speak?”

 

“It is actually not uncommon, Teshin,” Sinschal’ul explained, though visibly excited by the revelation. “You know as well as I do that the Immaterium does not obey the laws of time as reality does. It is entirely possible to hear the lies of the past and the future. But please, I insist, what did your Primarch say…?”

 

And as Teshin revealed the secret, Apostle Bhuramas could have wept. This was, beyond any shadows of a doubt, the most beautiful lie he had heard or read. The Prophet scrambled to collect any quill and blank parchment he could find. This was the capstone to his masterwork, the perfect forward to his Tome of the False.

[Carrack]

So what did Salazar hear? You can't leave us hanging like that, it's just not fair. :)

[EesiOh]

For the next challenge you know what would be fun? Writing about a dastardly duo style thing, of a time two of the by now notoriously well known warbands that haunt these regions teamed up to make loyalists cry, or maybe a time when two warbands fought each other? obviously it would require the permission of the other creator, but it could end up being some jolly good fun 

[Kierdale]

EesiOh, I'll add the suggestion to my list of IF ideas. It's a big list.

We've had collaborations before (Nemesis II) so it's certainly doable. And fun. I think we'd need two weeks for that.

 

As for next week, it's theme should be guessable, considering the time of year.

[Teetengee]

Part I: Trinit

Hidden Content

David looks ahead of me down the dark tunnel. We were the only two left from our clan that had lived to Scarbonding, and now we were both chosen for the Cull four years later. They celebrated our sacrifice for a whole day before we left, and will continue until our fates are known to them three days from now, eight in total. Will we be sacrifice or aspirant?

I tighten my grip on the three knives, two taken from sacrifices from other clans, as we slink toward the wet crunching of eating. I can remember the fire of the Cull ceremony when it shouted out my name, the look on Mag’s face. I can remember the fumes of the gangleweed pipe as my vision began to swim and David continued to drink his fifth skin of wine. I can remember that last night in my home, when Mag came to say her farewells, and we had our own bittersweet celebration of a kind. I can still smell her.

No the smell is different, more sickly sweet, the flower scent overpowering now. David turns to me as we realize simultaneously the sound has stopped. Something tiny drops to the floor between us to steam and sizzle as it burns a small hole through the deck. He lifts his dagger as we jerk our heads up towards the rapidly dropping monster.

It lands with a heavy thump sending me flying backward. While I get shakily to my feet, I can hear David screaming my name mingle with a tearing noise. Suddenly a leg flies back and skids across the floor to my feet. The claws of the sweet smelling creature in front of me pump up and down in quickly snapping arcs, each zenith sending chunks of gore and sprays of blood across the walls. The magnitude of its destruction stops to matter, the only thing that matters is that in front of me is David’s leg, in my ears are David’s screams.

I run as fast as I can across the metal slicked with blood before launching myself screaming “FOR THE FOUR,” onto the creature’s back. Grabbing ahold of its protruding spine I stab away at every fleshy part I can reach with both my other hands. The thing’s yells change to squeals as its awkward limbs whip back trying to dislodge me. It’s blood runs hot over my hands as I plunge my knives deeper into the gouges I have hollowed in its back. Suddenly a long tendril grabs hold of my waist and flings me through the air. Pain lances through my chest as I land with a crack.

The skittering horror is on me in an instant. Reaching up I grab hold of its two longest mandibles and pull my legs up to wrap in its clinging flesh. I tuck my head dodging the acidic froth dripping from its mouth as it shakes and spins frantically, chitinous appendages probing unsuccessful, gurgling it’s impotent wrath. The heady sticky sap exuding from the glands along its underbelly mixes with the remains of the gangleweed and the sharp stabs of pain in my chest making my vision swim with the void and my head sing deadly lullabies. I strain to hold back the beasts fowl jaws as it tries to bend its head to scrape me off its belly. Muscles pulsating with the effort, I catch glimpses of the room, focusing down on anything that might be a weapon, mine own having been scattered when I was tossed from the creature’s back.

Suddenly I catch sight of a glint reflecting in the dim flickering green light. In a second I reach down with my bottom right hand to grab it, preying to the gods that it is a weapon. Curling my body painfully, I catch a contorted view of not a dagger, but David’s braceleted arm, the silver gift given following his Scarbonding ritual twinkling on its wrist. Just then the beast begins to climb the wall, to purposes I can’t afford to contemplate. Making use of this gift of the gods in its distraction, I firmed my grip around the protruding bone.
 

Determining that this beast will not be my end, I take the jagged edge and plunge it into the creature’s soft underbelly. Pulling it out to strike again causes fragrant burning pus to spill over my torso as the creature’s belly splits down its middle. Its roar is deafening so close to my ears. Redoubling its efforts to loosen me from my vicious purpose, it clamps its head down, scything mandibles scraping off the tip of my ear as I can barely shove them aside. It drops the the ground and I lose my grip, wind knocked from my lungs by the impact and body covered in its hot entrails. As it rears its head to come down for the decapitating blow I tighten my grip on David’s ulna with all three of my hands. WIth a savage thrust a slam it through the creature’s bottom jaw and into its brain, the beast’s own momentum driving it all the way through its skull and out its rear eyes. I slide myself shooting out from under it along the blood-slicked floor by the handle I have made in its head as its body thrashes and writhes its last spluttering death throes.

Dripping with steaming ichor, I scrape its brain matter from my arms. I walk up to its carcass and wrench a mandible from its jaws to prove my kill. Bracing my foot against its head, I yank David’s bone out, screaming as my broken ribs press on my lungs. Panting with the exertion, every breath agony, I look around for my dagger. After finding it I pull myself back to the entrance to the under decks, supporting myself heavily on the wall and not daring to let go of any of my three prizes.

Making my way back to the exit, I hear padded footsteps coming to a stop ahead of me. I raise my head to three squidwolves, tentacles flaring in dominance, one of them howling a gurgling challenge. Resigned to my now certain death, I set my teeth and raise my unconventional weaponry in the hopes of taking at least one with me. When they saw the mandible I held, they began to back away, whimpering and squirting before bolting after ten strides. I laugh, and grimace with the stab to my lung, I guess killing the alpha predator makes me the big dog, at least for now. Hurrying as best as I can, I finally see the unforgiving blue light of the lights of the entrance archway.

As I come out into the ritual chamber one of the great Knights looks up at me, noteslate in hand, robed in his ceremonial garb. Consulting his data, he looks up at me without expression, passing judgment. Finally he makes a few quick strokes on his pad and goes to the crowd below to shout out, “David! Sacrifice! Tritin! Aspirant!” The darkness begins to take me as my knees give out, standing unsupported. My last sight is medicae coming out to me with a stretcher and a variety of instruments, many sharply bladed.

 

Part II: Accuser

Hidden Content

The room is quiet. After the roar of battle it takes several minutes for even my superhuman ears to adjust to the sound of rats running and bugs buzzing through the room. The steady hiss of steam from the tip of my power sword resting in the puddle of blood and other fluids at my feet is as loud as thunder in the stillness. I can see my handiwork all around me. The blood of my gene-brothers, on my hands.

 

They were fools. They believed what we did was necessary, even proper. The murder of those we swore to protect. Again and again the murder of those we swore to protect. For what, so that they would not have to die later? So that they would not become the enemy, even as our killings of them became rumour and the enemy grew amongst their friends? So that they might be cleansed for the sin of watching others commit atrocities? What does it matter if the enemy kills this world, even if we win, our duty will be to finish the job. To prevent corruption? Who are we to judge corruption when our blades are responsible for “acceptable casualties?”

 

As I sit brooding on our failings, the faint sound of gunfire begins to move towards me. I check my displays even though I have no intention to fight them. Whoever comes shall kill me, either a traitor, or for being one. The light is fading, likely for the last time on all the poor souls who inhabit this world. If I am lucky I will be among the first. The great lie of safety, once shattered, can never be repaired.

 

Seeing movement, I instinctually being threat evaluation. Sensors read power armour: two sets, core leaking, likely traitor astartes, engage with extreme prejudice and caution, armaments unknown, threat level medium-high, adjusted for current condition of self. One of the traitors turns the corner, armour painted sea green with a great bleeding eye emblazoned on his chest. Two flesh covered pipes are protruding out from under his left pauldron and hang loosely plugged into his bolter. The bolter itself has an eye which scans the room and hurts to look at. He begins to pick through the rubble of the church where we were to execute the survivors of the neverborn attack when his companion enters the room. The second has a great array affixed to his powerpack and several devices installed in his helmet and arm. His suit is grey with green latticework, but still bears that traitorous eye. Different resources mean different tools.

