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

[Thedarkprincesnun]

The Devils Word

Chapter 1

Sophia stood there her brunette hair making her stand out from the crowd. Her blue dress gave her the appearance of a poor street urchin yet in fact she was royalty a noble lady of the world. It almost angered her to be stuck with the lower class scum of the world but when the invaders had arrived they had destroyed the palaces and cathedrals of Septimu V replacing them with shrines devoted to dark gods, the kind which would only appear in your worst nightmares and would make you wake up screaming even though you don't believe they are real they would haunt you til the day you die.

 

Sophia sighed the invaders had put everyone who had surrendered into one giant cage here was a mix of nobility and common folk. She sighed again while it angered her to ne trapped in a cage like a animal she knew she wasn't just anyone before the arrival of the invaders she had not only been a noble lady but a writer a poet and a reporter. She hoped that in some way this would be able to save her but she doubted it.

 

All of a sudden the door to the cage opened, a tall Astartes with Dark Crimson armour and silver trim stepped through. Horns came off his helmet and from a distance it looked like they were made of ivory. On his shoulder pads were blasphemous runes which caused her eyes to hurt.

 

He looked around the cage until he set eyes on her "oi you" he said barely containing the discontent he felt. "Are you talking to me" Sophia said rather timidly and frightened for she had been known to be a woman who never backed down for she was scared of nothing yet this astartes had frightened her to the point it had chilled her to the core of her bone.

 

"Who else would I be talking to?" He said "my name is Gregor and you shall come with me, our glorious Dark Apostle would like you to interview him".

 

"How d-d-does he know I will interview him" she said shaking in her boots. "The Dark Apostle Zankus knows many things things that should only be known to one who has crossed the veil' said Gregor "now tell me human what is your name". "My name is Sophia" she said trying her hardest to hide the terror she felt.

 

"Well Sophia come with me then it's only by Zankus' s will that you will not be sharing the fate of these rodents" he said pointing to everyone else in the cage. Sophia stepped forward rather nervous and cautious but she didn't want to suffer the same fate as these street urchin.

 

Chapter 2

Sophia continued to follow the Astartes named Gregor it felt like they had been walking through the ruined city for hours but in fact it had only been half a hour. "Why was all this destruction necessary couldn't you have just left us alone" she said to Gregor. He turned around and went to reach for his bolt gun but then stopped himself. "Dear child do you not wish to know the truth about this galaxy and be freed from the corpse Emperors lies" said a mysterious figure. The figure wore black armour with bits of parchment attached each piece of parchment containing symbols which made Sophia feel like something was trying to eat at her mind. He had what could be considered a handsome face but he was pale. If she hadn't known better she would of thought he was one of the undead. "Who are you" she said. He chuckled then laughed "I am the Dark Apostle Zankus of the Word Bearers Legion you have met my brother Gregor I see?" He said continuing to chuckle.

 

"it's you that wants me to interview them" Sophia said. "Yes child yes I do want you to interview me but first let me introduce you to someone" he said before walking off and waving at her indicating her to follow him. As they moved down the streets they came to a marble cathedral where once had been the world's biggest shrine to the Emperor now it was replaced with one to fell dark gods. As they went inside all she could see was scenes of great suffering torture and pain. "Why are you doing this to us what have we done to you" Sophia said feeling alot braver than she did before. Zankus turned around and stared at her "The true gods of the galaxy demand brutal sacrifice blood change despair and pain" he said almost like a father to his child.

 

"So tell me Zankus what is your job within your legion" said Sophia almost switching into reporter mode. "My job my child is I am this chapters dark apostle, I keep this chapters faith strong and show others how wrong their faith is. Back when the Legion was loyal to that corpse I was simply known as The Chaplin I was born on Colchis, as I am sure you can imagine growing up on that world was tough. The Urizen had abolished the old ways and created a new religon as misguided as he was at that time, it worshipped the Emperor" he said almost spitting venom as he finished his speech. "But what turned you from Him? I don't understand" said Sophia nervous again but more confident.

 

"We learnt the truth, that the gods which reside in the warp are the true gods. While the Emperor claims responsibility for creating the primarchs, it was in actual fact not him alone. For the Emperor had the help of the gods and then after creating them he went back on his deal with them and tried to hide the primarchs from their true fathers." Said Zankus rather coldly. "He is no more worth my worship just like he isn't worth yours. Now child I have business to attend to please leave me be, my first acolyte Jurgal will show you to your chamber"

[Kierdale]

Dark apostle Angra of the Psychopomps, formerly master of sanctity of the Stygian Guard.