 

When the first begins speaking I am surprised by his calm and friendly tone, the familiarity, the similarity, “Sarkan, vox back for scavenger crews, this lot here are mostly undamaged. Half a dozen suits of power armour and weaponry for just as many. Some of the gene-seed may even still be intact.”

 

Sarkan (I presume), presses a button on his vox and relays the message, short, to the point. They treat each other just as I had treated my brothers. I wonder if they are also required to gun down those they are oathsworn to guard. Their iconography is hateful to me, but for more reasons than I once understood, for now it represents not only their betrayal, but our own.
 

As they turn to leave I call out, self loathing driving my deathwish, “Sarkan, you missed one.” They whirl around, just as I expected them to, guns up searching for where I am hiding. “Right in front of you, sitting on the stage, sword smoking and bolter in his lap.”

“State your purpose, or I will end you here and now corpse pawn!” calls the first.

“I have no purpose. I just do not want to deprive you of another kill.”

“Do not mock me, weakling. I take it that your suit is immobilized, then? And you cannot break the seals? Wonderful, Mab can always use more-”
 

Moving my arm and looking at him to make my point, “I assure you my suit is fully functional.”

At this he lowered his weapon almost imperceptibly, “So why did you sit there?”

“Because killing you solves nothing. Not that killing them solved much either, “ I say, motioning to the corpses around me with my blade.

“You did this,? Then I should thank you. Hail and welcome, what is your name brother?”

His comment stuns me, I sit there, taken aback, unable to speak. Do they not intend to kill me? The Imperium would kill their own to prevent them from even knowing about this enemy, but they are sitting here talking to me as if I was one of their own. Their image is terrible, but their actions?

“I am Marred, and again, what are you called? You need not die today if you pledge to finish what you have started, if this was your doing, I would hate to be on your bad side,” he says it with a laugh. I look at my hands, covered in the bright red blood of my astartes squad mates, of my captain.

Standing, I look him straight in the eye. “The names given by the hypocrites who trained me are meaningless. Though many amongst them may regret their actions, any who stand for this empire of meaningless sacrifice are as guilty as those they defend. For this these crimes I killed them, my brothers, my friends. For my crimes I should die alongside them.”

“Well then, I think I will call you Accuser, and I know that you had better come with us.”

Looking once more at the blood I have spilt, the hate fills me, hate for the traitors in front of me, for myself, for my squadron, for my chapter, but above all hate for the Imperium that lead this endless hypocritical war; that sacrificed its own for a man who they call a god. They once again take up their weapons as I hoist my sword, before it is clear I am only sheathing it. I reach down to my bolter and mag-lock it to my side. Looking up, I ask “Where do we go now?” and follow them over the corpses of my once-brothers. I hear a crunch of breaking bones on my first step out the door.

 

Part III: Kor'Sh'La the Honourless

Hidden Content

“You have a very simple choice before you now, serve in life, or serve in death,” His voice rings out over the three rows of what remains of us, bound in chains. “Your champions have already been executed, I was surprised that none of them would agree to work for us willingly, I hope some of you are wiser.” At this a walking gallows stomps up the two columns of our captured vehicles, the limp bodies of our captains and our lord swinging freely from bloodied chain nooses, stripped naked and enucleated. It continues its teetering walk in front of every one of the captured Crimson Kings, the smells of death clear from our leaders’ corpses. I hear muttering fill the air, even as the sharp tip of my own knife sends a trickle of blood down the back of my neck. “It would be a waste for all your experience to be lost.”

Eventually the conversation dies down, something has been decided. A row in front of me, seven marines to the left yells out, “We bow to none! We will die happy rather than serve you!”

 

My response is faster than even his guard’s silencing blow, “You don’t speak for us all Lek’gog.”

“What honourless swine, who dares-” Yells and blows soon drown him out as the guards prevent Lek’gog’s challenges.

Smirking at his folly, I call out, “WAIT! Give me my knife and I will silence him for you,” Their multihued captain nods his head to my overseer as the jeers and death threats ring out from my compatriots. Some roars of approval join them as I am unshackled. Roughly I take my dagger from the astartes behind me, memorizing his face for when I have time for personal vendettas.

Walking slowly to Lek’gog, I keep my head down, ignoring the insults and movements. I test my blade, still razor sharp, the blood drops from my finger a blessing to my cracked lips. When I stand in front of Lek’gog, him spitting on my feet and holding my glare, I look down. “I suspect you will not beg?”

“Never, traitor.”

“Good.” I do not want him interrupting me. The air moves against my skin, sand grinding in my open wounds as I turn to face the audience around me. “We would be fools to fight our conquerors, especially when they have offered us a position so graciously.” Boos, but fewer of them. “When we turned from the corpse on his throne, we followed strength. When we swore allegiance to Lord Thunder, we followed strength. But now he is dead, swinging by his own neck before our eyes. Who should we follow now?”

Shouts of answers float into the air, but I cut them down, “WE FOLLOW STRENGTH! And WHO are STRONGEST NOW?” Many are the responses indicating the Tide of Blood. “So WHO DO WE FOLLOW?”

“THE TIDE!!” Lek’gog crumples against my leg, his brain pierced from eye to temple with my blade. The other simpletons should soon follow, now I need to get my flamer back.

 

Part IV: Epsilon Seven Nine

Hidden Content

ENGAGING MEMORY PROTOCOL..

….

…..

…….

FATAL ERROR: SHUTDOWN INITIATED..

ENGAGING MEMORY PROTOCOL..

…

…..

..JOURNALLING ACTIVATED:

Oh Emperor no. I can barely feel anything. Why is there a grid tracking wherever I look. Why is ther-: THRONE, my arm is metal, my other is a gun, my chest, my legs, what is that reflect-

KILL JOURNALLING:FILE TERMINATED
SHUTDOWN INITIATED..

ENGAGING MEMORY PROTOCOL..

ENGAGING SENSORY FAILSAFES..

…

…..

…….

System online. Plasma core operating at stable 93% output. Temperatures within acceptable parameters. Manipulators functional. Leg servos active. Hull integrity uncompromised.

CHECKING MODULAR COMPONENTS..

Left node: Boltgun. 120 rounds stored. No detectable damage. Loading mechanisms clear.
Right node: Manipulator limb. Grip strength 87% listed maximum. Joints need lubrication.
Shoulder node: Radar array. Signal strength 99%. Communications responsive.

CHECKING SENSORY COMPONENTS..

Pressure sensors indicate torso is constrained and feet are not on a solid surface.

Aural sensors volume at 20%. Continuous air on metal and electrical hum and intermittent metal on metal sounds detected.
Olfactory sensors detect oil at 13% saturation and iron at 3% saturation. All other components below significant levels.

Visual sensors detect 8% light saturation. In combination with data from other external sensors. There is a 82% match of current location with intra-vessel transport chamber records.

Threat assessment: Minimal.

Release from harness noted. Hatches release.

“Who are you?” queries astartes overseer.
Reply: “Epsilon Seven Nine, Infantry Combat Support Drone reporting for first deployment.”

“Right that way Nine,” directs astartes overseer.
Reply: "Affirmative."

 

Part V: Sacrisan

Hidden Content

My turn to lead. So that is what happens when your entire squad gets shot out from beside you by winged Eldar pirates. Or at least, what happens when you clip their wings and bring back their heads after the fact. Interesting.

My reverie is disturbed as I arrive to the deployment deck. Captain Wylo greets me “Hail Sacrisan. We have the rest of Squad Sacrisan ready for you. New recruits, need you to give them a crash course in the Tides ethos of war, only a half team on such short notice.”

“What is their history, Captain? Who am I dealing with?”

“Varies. They were distributed during the assimilation in order that they form new bonds to the Tide.”

“My squad joined wholesale, why are these different.”

“They did not join alongside their brothers or captains. Need to make sure their loyalty is to the right people. Keep an eye on them, make sure bickering is kept to a minimum.”