In every age the vilest specimens of human nature are to be found among demagogues.

1^st Baron Macaulay, M2.

 

One

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.

- Chaplain Howell Forgy, Merican Navy, M2

Hidden Content

“No pity! No remorse! No fear!”

It was a good war, the Nantesi Insurrection. The Stygian Guard found themselves fighting alongside their blood brothers of the Black Templars, both chapters being scions of primarch Rogal Dorn.

What had at first appeared to be a simple punitive campaign: destroy the rebellious governor and the rest of the planetary government while leaving as much of the infrastructure and populace intact as possible for a new head to be introduced, the Astartes had soon learned that the Nantesi leadership had become the thralls of Enslavers. Psyrens, Krell, Dominators and Puppeteers by other names, the fell Warp beasts were able to exert their will over others, enthralling them and making them their slaves. It was not the first time the creatures had installed themselves into Imperial worlds, targeting those in power in order to extend their influence over the masses. No work for an assassin, nor for an orbital bombardment, the weak-minded thralls would need to be purged and their Xenos masters drawn out. A duty worthy of the Adeptus Astartes.

The Templar chaplain roared the chapter battle cry once more, swinging his crozius arcanum down to strike the head from the nearest Imperial guardsman.

It appeared that in the years since the Enslavers had pervaded Nantesi society a cult of personality had been built up about the once-meek governor. Not even the native guard regiments had heeded the hails of the two marine chapters: Calls to turn upon their corrupt master.

After months of battling their way through Nantesi cities the two chapters had divided between them, they now truly fought alongside one another here in the capital city of Nidius.

There was a boom from across the rubble-strewn plaza followed by a whistle-roar.

“For the Emp-“

The chaplain vanished from sight in an explosion, throwing nearby marines to the ground and vapourising the guardsmen they fought.

When the dust cleared the chaplain could be seen sprawled against a wall, his armour in ruins, his left arm no more and his flesh torn and twisted. The left half of his face was gone; a jellied red mass flecked with shattered bone. Blood frothed where his nose and mouth had once been.

Lexicanum Holusiax turned from the advance, meaning to offer aid to the downed warrior priest when chaplain Angra laid a hand upon his pauldron and shook his skull-masked helm.

“You know their ways, brother,” he admonished the librarian, “Your aid would not be welcome even if it were all that could save him.”

Holusiax hesitated, looking from his own chapter’s chaplain to the Templar one. He knew Angra spoke the truth. Biting back a response he turned back toward the fighting, the autosenses in his helmet bracketing the enemy Chimedon. Raising his hands before him he let the Warp’s power flood into him safely through the filter of his psychic hood. Grasping the air he rent it to one side just as the rebel APC fired its cannon again. The shot flew into a building to their left where guardsmen were pouring heavy bolter fire down from balconies. Those who did not disappear in the initial detonation were thrown from their elevated position or fell along with the weakened balconies seconds later.

Angra clapped the librarian on the shoulder and nodded, despite the looks from the black-clad marines to their side.

“This is how you can best serve us.”

 

“Forward!”

A squad of Templars surged forward at the lapse in enemy fire. These were clad in white tabards trimmed with red over their black armour. Scriptures flowed from purity seals and each carried a storm shield and a humming power sword, the guards of which were crosses like those embossed on their pauldrons and chests. Leading the unit of sword brethren was a greater warrior still, his obsidian armour engraved with wards and catechisms of hatred, gilt laurels upon the brow of his helm and a massive Zweihänder of jet within his gauntlets: an Emperor’s champion, a warrior supreme gifted upon the eve of battle with a vision of angelic hosts wielding fiery blades.

The squad of veteran Templars drove across the plaza, trampling the wounded and dying beneath the boots of their venerable mark three and four plate. When they had covered half the plaza fusillades of laser fire lanced out from rebel guardsmen crouched behind barricades on the far side, their officers calling for ranks to fire in turn, commissars spitting curses and proclaiming the Astartes to be fallen angels. None of the sword brethren stumbled or fell. Not even the extreme volume of fire could find gaps between their shields. Their charge did not falter and it smashed into the enemy lines like a thunderhammer into a rhino’s flank.