“Yes sir.”

“They are assembled in launch bay three, you have a stalker for today, you are to tie up loose ends and eliminate potential return threats.”

“So kill the ones who are weak or running away, I think I can handle that Captain.”

“Very good.”

As I walk into the bay I see four soldiers standing in front of me. All four have the Blood of Horus emblazoned freshly on their armour. One has modified his mostly black armour to fit his second right arm. He is carrying a bolter and three mismatched knives. Helmet in his hand, he looks young. “Name?”

“Trinit, sir.”

The second is in quartered red and white with minimal mutation. On his belt is a sharp dagger and in his hands is a flamer sporting a smiling mouth and dripping lolling tongue. “Name?”

“Kor’Sh’La.”

The third stood in light blue armour staring me straight in the eyes. Definitely one to watch out for. His armour looks pristine save for what looks like the recent scouring of imperial icons. A power sword hangs from his hip. “New to the cause I see, name?”

“Accuser.” Breaking his gaze feels good, although I imagine he is still trying to bore a hole in my skull with it.

The fourth is much taller, mostly bionics. Its bolter is built into its right arm and comms-vox pokes out from the back of his silvery frame. “Name?”

“Epsilon Seven Nine, Combat Support Drone.” Interesting, a machine. hopefully it is as functional as it appears to be.

I pull out a map before saying, “My name is Sacrisan, formerly of the Yellow Song, now of the Tide of Blood. Today we will be making planetfall behind enemy lines in the stalker model drop pod you see behind you. Our job is simple, we need to prevent anyone from escaping the battle site through this wooded path here. Together with that thing, our job should be fairly simple, take out anyone who gets nearby, and report any confusion to Captain Wylo. Additionally, I will be teaching you about our battlecant and other such topics in order to integrate you into the Tide. Are you ready to deploy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, I say as we strap into the pod. “Now your first lesson is about the red pylons….

[Scourged]

So what did Salazar hear? You can't leave us hanging like that, it's just not fair.

I can, and I will! Besides, nothing I could possibly come up with would ever make for a good enough ending. I tried a few ideas, and hated them all. None of you will ever know what Salazar heard, or if Telioch survives Tzeentch's Labyrinth, or any other cliffhanger I come up with. Muahahaha!

[Kierdale]

Of boy and beast

Hidden Content

On the hiveworld of Phenora-6

Duke Epres had thought it a ludicrously high price when he had struck the deal with the Exalted Fecund fixer. Members of the debauched cult had infiltrated his own wicked parties and, in time, had opened his mind (and body) to a wide variety of deliciously evil experiences. They had taken the powerful noble to a point and shown him what more they could provide him with, what more tastes and sensations he could indulge in...at a cost.

His newborn son.

The duke, a muscular man by heritage who kept himself fit via riding, duels and the whipping of his slaves (he preferred the personal touch), had almost torn the masked fixer limb from limb for his effrontery. But he was in too deep. He was too hungry for more and this hunger eclipsed concerns about the future of his bloodline.

When his concubine -a present from that fell cult- had provided him with a second boy while his spouse had proven to have gone barren, his conscience had been assuaged. The death of his wife had seen the concubine become the mother of both his sons and she had cared for them well. The older, Zephane, she made sure was well fed, exercised and adequately educated; at the age of eight he was the very vision of his father and excelled at sports. The younger, Nilunte, was raised to take over the family businesses: while he was slight of body he was sharp of mind.

At the age of nine they came for Zephane. Duke Epres had struck the first of the cultists, a backhand across the cur’s mouth shattering the jaw and scattering teeth across the mosaic-floored hallway, before honouring his agreement and bidding his firstborn go with the cloaked men.

To his great surprise he saw his oldest son once again not more than six months later. Attending one of the cult’s orgiastic festivals, he deigned to watch a pit fight only to recognize one of the combatants as his own boy. Not yet into double digits, the youth circled another child of a similar age, both clad in naught but loincloths, armed with short blades and had glyph-decorated bucklers strapped to their other arms. He looked with horror at the scars crisscrossing the once-perfect flesh of his son and was about to stand - to flee or to beg for Zephane’s life he did not know - when the boy had deftly parried the other’s blade and sunk his own into his opponent’s neck. The duke’s shock was replaced with a terrible rush of adrenaline and pride. At his concubine’s touch, he sat once more and studied the warrior who his son had become.

 

Hundreds more like Zephane Epres were adopted by, born into or abducted by the Exalted Fecund on the dozens of worlds the cult had spread to both before and after the fall of Fulcrum. They became the pawns of the damned sect, from simple guards and enforcers to gladiators, courtesans, catamites and more. And every so often, the Psychopomps would call upon the faithful to offer up their most promising.

 

Unnamed helworld, Eye of Terror

The firmament was rent by the angry roar of god and the tribe wheeled toward where their deity’s trident had struck the earth. It was a good omen. Their quarry was close.

The tribe’s shaman threw back his head and brayed at the heavens, thrusting his staff aloft, the jumble of amulets, teeth, bones and talismans swinging from its tip. The Children of Chaos joined their seer’s cry and hammered their weapons of wood and bone upon their hidebound shields before setting off on the hunt once more.

A star had been sighted and the shaman, Ku’gul, - a truegor it was said - had roused the tribe, saying that it was a good omen. Their leader, the Bovigor Keng’ugo had asked the bray shaman if it was the Skywarriors.

The Bringers of Death.

Young Lor-ib thought it a curious name for those towering warriors (he had never actually seen them for they came to the tribe’s World but once every century but he was a smart kid and kept his ears open when the elders talked around the campfire) as he was told they brought captive Men whom they released upon the World. It was one such man-tribe they now hunted. Some had been upon the World since The Beginning and now their childrens’ childrens’ children lived on the purple-grassed plains. Some even had weapons - `rifles`, Lor-ib had heard they were called - which could lay one of the Children of Chaos low from distances far greater than a bow. It was said that these `rifles` were fed by magical boxes which drew their strength from fire. The Children feared these weapons and destroyed them when they found them. Bone and wood, these were the stuff of real weapons. Taken from the living: animals and trees. These were weapons one could trust.

Ku’gul had said it was not the bringers of death, though he felt that they were near. They would come soon. A Truegor, all believed him, for the Dark Prince spoke through him. Such was evident by his red and blue eyes and the mutations of his loins.

 

Some said that the tribes called themselves the Children of Chaos because their ancestors were the offspring of the Deathbringers and the Q’tlahs’itsu’aksho, who had coupled madly upon the blessed earth of World hundreds of cycles before. Other tribes said that was not so, that they were the true Children of the Four. While the Q’tlahs’itsu’aksho were the Dark Prince’s servants, the Deathbringers were his warriors, the tribes of World were his true offspring. For were they not born in his image?

 

Swift of hoof, Lor-ib ran with the tribe’s scouts, his sling as always in his hand, and was the first to find the spur tree. Withered, with tough bark - indeed some of the tribe wore armour fashioned from it - spur trees were hardy plants with twisted limbs from which sprouted long spines. When Lor-ib had looked at one as a child, bending over to look back at it between his legs, it had reminded him of the light-trident of god, as if frozen in time.

But he did no such play-things this time, for he was nine years of age now. Almost old enough to join the scouts proper. And what they found upon the tree froze them, both child and seasoned hunters

There were many breeds of the Children of Chaos. The most numerous were Caprigors with their fine pairs of horns, sometimes even two pairs if truly blessed. There were the hulking Bovigors, stubborn and strong. Like Keng’ugo they held their positions and took their large shares via might. Then there were the Ungors, myriad were these Childen, lacking the might of the Bovigors and the fine horns of the Caprigors. There were also Turnskins: those Men who underwent the Change. The tribes rarely came across Turnskins as the Men usually killed them as soon as the Change began. Those who did manage to escape usually killed themselves, starved or went mad. Those few who were found by the tribes were welcomed.

Then there were Gaves: Children born to Men parents.

The body they found skewered upon the spur tree was a Gave. Not more than a week old, its mother-tube cut roughly. Lor-ib put down his sling and reached up with a shaking hand as if to stroke the horn buds upon the poor infant’s brow. Ali’hon, the head scout and an old Caprigor whose eyes were still as sharp as a hawk’s, batted the youth’s hand away with his own clawed appendage, “Never put down your weapon, kid. Only in death,” and gently pried the small body from the tree, muttering prayers to the Dark Prince before wrapping it in the fabric of his cloak.

Lor-ib could see the tears in Ali’hon’s eyes and turned at the sound of the rest of the tribe arriving at a fast trot. Ha’chubb, the newest scout and only a year older than Lor-ib himself, explained what they had found and a murmur went about the tribe. The Men nomads were close, that much was evident, and they would pay for their killing of the blessed young.

 

Two days later the tribe came upon the Men, Ku’gul having consumed the Gave child in order to discern the location of its sire. They were not long on the World, as much was evident from their dress and the stench of panic and desperation upon them. Less than six months, Ali’hon judged as he hefted his atlatl. Then the child must have been blessed while still within its mother’s belly. They said that the young were looked upon more favourably by the Dark Prince and the three Others, damned be their names.

Keng’ugo had pushed Lor-ib back, telling him it was not a fight for kids, until Ali’hon had stood up for him.

“Old one,” the Bovigor had snorted, “this not fight for young or old. Best you and kid stay with females?”

Ali’hon had raised his proud head and strode past the chieftain, pulling Lor-ib’s long hair so the kid followed too, fumbling to fit a stone from his pouch into his sling.

 

It had not been a fight for the young or the old. Ha’chubb had been struck down by one of the Men `rifles`, the bolt of red light catching him full in the face and burning away the face Lor-ib had both looked up to and seen as a rival all his life. And Ha’chubb had not been the only of the Children lain low in that dawn raid.

But the tribe had been victorious.

More Men lay in the purple grass and upon the red soil than Children and those who had fallen - on both sides - would replenish the living. Bones for weapons, armour, garments and decorations. Meat for meat. The young Men, too old to take up arms, would be adopted by the tribe. Most would likely not survive. Some would be blessed with the Change. And a few of the Men had been females. These would be divided up between the best of the tribe and in time the tribe would swell. Lor-ib smiled, for they would need new scouts and new warriors to replace those who had fallen. He watched the female Men dragged away and thought when it would be his time. Next year? Next raid?

 

That very night the light had fallen from the heavens and They had arrived. Not bringers of death, but guides of death, for the journey ahead of those chosen would be as if they had died. The majority were taken to serve the towering armoured warriors - and through them beloved Slaanesh himself! - as warriors, servants and more. All would, in good time, willingly give their lives for the Prince of Chaos. They would learn too that time passed differently off the planet they had known as World - and they would learn from the One with Two Faces that their World was but one blessed globe within the terrible void, and that there were countless more globes awaiting the touch of Slaanesh.

While to the Children it seemed that They came but once every four hundred seasons, from the point of view of the Psychopomps - for that was their true name - they visited far more frequently, and found time raced there. Thus they did not loiter.

The serpent-bodied one and the corpulent one upon the many-legged litter of flesh called out the young of the tribe to show themselves. At a nod from Ali’hon, Lor-ib stepped forth alongside two dozen of his peers; most older than he, a few younger.

They later learned that the serpent-bodied one - they prostrated themselves before one so blessed - had the Sight just as Ku’gul did. More-so in fact, for Holusiax’s ability to harness the powers of the Sea of Souls was far stronger than that of the old shaman. And the one carried upon a palanquin whose bearers’ bodies melded with the vehicle itself and yet more servants were linked to it via chains piercing their bodies, was a mage of a different kind: for it was he who would experiment upon Lor-ib.

 

 

 

Psychopomp flagship, Charon

Apothecarium

 

Two bodies lay upon slabs as large and cold as catafalques. But these were no corpses, rather they were undergoing surgeries which would elevate them from mortals. No longer would disease predate upon them. Hardly would they age. Their transformed bodies would be proof against all but the most horrific of injuries. Their senses heightened to prehensile levels. These were but some of the gifts chief apothecary Polus intended to grant them. Damned biotechnology, distilled - perhaps diluted was a better term - from the very genetic templates of the Primarchs over ten thousand years prior. Had not their creation involved power stolen from the Gods of Chaos? And now that technology was used by the fallen sons of the Emperor to create more of their own.

Within the apothecarium the corpulent Polus was carried not upon his vast palanquin but upon the backs of two thralls whom his surgeries had joined and molded into a mount for his overgrown form. He was surrounded by half a dozen medical thralls who kept their distance while the master was at work, unless he motioned to them. Each was as ready to expose one of their own veins as they were to swab an incision upon one of the potentials. Each too had felt Polus’ less than tender ministrations.

Retracting the servo arms which hung from the ceiling, terminating in the tools of his careful, precise yet bloody trade, Polus looked over the two forms upon the slabs: cables and wires snaking from their young bodies to myriad machines and apparatuses about the room. The body to his left, homo sapiens sapiens, Zephane Epres his name was, was taking to the implants well. He was a strong boy, clearly accustomed to violence as the scars upon his muscled body were proof. Accustomed and a master of, for he had survived a great deal of duels in the cult pits, Polus had been told by the fixer Anansi.

He then looked to the other. He held no ill will nor looked down upon homo sapiens variatus - no more than he did other mortals, and that this one was of a breed devoted to the Dark Prince indeed elevated it above the masses - but it had taken Holusiax many hours to convince Polus to accept the young beastman and attempt the surgeries again.

Again, as this was not the first attempt.

Polus remembered vividly the uncontrolled mutations which had wracked the body of the first. They had, it seemed, been triggered by the implanting of the ossmodula. Before his very eyes, before he had even sutured the incision closed, the youth had gone into convulsions before great spurs of bone began to erupt from his pale pink flesh as if at random. Waves of growth had swept up and down the youth’s limbs, bone extruding uncontrollably, wildly. Polus’ carnifex had ended what had no doubt been quite exquisite agony. Accordingly Polus had this new prospective hooked up to the Infernal Engine: if the attempt failed then Polus too would feel the torment of the beastman as his body tore itself apart. Waste not, want not.

It had, he surmised, been a reaction of the Slaangor’s mutant genes with the ossmodula, the latter programmed for only the finest human specimens. Members of the Psychopomps had undergone blessed mutation - himself included! - but all had done so after becoming Astartes. This he had explained to the snake-bodied sorcerer but Holusiax had insisted. The catafalque beneath Lor-ib’s body was hand etched with orison to Slaanesh, hundreds upon hundreds of lines carved by the sorcerer’s own four hands around an even more detailed carving: the shape of the Prince’s icon upon the bed’s hard surface under positions corresponding to the youth’s Anahata and Manipura.

 

 

Polus paused after cutting the fine thread. That small, tubular hormonal organ the ossmodula was now within the Slaangor’s body. And all was well.

He looked, nay stared at the beastman, cords of silver snaking from the Sahasrara and Ajna points upon his hairy head to the Infernal Engine and from that to similar points upon Polus’ own scalp. A part of him wanted the beastman youth to erupt in beautiful, hideous, uncontrollable mutations so that he too might feel every mote, every iota of his torment.

He watched the gentle breathing of the two potentials, their chests rising and falling. Would they survive the rest of the implants? And if so, what fate would befall them within the chapter? This the other part of him pondered upon.

Zephane - if either kept their mortal names - would likely be a fine warrior but would he strive for the Prince’s blessings? Would he aspire for championhood? He would have to be well tutored.

And Lor-ib? He would be an icon, an idol to not only his fellow Astartes - to have yet another so clearly touched by Slaanesh within their ranks, truly they were chosen! But also to the cults: the Exalted Fecund and the tribes of the Children of Chaos whom he had come from.

Polus nodded to himself and reached out a hand, a cryocask containing biscopea dutifully placed into his open palm by one of his thralls.

[Warsmith Aznable]

A Gift For A Gift

 

On a feudal world forgotten by time, the falling star was the omen that year's Harvest Festival would be special. Many did not believe, but it was tradition, and the folk gathered from miles around for the traditional "greeting of the gods" celebration as the sun went down on the day before. Even those superstitious few who did believe were surprised when the big men emerged from the forest, crunching through the autumn leaves amid the early evening mist.

 

They moved into the village in a solemn, funereal procession, cloaked in the colours of the turning season. They wore masks, both frightening and comical, just as the children of the villages made with careful excitement every year for the pre-Festival night of mischief. The dirge they sang was mournful and their movements were precise, and the villagers drew back with fear as they passed through the gates and beyond the walls.