Other enemy units diverted their fire toward the breach, many with little concern for their comrades in the melee: mortar bombs began to rain down hitting guardsmen and Templars. The rest of the Templars and the Stygian Guard advanced forwards as was their chapter’s ways: the Templars eager to get into melee, the Stygians coldly pummeling the enemy positions with concentrated firepower, firing on the move.

The rebel guardsmen began to run, despite commissars along their lines executing the first to run, the harsh bangs of their bolt pistols nothing compared to the deafening cannonade of the advancing angels of death. Squad by squad then platoon by platoon they turned and fled but neither the Templars nor the Stygian Guard ceased their attack, for they knew they had to draw out the beasts.

And, when the bolting horde of soldiers suddenly pulled up as one, Holusiax and his fellow librarians feeling an itch where their psychic hoods meshed with their scalps, the Astartes knew the Enslavers were there.

Archive records they had studied in their mission briefing indicated that the Xenos fiends could control but ten minds each yet it seemed this brood was able to, when manifesting themselves fully in the physical realm, control far, far more.

Like the clockwork toys of children the heretical soldiery turned, eyes vacant, to face the Templars and Stygian Guard while the marines continued to mow them down with blade and bolt.

“There!” came a call over the vox net and a scarlet beam lanced out from the Stygian Devastator squads in the buildings to their rear. One of the beasts had been spotted and as they watched, two, three and then half a dozen more of the aliens materialised behind the zombified guardsmen. Each alien appeared as if two pink, fleshy spheres both thickly veined, the smaller top sphere possessing a single violet-irised eye and a mass of suckered tentacles protruding from the lower orb. The first to appear detonated as the lascannon bolt struck it, spraying vile plasm over the nearby thralls who, suddenly finding themselves not only freed from its domination but also sandwiched between alien abominations and the Emperor’s finest, recommenced their flight, discarding arms and equipment as they went.

“Abhor the witch! Destroy the witch!” rose the cry from the Templar ranks, followed by, “Burn them! Burn them all!” and there came the roar of promethium as flamers were turned upon the guardsmen and Enslavers. The Stygian Guard joined their fire to that of their cousins, though wisely kept their distance as some of the Templar’s overzealous neophytes became surrounded and dragged down by dominated guardsmen. Even as the two chapters intensified their firing and chopping the tide of thralls came on and on, groups occasionally collapsing into screams of terror as chapter snipers and devastators took out their alien masters. The Emperor’s champion and his sword brethren cleft left and right with their blades, pushing through the melee to the aid of their younger brothers when needed, heading in the general direction of the nearest of the Enslavers.

“Steady, Stygians!” came the calm, commanding tone of chaplain Angra as he walked along the lines of tactical marines, “Headshots. These are your battle brothers no more. Their weak will sealed their fate. Show them no remorse and slay their alien dominators with celerity!”

On several occasions he too waded into the melee when the zombies managed to approach the Stygian firing line, doffing heads with his crozius. A volley of bolter fire from the tactical squad to his right dropped a wave of bodies before him and cleared the way between the Stygian chaplain and one of the commissar thralls. The man, clad in his black long-coat and peaked cap, had like the guardsmen been as a zombie since the Xenos has revealed themselves. While he had been screaming rhetoric from his book of discipline and gospel before the rout, his left arm and his book now hung limp at his side. As Angra bounded toward the man, the commissar raised his bolt pistol unsteadily.

“Craven fool!” Angra lashed out with his crozius, taking the man’s pistol hand off at the wrist. He reached out with his other hand, knocking the commissar’s cap off as he grabbed the man’s face. A bloody-curdling scream was emitted from the commissar’s throat as Angra’s fingers pierced his eyes then silenced as his skull was crushed in the chaplain’s hand.

Shaking the gore from his hand he transferred his crozius to the bloody hand and knelt, carefully scooping up the commissar’s fallen booklet with his untarnished hand, and stowing it in a pouch next to his own girdle book.