 

They walked along the streets and among the people, and their stiff movements became exaggerated and capering, the lyrics of their funeral dirge gradually became replaced with the subversive, naughty versions that the children of the villages sang to each other when they believed the adults would not know.

 

Then came the gifts. Small, excellently crafted knives and other everyday tools of fine iron were pressed into the hands of the villager men. Delicate, decorative objects for the home, and articles of clothing that were sturdy yet pleasing to the eye were draped across the shoulders and arms of the women. The children received seasoned meats and candied fruit, expertly hand-crafted into comical versions of the baleful spirits said to roam the forests and haunt the barrows at this time of year. The hollowed out horn of a great beast was carried by one of the big, masked men, and he offered a pull of the warm, spicy drink to everyone who caught his eye.

 

The fear and trepidation of the villagers melted away, and they joined the big men in the processional dance. Long into the night, as the black of night and the orange glow of the bonfire in the village square fought back and forth for supremacy, the revelry continued with an increasingly fae and unearthly atmosphere.

 

When the daylight returned, so too did the fear of the old gods. The rich smelling earth was splashed with bright red blood, and the bones of freshly slaughtered beasts, scraps of muscle and tendon still clinging to them, were arranged in runic patterns in the grey, smoldering ashes of the previous night's bonfire. Four of the elders were found with their throats slashed, strung up in place of the scarecrows in the corn fields just outside the village walls. When the grieving villagers tried to remove them, they saw the damning mutations that the old men had defied the common law to hide, and left them to rot.

 

The wailing of a dozen women confirmed the worst in the minds of the villagers. Children were missing. Smart lads, strong lads, those who had just begun to hunt with their fathers. Their mothers had found nothing of them that morning but their discarded masks and bags of uneaten treats. Each family of a missing boy had a mark upon their door, painted in blood, and forty-nine pieces of silver laid at the entrance.

 

So the tales had come down through the generations, and so they would carry on for generations, but who that had not been there that night would believe such tales meant to frighten the young?

[Teetengee]

I can't wait to read everyones, I still have 2 parts left to go on mine though, so I won't have time until after the judging session.

EDIT: DONE!

[Thedarkprincesnun]

The New Retribution

Sarkal stood there pus streaming down from his eye socket. His armour rusted and coroded yet you could still see the green beneath it. His left arm held a gaping wound were.once had been a shoulder pad but now the decay had.eaten it away and eaten through flesh muscle.and bone. In his right hand he held his force sword a dark blade with entropy running along it. On his back was a dark brown bamner made from the hide of a xeno beast at the top.of it was 3 human skulls joined together.

 

It had beem 7 days previously.that they had assaulted the world of Tertias V. Their objective had been to assault the cities which contained orphanages, to steal the orphans from within and murder all the nurses and nuns who looked after the children within. That however had only beem part of the plan, through all the decay and entropy the grand father had sent him a vison which showed him that if he sent 70 cultists to the world they would be able to assault the hospitals of the world and steal the new borns within.

 

He chuckled at the rather cruel memory of the vison, once he had hope that things would be different that the imperium of man could survive. Yet on the rotten world of Viloria the cult priests there had shown him.differently and while he ordered his brothers to slaughter them as they layed him low with a foul plague he began to feel the plague infect him and awaken his psychic powers further than they had before. All he had to do was give himself to the Grandfather and he would become immune to the pain.

 

a smile came across his face as he remembered those days. The awakening which had been given to him and then the majority of the rest of the chapter would soon be given to those they had stolen off the world below.

[EesiOh]

I decided to abstain from this weeks challenge as I could not find a way to make any of my numerous chaos aligned forces have a truly unique recruiting drive. As such I decided it would be more noble to post nothing rather than bore you with my lack of creativity :P

cant wait to see the new challenge though 

[Teetengee]

All I will say on Salazar's beautiful story: Empire of Ultramar.

Also, I really love the mix of themes going through Aznables.

[Kierdale]

Thanks all for your entries on the topic of `Replenishments (AKA New Meat)`. We had some excellent entries, detailing the creation of renegade astartes from mortal humans (and an abhuman, possibly) and the turning of loyal sons of the Emperor.

Carrack gave us the story of Puppy Spit, who left his tribe to become a man and upon returning became that much more: Keeper of the Black Maw. A good, solid story showing that the Black Maw made its own renegade astartes as well as turning loyalists, and gave us an insight into the trials the former go through.

Scourged told us an excellent story of Praetors of Orpheus lured aboard an abandoned cruiser only to be abducted by daemonic servants of the Scourged and, stripped of their armour and weapons, they were exposed to all the lies in the galaxy, by the corrupt chaplain Sinschal’ul Bhuramas. I found the way Bhuramas turned the loyalists to be extremely good, that not all turned was a good touch, and the untold secret discovered by Salazar, that really was the icing on the cake.

Teetengee gave us the story of not one, not two nor three but four converts to the Tide of Blood! A cultist facing an alien(?) monster, a loyalist astarte, a rival chaos space marine beaten and offered a position within the warband and finally a combat automata.

Warsmith Aznable’s A gift for a gift was an excellent tale of unnamed astartes descending upon a low-tech settlement, joining their harvest festival to hand out gifts to both the old and the young only to by dawn string up any mutants they found and abduct the strongest lads, leaving silver pieces in payment.

I told you of a youth taken from his noble father by cultists in payment for introducing the senior to darker and baser acts, and of a young Slaangor tribesman whom one of the Psychopomps insisted be subjected to the processes which create an astartes. Whether either survived we may someday see...

And finally in Thedarkprincesnun’s The New Retribution we read of astartes loyal to grandfather Nurgle assaulting the world of Tertias IV not for conquest but in order to raid orphanages and steal away the young within.

And now to choose our winner for this week. Firstly I’d like to say that length does not necessarily mean quality, though I fully understand that sometimes one simply cannot get all those ideas out satisfactorily without going into several pages of A4 (some of my own mammoth IF entries last year were probably hell for poor Tenebris to read!). Our winner’s entry was long, but I do not feel that a single word was wasted for each helped to build up the story and make it more believable.

Step forward Scourged and claim your reward!

Warsmith Aznable’s entry was a most timely one with its harvest festival, for here begins the next challenge...

Chaos Halloween

It is that time of year again and, while the 31^st will not fall within this week, I’d like to see everyone’s horror-themed entries this week. Last year we had some excellent pieces. So come on, scare me.

The challenge runs until October 30^th.

Let us be inspired horrified...

[Kierdale]

???????

Kretham cursed as he slid down the slope of rubble within the ruined manufactorum and knocked Nerop from his perch. The heavy bolter gunner cursed his squadmate’s poor footing and the two pulled themselves to their feet and resumed their positions, Kretham almost slipping again and finally moving along to a section of balcony where footing was better. Zenetar, the squad’s leader, cursed under his breath and went back to keeping his vigil over the street outside. The squad weren’t to move unless it was essential. Their position had been designated as an objective and it wouldn’t please the commander if Zenetar and his men retreated.

Intel indicated there was a small force of Eldar out there; not only craftworlders but also their darker, piratical kin. He cursed again that his squad had to face such a dangerous combination. Still, his squad and the other Black Legionnaires were a force forged in battle. How could veterans of the Long War fail against the degenerate xenos foe?

A third curse was directed at the fog which cloaked the battlefield and kept visibility down to less than a hundred meters. The sky too was hidden behind mist and a few times now the legionnaires had glimpsed huge, dark shadows moving though the mists. Eldar titans? He shuddered at the thought and cursed his commander. This was supposed to be a small mission, nothing on such an apocalyptic scale. He gave a prayer to the Chaos Gods, though wished it was one of them as much as he wished for Eldar titans. Where the Gods directed their attention was likely to be a very dangerous place indeed...

There was movement across and up the street accompanied by the hum of a skimmer and the renegade marines could see, through the ruins, a wave serpent settling down and seconds later a squad of Dire Avengers were disgorged, taking up positions within the ruins. The skimmer still had its energy field up; the swirling shield would be proof against almost anything the squad could throw against it. Penetrating its armour would be impossible.