Rising he found the battle was turning decisively in the favour of the Astartes: the Templars and Stygians had managed to thin the horde of guardsmen thralls sufficiently to strike at the Enslavers themselves. The Emperor’s champion and sword brethren cleaved through three of the aliens in as many seconds. Another exploded to the right, bathed not only in the orange fire of his comrades’ flamers but also roiling violet warpfire spat forth by epistolary Diarthet. The remaining beast then grew desperate, relinquishing its control of the remaining guardsmen who proceeded to drop to the ground, screaming and holding their heads. One of the beast’s tentacles lashed out toward the Templar elite, sweeping all but one of the sword brethren from their feet and throwing them half a dozen meters backwards into their comrades, for the Xenos was not only a formidable Psyker. The remaining sword brethren who had managed to duck beneath the tentacle was smote by a bolt of pure wrath from the Enslaver’s eye, dropping limp to his knees before pitching forward, smoke rising in curls from the joints of his armour. Only the Emperor’s champion managed to close with the beast, with preternatural reflexes he leapt over the lashing tentacle, his black two-handed sword swinging out and taking the alien limb.

That the creature emitted no cry of pain, indeed it showed no evidence of being injured beyond the yellow discharge spurting from the tentacle stump, was unnerving. Unrelenting, three more tentacles swung out. The first two the champion deftly severed, but the third laid him low, throwing him backwards, his armour chipping and digging a groove in the debris-strewn flagstones.

The Enslaver reared up and advanced, its mass supported by its mind more than by its tentacles, the latter snaking toward the prone, stunned champion to ensnare him.

And yet they did not touch him.

As the wriggling pseudopods neared the downed Templar they slowed and began to shiver as if seized by palsy.

Angra turned about as the gaze of the sword brethren and other Templars looked past him.

Holusiax stood behind him, his arms outstretched toward the Enslaver, his face a stiff rictus of concentration as he fought to exert his own will over the Xenos. Sweat slicked the junior librarian’s brow and blood trickled from his nostrils. Whether it was part of his plan or not Angra could not discern, but epistolary Diarthet then stepped to Holusiax’s side and summoned forth another conflagration of balefire, vomiting it forth to engulf the beast.

 

“Such ignominy! Your diabolists dishonour us!” Spat one of the sword brethren, an old knight by the name of Hastings, into the skull mask of Angra’s helm, glaring from him to the librarians behind him.

The Emperor’s champion himself would not deign to speak to them.

“The kill was ours. How dare you sully the duel with your witchcraft!?”

Angra placed a hand upon the winged cross on the sword brethren’s cuirass and gently pushed him backwards.

“Just as we know your ways, you are aware of ours. Honour matters naught to us in comparison to Duty. That which is necessary for the swift accomplishment of the mission: that is our ambit.”

“Remove your hand from His symbol,” the sword brethren spoke in a low, threatening tone.

Like the interruption of the duel, his touching of the Templar’s icon meant nothing to Angra. It was and always had been their way: the mission was paramount. Matters of honour, conduct and to a degree respect, were of a secondary nature. Nevertheless, he was no dull brute and retracted his hand. The Templars were incensed and it would do no good for him to further displease them. As a chaplain it was in a way his responsibility to harmonise between the two chapters. Now it was his duty to ensure no fraternal blood was shed.

Brother Hastings pointed at Holusiax and the senior Diarthet. “Your warlocks are no better than the Xenos, twisting wills.”

“And they will repent their actions,” Angra replied, turning to face the lexicanum and epistolary. “The pain glove, level tertius, upon our return to Charon.”

As fellow scions of Dorn, that was a punishment the Black Templars would understand, and all the Stygian Guard would observe.

 

 

Two

To repress one’s feelings only makes them stronger.

- Yu Shu Lien.

Hidden Content

As a chaplain - the Stygian Guard’s Master of Sanctity no less - he was responsible for, for want of a better word, the `spirit` of the chapter. When his predecessor had chosen him from the ranks to become a chaplain he had been tasked with accompanying detachments of his chapter whenever they fought alongside Astartes of other chapters.

The Wolves on the tundra of Edoph Secundus.

The Ultramarines and their descendants on Tusal III, Yidaxeran and Krasilar.

And fellow sons of Dorn on countless battlefields.

Upon his return to their fortress monastery on Fulcrum he would always join his master, Othanu, within the reclusiam and speak of what he had learned of that chapter and its rites.

He spoke of the warrior kings of Macragge and their supremely tactical approach to the waging of war. He told tales of companies of Angels descending upon pinions of fire into a Xenos fastness. He recalled holding tight to the railings of an attack bike converted into a chariot as sons of the Scars tore across the battlefield toward their foes, howling forth challenges. Similarly he attested to the ferocity of the Wolves and the zeal of the Templars, their similarities and differences.