Zenetar swore again when, as anticipated, the wave serpent peppered their position with scatter laser fire before unleashing its field: the wave of power ripping across the street toward them, ignoring the cover of their ruins. kretham had been closest and though his armour held against the first few hits, it soon buckled and before he knew it Kretham and Nerop were dead on their backs. He knew he should have positioned the heavy bolter gunner further back! Thanks only to Zenetar’s leadership the squad held position.

Then it was the turn of the Chaos space marines to go on the offensive.

Zenetar looked as one of the warband’s squads of Havocs fired upon the Eldar transport with their lascannons to no avail. Losing his cool, Zenetar swore to the heavens, for surely the warband had been cursed, “Die, Gods!”

He flexed his powerfist and momentarily doubted the commander’s wisdom in having armed him with it, for he was powerful enough to kill the xenos without it, and with the clumbersome gauntlet he would be striking after them no matter what.

With an angry roar and the clunk of his high back-banner catching on the doorframe he led his remaining squad mates out of the building and into the street. It was only lightly scattered with debris but somehow they found the going tough and barely made it a few meters before the Eldar seemed to be moving again. The Dire Avengers, confident that their transport could finish Zenetar’s squad, diverted their attention to the Havocs, dashing out into the street before unleashing a volley of shurikens from their catapults and then, like the swift bastards they were, retreating back into the building they had come from.

Zenetar hung his head as the wave serpent fired once more. He did not even try to go to ground, knowing seeking cover to be fruitless. As the hits piled up on him and his squad it was as if the heavy weights of fate fell about them and he looked up, his body broken, his armour shattered, as a great hand descended through the clouds and through the mist. The Gods had found him wanting and had come for him.

He cried out at the injustice of the galaxy as he was lifted, and screamed as he was placed back within his cell of foam.

Okay, so that wasn't a particularly serious one . Still, any suggestions for a good name will be considered

[Thedarkprincesnun]

the heart of chaos

Deep.within the great eye there is a legend, that somewhere within its never ending mysteries, among the endless sea of souls and those damned by turning to the dark gods. Those same very souls which fuel the never born. Among all of this chaos is rumored to be a place at the heart of all chaos.

 

It is said that here within this maelstrom of torment death despair and change that any "fortunate " soul who finds its way here will suffer the most unimaginable horrors from the dark wastes where souls will be torn apart by mechanical terrors to the den of woe where putrid beasts of nurgle reside. Further still to the cursed fields where those unfortunate souls who reach here will be torn apart tortured and slowly devoured by the dark prince. Even the daemons of the other dark gods do not wish to end up here for these fields are so cursed that some believe even the greatest of the greater daemons would not be able to escape.

 

Even more horryfying is the twisted canopies of Svalgar. Here the trees twisted by the power of change to many who make it here they feel it is a safe haven for the followers of the lord of change however while it is by the great emchanters power that this forest first became so twisted the daemons of nurgle.habe begun to infest the forest causing it to.slowly.die away.

 

While those souls devoted to the changer would be tormented by so many differing versions of the future, visons of things which may come or could of come to pass the forces of the great grandfather nail those souls unfortunate to come into the neck of the woods to the trees leaving them to.slowly rot and fade away. Those who have a strong enough will to survive suffer a much worse fate for they can never find no release.

 

The final part of the legendary heart of chaos is the killing ground. Once the realm of a ancient warlord upon his ascension to Daemonhood his kingdom was dragged directly into the warp. For millenia it floated through the realm.of chaos, not only the forces of the gods battling over it but the forces of that warlord seeking to reclaim their land. Eventually it ended up within the heart of chaos and became part of it. Now as each day dawns in the materium a new battle begins on the killing lands those slain.previously rise again many of them missing limbs some even missing their head. Each day they rise to battle once more even those daemons of the other dark.gods find themselves forced to.rise again and fight for the Blood Gods pleasure.

 

Even more horrifying if that was even possible is the fact that on the day some call saimhain, on other worlds known as All Hallows Eve or on some worlds simply as Halloween the day when the veil between the warp and reality any world unfortunate enough to be caught in the pull of one of the 4 areas will find their world umder daemonic assault. These incursions are prehaps the most horrifying due to the fact that the daemons which pour forth from.the warp will.inflict the cruellest most unimaginable horrors onto.any world unfortunate enough to have them.unleashed up on it.

[Carrack]

Halloween gets a Chaos Challenge, yet what about Mother's Day? Surely they have cards, flowers, and brunch in the Eye of Terror.

 

A Mother's Love

 

 

 

The Bottoms. That's what they called -66 Level. It wasn't the true bottom of Calebra Hive, that wasn't really known anymore, but it was the highest level not completely flooded out with sewage and waste water. In the social strata of Calebra Hive, The Bottoms was as low as you could go. Brains had made The Bottoms his home since that fateful night his father had wrenched him from his mother's breast and carried him down here. As cruel as his father had been, he didn't have the heart to outright kill him. Instead he placed him on a relatively dry mound of cardboard and left. Even though Brains was naught but a few weeks old, he still remembered seeing his father turn once with tearful eyes and then disappear back up the ladder. Brains remembered everything. He had been fully conscious when he was still in his mother's womb. Something was wrong with his monstrously oversized head. He could even plumb the depths of his genetic code and draw fragments of memories from ancestors 16 generations removed. Brains knew it had broken his mother's and father's hearts to abandon their miracle baby, their baby that had been born to a supposedly barren womb. He didn't blame them, he knew they couldn't raise a freak like him in the mid-hive. They couldn't raise a mutant.

 

Brains's first years were the hardest. In spite of his powerful mind, he lacked the strength and coordination to care for himself. The denizens of The Bottoms were not known for their compassion, or their parental instincts. But Brains had been about as lucky as a mutie could get, perhaps it wasn't luck, maybe it was an early manifestation of powers that would develop as he grew of age. He had been "adopted" by Spider. Spider was a nice enough fellow, once you got past the horrifying face similar to his namesake, but Spider needed to feed on blood. So he cared for Brains, not in an unkind manner either, but once every several days, there would be, the biting. It was painful at first, but Spider's saliva acted as an anesthetic, and the pain would fade. The ensuing sickness was mostly gone in time for the next biting.

 

As a few years passed and Brains's vocal cords and pallet developed to the point where he could be understood, the true nature of his gifts became apparent to his foster father. In typical Bottom dweller fashion, Spider put Brains to work counting cards at games of chance. Brains was clever though, he never let on what he was doing, and the other muties of The Bottom eventually figured Spider was cheating. When they came for their revenge, Brains was ignored as an innocent child. But Brains had been careful to stash their winnings in various hiding spots. He inherited a small fortune from his adoptive father.

 

Brains had plans all along on what would come after life with Spider. He used his fortune to procure a child sized environmental suit capable of withstanding the pressure of the depths of the under-hive. With memories plumbed from his great-great-great grandfather, who had worked as a janitor for the Adeptus Mechanicus forge-post much deeper than -66, he began salvaging recyclables, and other valuables that his ancestor had seen on his submarine commutes. Before long, Brains no longer made dives himself, he had others working on commission. By the time of his 13th birthday, Brains ruled a small kingdom of muties in The Bottom. That is when his other gifts started to noticeably manifest.

 

In the same manor that he fished memories from his genetic code, Brains started to be able to remember things he and his ancestors had never experienced. At first it was vague impressions of areas and people that he had neither visited nor met, but soon he learned to focus on these impressions and catch glimpses of the place or person. By the time he was 25, he was able to direct these glimpses to check on rivals, underlings, and possible salvage sites. His kingdom grew and prospered. But his dreams were haunted.

 

What haunted Brains's dreams was love. Love was rare in The Bottom to begin with, but for a powerful king, near impossible to find. Certainly many sought his affections, but all who did were after his wealth, his prestige, his security in a hostile world. The only true love that Brains had ever known, was that during the few weeks he had spent in his mother's arms. Brains longed to return to his mother, and even wished to thank his father for sparing his life, and to forgive him for abandoning him in The Bottom. But Brains could not leave his kingdom of sewage, for he would surely be burnt as a mutant by the rabid zealots of the Imperium. He had to stay where the Imperium did not reach, and hide like all the others when the Mechanicus made their infrequent trips to that deep forge-post.

 

However, war had come to Calebra Hive, like it did to every world sooner or later. Armies of mutants not much different than those of The Bottom were conquering their way down and up from The Ground, and their human allies seemed to tolerate their presence, unlike the humans of the hive. Brains knew that now was his chance to climb up the hive and finally be able to once again bask in his mother's love. He assembled his kingdom's army, and started the climb.

 

[EesiOh]

Halloween gets a Chaos Challenge, yet what about Mother's Day? Surely they have cards, flowers, and brunch in the Eye of Terror.

 

A Mother's Love

 

 

 

The Bottoms. That's what they called -66 Level. It wasn't the true bottom of Calebra Hive, that wasn't really known anymore, but it was the highest level not completely flooded out with sewage and waste water. In the social strata of Calebra Hive, The Bottoms was as low as you could go. Brains had made The Bottoms his home since that fateful night his father had wrenched him from his mother's breast and carried him down here. As cruel as his father had been, he didn't have the heart to outright kill him. Instead he placed him on a relatively dry mound of cardboard and left. Even though Brains was naught but a few weeks old, he still remembered seeing his father turn once with tearful eyes and then disappear back up the ladder. Brains remembered everything. He had been fully conscious when he was still in his mother's womb. Something was wrong with his monstrously oversized head. He could even plumb the depths of his genetic code and draw fragments of memories from ancestors 16 generations removed. Brains knew it had broken his mother's and father's hearts to abandon their miracle baby, their baby that had been born to a supposedly barren womb. He didn't blame them, he knew they couldn't raise a freak like him in the mid-hive. They couldn't raise a mutant.

 

Brains's first years were the hardest. In spite of his powerful mind, he lacked the strength and coordination to care for himself. The denizens of The Bottoms were not known for their compassion, or their parental instincts. But Brains had been about as lucky as a mutie could get, perhaps it wasn't luck, maybe it was an early manifestation of powers that would develop as he grew of age. He had been "adopted" by Spider. Spider was a nice enough fellow, once you got past the horrifying face similar to his namesake, but Spider needed to feed on blood. So he cared for Brains, not in an unkind manner either, but once every several days, there would be, the biting. It was painful at first, but Spider's saliva acted as an anesthetic, and the pain would fade. The ensuing sickness was mostly gone in time for the next biting.

 

As a few years passed and Brains's vocal cords and pallet developed to the point where he could be understood, the true nature of his gifts became apparent to his foster father. In typical Bottom dweller fashion, Spider put Brains to work counting cards at games of chance. Brains was clever though, he never let on what he was doing, and the other muties of The Bottom eventually figured Spider was cheating. When they came for their revenge, Brains was ignored as an innocent child. But Brains had been careful to stash their winnings in various hiding spots. He inherited a small fortune from his adoptive father.

 

Brains had plans all along on what would come after life with Spider. He used his fortune to procure a child sized environmental suit capable of withstanding the pressure of the depths of the under-hive. With memories plumbed from his great-great-great grandfather, who had worked as a janitor for the Adeptus Mechanicus forge-post much deeper than -66, he began salvaging recyclables, and other valuables that his ancestor had seen on his submarine commutes. Before long, Brains no longer made dives himself, he had others working on commission. By the time of his 13th birthday, Brains ruled a small kingdom of muties in The Bottom. That is when his other gifts started to noticeably manifest.

 

In the same manor that he fished memories from his genetic code, Brains started to be able to remember things he and his ancestors had never experienced. At first it was vague impressions of areas and people that he had neither visited nor met, but soon he learned to focus on these impressions and catch glimpses of the place or person. By the time he was 25, he was able to direct these glimpses to check on rivals, underlings, and possible salvage sites. His kingdom grew and prospered. But his dreams were haunted.

 

What haunted Brains's dreams was love. Love was rare in The Bottom to begin with, but for a powerful king, near impossible to find. Certainly many sought his affections, but all who did were after his wealth, his prestige, his security in a hostile world. The only true love that Brains had ever known, was that during the few weeks he had spent in his mother's arms. Brains longed to return to his mother, and even wished to thank his father for sparing his life, and to forgive him for abandoning him in The Bottom. But Brains could not leave his kingdom of sewage, for he would surely be burnt as a mutant by the rabid zealots of the Imperium. He had to stay where the Imperium did not reach, and hide like all the others when the Mechanicus made their infrequent trips to that deep forge-post.

 

However, war had come to Calebra Hive, like it did to every world sooner or later. Armies of mutants not much different than those of The Bottom were conquering their way down and up from The Ground, and their human allies seemed to tolerate their presence, unlike the humans of the hive. Brains knew that now was his chance to climb up the hive and finally be able to once again bask in his mother's love. He assembled his kingdom's army, and started the climb.

 

pretty sure using bits from your Assault On Calebra Hive story is cheating :P 

[Warsmith Aznable]

Meat for the Table

 

Hidden Content

“I don’t want to die-” -in a pointless, unwinnable fight. That’s what Brother Curwen was going to say. One of just ten tactical marines of his chapter available to answer this planet’s distress call, Brother Curwen did not see what his squad could do in this place that the battalions of retreating Imperial Guard could not.

Fall back with the Imperial Guard and advise their defense of the high ground surrounding the space port, then act as a rapid reaction force to bolster their lines, keep the enemy heavy weapons from laying a direct line of fire on the Landing Zone to keep the port open to receive the eventual reinforcements.

Those would have been better final words, but the bombs dropped by one of the Enemy’s high speed attack aircraft hadn’t given him the chance. It wasn’t the first time one had sped out of seemingly nowhere to loose destruction upon their lines, but in the target rich environment offered by the thousands of mortal soldiers and their heavy equipment the ten space marines hadn’t considered the probability of being hit high enough to give a second thought to.

Curwen’s world became the steel grey sky above him. The clouds were low and close, making darkness out of what should have been a bright midday. The grey expanse and the silence were his only companions for he knew not how long.

“I don’t want to die-” Flat on my back, unable to move. Brother Curwen thought groggily. His head felt light, but his body was heavy.

“I don’t want to die-” Pinned under a heavy piece of Guard equipment. Curwen would not let himself become angry or panic. There was something heavy on his chest and legs and arms, and he could no gain enough leverage to move it. His whole body felt numb, and he was glad there was no pain.

The heavy grey clouds let forth a gentle pattering of rain, and the only sound Curwen could hear was the fat drops of water tink tink tink-ing against the eye lenses of his helmet.

Shadows moved at the corner of his vision, and Brother Curwen strained to see. It was difficult to turn his head, maybe impossible. Everything was so heavy with his power armour systems without power.

Suddenly two figures loomed directly over Brother Curwen and he stopped trying to move. He had only seen them before from afar, but there was no mistaking the gold-trimmed orange and black colour scheme of the Enemy. Their helmets were painted white and molded into leering skull faces, and now two pairs of black eye lenses looked down at him.

Curwen wanted to hold his breath as their boltguns veered in his direction.

“Dumb luck, that’s what this is.”

They cannot see me.

“Direct hit, right on the Rhino.”

“What a mess.”

“What were the chances?”

“Dumb luck...”

“I don’t want to die-” At the mercy of Arch-Traitors. Curwen was still as the grave, and he prayed to the Emperor that he could free himself before he was noticed. He watched them carefully out of the corner of his eye, and wanted to breath a sigh of relief when the two traitor astartes finally disappeared into the darkness and the rain.

Tink.

Tink.

Tink-tink.

Tink.

He did not know how long it had been. He was surprised that he had forgotten to make another attempt to move his heavy arms and push the intense weight off his chest.

“Over here, my lord.”

“I don’t want to die-” Concussed so badly I can’t think straight. Brother Curwen thought for a moment that he should feel angry about this situation, but there was a strange calmness within him. The endless grey of the sky and the steady, soothing rhythm of the raindrops upon his helmet were oddly comforting. He had never once had this much time to just lay down, and despite his desperate situation he did not feel desperate at all.

More shapes floated at the edge of his vision. These were human, and they scampered and crawled about. Brother Curwen knew they were searching the bodies around him, scavenging the empty battlefield for what they could. Small and weak, he hoped they would not linger around the bulky, heavy equipment of the space marines long enough to discover him.

“I don’t want to die-” By the hand of such weak, deluded slaves of the corrupted. Brother Curwen didn’t know if that was anger or hate or pride.