And at the end of each telling his master would have him analyse what he had seen, the knowledge he had garnered, in order to disseminate it amongst their own companies. And he would also be tasked with finding the faults with each of their brother-chapter’s approaches to warfare. This task was seldom easy and one he did at first with little relish. At first.

Upon his master’s passing their talks ceased and he came to question their purpose. Was it simply for the bettering of their own chapter, or had there been more than a little pride there? He had crushed the thought almost as soon as it had germinated.

But he had continued the tradition with his fellow chaplains and, when he had become the Master of Sanctity, he had taken up his old tutor’s role forcing his subordinates to find fault with their allies. He resented not being able to continue these missions of learning himself and quelled the pride he felt in his chapter as chaplains over the years brought back less and less learning and at his pressing found greater faults with their allies.

Were these the first cracks through which corruption crept into the hearts of the Stygian Guard, the Emperor’s Ferrymen?

Or was it the blanket suppression? As each chapter had its own cult, so did the Stygian Guard. Depending on one’s point of view it could have been viewed as the strictest or the simplest: for they disavowed all ceremony. Absent were the rituals via which one might differentiate betwixt their fellow chapters: the Lion’s Feast of Malediction and the Cup of Retribution; the ochreous orbs commemorating the initiation of scouts, defecated and gathered by the reclusiarch of the Imperial Fists; the Mjod-guzzling of the Space Wolves. All semblances had been stripped from them to reduce them into more than fearless weapons. They were unemotional, dispassionate weapons of the Lords of Terra.

All these rites had been cast off, but for the nerve glove. The pain glove by another name.

It was via this tool that the Guard flensed themselves of their mistakes, their pride, their wrath, their sorrow. Their humanity. Washed away by pain, the Astarte was born anew, the whole process witnessed by their peers.

 

Angra.

He remembered that his name, given to him by his parents centuries previously, meant a body of water sheltered from rip currents and ocean swell in an ancient Terran language, rather than referring to the destructive spirit of an even more ancient sect as a mortal historian had once asked him. In his youth he had found it ironic that mortal men concerned themselves so much with the recording of history, for all too soon did they themselves die and become forgotten, and the Astartes - all but immortal - concerned themselves little with such archiving, busy as they were holding back the tide of Chaos which would sweep all from existence and render history inconsequential.

He remembered a quote from his youth, There is no right or wrong in our profession. The present changes the past from moment to moment. Only pray for the future to vindicate your actions.

Nevertheless the question had at first irritated him but he had also found his interest piqued. One’s name identified the individual and, as the human’s mistaken supposition had indicated, it coloured their opinion via the associations they made with it regardless of the truth. The archivist had trembled to meet him, linking his name with that of Anjra Mainiiu, or Ahriman by another tongue, regardless of Angra’s ignorance of the ancient deity.

What then was the truth?

It had lit within him - a scout at the time - an urge to learn. To learn beyond the ken of battle. In discussion with one of the librarius, the lexicanum had attested to the power held in names and the knowledge of a spirit’s true name, but his inquiries were reported to a chaplain and scout Angra had been rebuked, scolded that such was not the Stygian way. He purified himself via pain.

Diarthet now led the librarius in their practice of the destructive manipulation of the Empyrean’s power, and Angra ensured the chapter burned any heretical thoughts from their minds.

Only to drive them deeper.

 

 

Three

The true way of extending and multiplying one’s desires is to attempt to impose checks upon them.

- Maquis Du Sade.

Hidden Content

The Temple of Astarte, Cyprius III.

Angra had found himself looking to their records - archives like those painstakingly inscribed by that now-dead historian countless years earlier - of Cyprius III, finding that millennia earlier Astartes (of a chapter whose name was lost to history and the vagaries of archival machine spirits) had driven back a great threat from the planet and a statue had been erected in their honour. Over the following centuries it appeared that a fane had been constructed about the towering alabaster figurine, and since the populace’s fall to the worship of the Infernal Powers the statue had been...altered. The suit of powered armour it had been depicted wearing was worn smooth and the white stone deformed, for the effigy now more resembled the female form than that of the post-human Angels of Death. Its face too had lost the gigantism innate to Astartes and Angra saw a beauty in its lines which disturbed him as much as the horns sprouting from its cranium. A gilt star within a circle decorated its enlarged right breast.