“Interesting.”

Curwen felt cold and empty. The sound of that voice was of the personification of Inevitability.

“Bring this one.”

“I don’t want to die-”

Time had passed.

Brother Curwen did not remember a struggle, but he knew time had passed because his boundless grey sky was was now a sterile, white ceiling. A heavily chromed and painfully intense medical light floated where the system’s star should have hung in the sky.

“I don’t want to die-” In some crackpot’s laboratory.

“You are going to be fine.” The apothecary said in a neutral monotone, and moved about the small operating room putting his tools in order and wiping chemical spills clean and dry.

Curwen couldn’t move on the table. He guessed by the apothecary’s casual, easy demeanor that a combination of thick leather straps and powerful chemicals kept his perception foggy and his limbs immobile.

“I managed to save you.” The apothecary had an easy, familiar bedside manner.

“I don’t want to die-” Listening to the lies of the treasonous and insane.

“You are a big one.” The apothecary finished restoring order in his operating room and turned to look at Brother Curwen. He did not wear the colours of the Enemy Curwen had already seen. His power armour was a light, clinical green. Blood sprays and other wet splashes stained the front of his otherwise immaculate presentation, and as the apothecary leaned over Curwen he could see the pale skin stretched over gaunt, angular features set with cold, piercing eyes.

“Oh, yes.” The Enemy apothecary cooed in his harsh, clipped accent. “Such a sturdy one you are.”

“I don’t want to die-” While you prattle on like an idiot.

“No problems now, hey? Come on then, up you go.” The apothecary was ignorant or expert in ignoring the intense hatred and disdain Brother Curwen held for him and all of his renegade kind, apparently. He only smiled at Brother Curwen.

“I don’t want to die-”

Brother Curwen stopped thinking, stunned as his view of the room shifted. His power armour groaned, reactor leaking badly and servos straining under varying and inconstant impulse and energy.

“Here we go, my friend.” The apothecary took him by a hand and Brother Curwen was still speechless with confusion as he watched himself led out of the bright, sterile operating room, through a narrow bulkhead door, and into a dark, mildew stinking room.

“Go on then,” The apothecary pushed a rusty old boltgun into Brother Curwen’s numb fingers. “Go make friends and play. We will all go out together again soon.”

The apothecary with his sinister smile disappeared and Brother Curwen heard the hatch slam shut behind him.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the low levels of light, and a cramped living space came into focus. It was the kind that naval ratings shared, deep in the bowels of void ships, just enough room for two people to live if they worked different shifts and kept themselves heavily sedated with recreational drugs between port calls.

Other space marines were in the room, and Curwen had to concentrate very hard to look at them, to see the details.

“NNhhuuuhhrgh!” Brother Curwen tried to scream, but only the inarticulate rattle of stale air forced its out of the jagged hole in his throat.

The five other space marines crammed standing-room only into the tight quarters with him listlessly turned their mutilated faces and empty eyes toward the sound.

Curwen took a step backward and heard his backpack hit the heavy iron door behind him. He tried to turn to work the latch, and in the dim light he looked over the sanitary station at the small, dirty mirror above the sink.

I WANT TO DIE!

I WANT TO DIE!

I WANT TO DIE!

I WANT TO DIE!

I WANT TO DIE!

I WANT TO DIE!

I WANT TO DIE!

But he never would, not again.

 

For visual reference, see this entry in my project log.

[Dammeron]

Abandon

 

 

Abandon

 

“You are...exquisite.”

 

Ecstasy, excoriation; acid pumping through his veins, actinic pain searing nerves, skin torn and re-sewn like fabric, flesh sculpted like clay. He was canvas; the one he called Father the artist; more inspired than any in the long, futile history of humanity.

 

Chemicals of alien conception surged through his system, enhancing sensation, allowing him to see and hear and feel in ways that not even The Living Art's blessings had yet equalled. The chains and flesh-hooks threaded through his arms, shoulders and back; the stretched-taught extremis of his own skin...pain beyond all dream or desire, his surrender to it; the sweet violation, a fertilising rain upon the garden of his mind, contexts proliferating like weeds with every new burn or cut; every fresh experience. Transcendence through transgression...the core of his new creed; a path to perfect disgrace; a state to which precious few even amongst the Angels had aspired.

 

The Father sifted through a state of fluttering light and shadow; a ragged phantom caught up on metaphysical currents. Its alien anatomy would have been slight compared to his own even were it not for the surgery and self-sculpting it had clearly experienced. Now it almost resembled certain boneless, deep-sea lifeforms he'd encountered during his abandoned life:

 

A vaguely humanoid figure, stretched and distorted; limbs over-long, many-jointed, as though it had spider somewhere in its ancestry, a waist so attenuated it looked to have been surgically emptied of all contents then stapled closed, the wound through which evacuation had occurred displayed and somehow still raw on its naked midriff. Skirts and robes of various material -silk, leather, skin- swirled around its androgynous form, stitched and threaded through its skin along with a variety of jewellery, hooks and chains, their broken-mirror music inspired by currents that Galathos couldn't feel. Multiple limbs extended from its back and shoulders, each strung with numerous vials and containers; instruments and hypodermics, devices that seemed to be partly mechanical, partly flesh, grafted to its frame, pumping and refining the alien blood that was the basis for an array of chemicals and narcotics; the same that it now generously shared with him, his blood irrevocably tainted, the part of him that still refused enlightenment screaming and writhing at the pollution.

 

Similar devices had been grafted into Galathos's own anatomy, though somewhat different in design; nowhere near as elegant or intricate; fitting for one of his low-born species. The Fathers had been fountains of enlightenment, vessels of inspiration, long before The Living Art even came to be. If myth were to be believed, it was their pain, their transgressions, that had originally seeded it within the Warp. Galathos shuddered at the very notion; to be beneath the knives of one that had fostered The Lord of Excess itself...a boon beyond comprehension; almost beyond endurance.

 

Each of the Father's spindly arms terminated in an array of surgical instruments; splinter-fine scalpels and delicate hypodermics, serrated bone saws and butcher's blades. Some seemed to be almost organic in origin; clusters of sea-urchin spines or fanged, fleshy flowers, like a snake's gaping maw. From its back swelled a fleshy hump; a mass of pulsating tumours from which erupted living growths that resembled spiked antlers, the entire structure strung with various jars and containers in which vestigial organs and foetal forms swam.

 

Galathos had heard tales of the Fathers from those who'd already come under their knives. Unlike most who'd earned the communion, he was not one of the Phoenician's sons. No; his blood, his flesh, was tainted by its ancestry, derived from one he'd learned to hate more deeply than the Corpse on Terra to which he'd been enslaved.

 

Guilliman.

 

The name alone was enough to have him cry out, begging for whatever flagellation the Father could provide. He would punish his flesh for its disease, its weakness; would rip and scald and sear until it was worthy of a place amongst the Angels.

 

The Father, apparently scenting his ardour, drifted close; close enough for him to smell the blood and incense musk of it; the sweetness of vanilla and alien spice that rode every breath:

 

“Eager, child? I taste it; your desire, your self-disgust. They are...wondrous to me. Allow me to indulge you...”

 

A half-masked face, the strange, mirror-like material obscuring it swimming with ephemeral shapes and colours, the rest a mass of elaborate scar tissue; flesh carved with the deliberation of an artist's hand, barely allowed to heal, whorls and ridges that formed poetic testament to the trauma of their own recording.

 

Something sloped down from the seething shadows above at the Father's summons; a slick, snake-like length laced with skirts of chemical-smelling matter. The Father took hold of it in a delicate talon, its bulbous head blooming, layers peeling back to reveal an array of cobra-like fangs, the amber fluid they seeped smouldering as it trailed to the dungeon floor.

 

Galathos gasped at the sight of it, biting deep into the charred mass of his own tongue to keep from begging.

 

“Is this what you wish for, child? Is this the game you would have us play?”

 

He gurgled an affirmative despite himself, unable to shape a more articulate reply.

 

The scar tissue split and peeled back, revealing a sickle moon grin. “From the mouths of babes.”

 

Pain followed, along with delight sufficient to untether his soul and set it amongst the stars, soaring and tumbling through their furnace hearts, riding the never-ending birthing pangs of reality itself.