Chapter master Sophusar had lead his chapter to the Imperial world of Cyprius III seeking word of their first company. Years earlier captain Viphic and his veterans had accompanied an Ordo Hereticus inquisitor to the planet; it having come under the scrutiny of the Emperor’s most holy orders after having missed Terra’s Due for over a decade, alongside rumours of infernal acts and the perversion of the Imperial Cult. Nothing had been heard from Viphic or his marines and so the entire chapter had assembled and found the world lost to madness. The Prince of Darkness held sway over the Cypriusian masses, their number divided between dozen of cults extolling different aspects of that particular Infernal Power, ruled over by the former governor now twisted both in body and mind. And it seemed that the First had not gone untouched by the taint of Chaos though diametrically opposite to that of the Cypriusians: Viphic and his veterans had become berserk murderers, their white armour dyed crimson and adorned with skulls.

 

Though not for mortal ken, the chapter had become the subject of a divine wager betwixt the Lord of Skulls and the Dark Prince. She Who Must Not Be Named - to use the term given to that youngest of the Chaos gods by the Xenos who birthed her - challenged her nemesis to corrupt an entire chapter of the Emperor of Mankind’s finest. The Blood God had accepted on two conditions: that he himself could choose the chapter to be turned and secondly that he could also choose where their debasement was to take place. Conditions to which Slaanesh acquiesced, to her later chagrin as her foe swiftly chose the planet Cyprius III as the arena of this gambit: a world Slaanesh had over centuries enjoyed steadily corrupting. All from highborn to mendicant scum danced to her twisted tunes. Artists, hedonists, lechers and libertines all. Myriad were the cults of Cyprius III.

And Khorne had chosen the Stygian Guard, scions of stalwart Dorn, as their plaything.

 

The harsh bang of a fired bolt echoed through the temple, the last of dozens as Angra strode through the ruins of the temple of Astarte, the cleansing having been swift and brutal, as was the Stygian Guard way. The souls of the heretics had been ferried dutifully to that which lay beyond.

The Master of Sanctity kept an eye on the marines he accompanied. The Bloody First were an embarrassment to the chapter. A stain upon their honour. But you care not for honour, no? One which could not be repeated and one which would in good time be hunted down and eliminated. To hide your failure? But first came the mission: the cleansing of Cyprius III. Chapter master Sophusar had ordered it so. Here in this temple the Stygians had put an end to one of the local cults and at the loss of only one brother marine. His geneseed had already been recovered and while the loss of a single marine was a heavy weight upon the chaplain’s hearts he thought it fortunate that only a single brother had been lost as the war on Cyprius III was not going well. The locals were fanatics, thinking nothing of throwing themselves in a mindless frenzy at the Stygians or entering into diabolical treaties with daemons to twist their own bodies. Here within the temple of Astartes Angra himself had put down several of the bastard monstrosities. He raised his bolt pistol after the final execution and took his boot from the chest of the beast whose brains now splattered the white marble floor, wall and nearby bookcases. He found himself in what appeared to be a library, a chamber off to one side of the temple’s ceremonial hall, the latter of which was now littered with the bodies of cultists, mutants and worse. It had been the work of the chapter’s scout squads to locate the cult temples: as had been Adeptus Astartes strategy since the days of the Great Crusade they had sought to deliver a spear thrust to the heart. Unfortunately the cults of the planet were so numerous there were more hearts than a hydra had heads. He, after receiving permission from chapter master Sophusar, had instructed the scout company to infiltrate the cults in order to locate their temples. This was a break from chapter tactics, one that would no doubt have been heresy in many of their cousin chapters, but it was the one course which Angra saw could break the stalemate of the war.

As the roar of flamers came from the hall: his marines making a pyre of their kills, Angra found his eyes wandering over the tomes lining the walls. One caught his eye: it had a star within a circle upon its spine, as upon the breast of the statue. The hardback creaked as he lifted it from the dark wood bookcase though no dust fell as it was well worn and evidently had been often consulted by the magus of the cult of Astarte. His unhelmed nose was tantalised by the smell of the old paper. Floral notes and a hint of vanilla. An odour he associated only with his own girdlebook: the chapter codex, his guide.

He paused at that thought. Already he had broken with its statutes, with the approval of Sophusar himself. Was this a lesson to be learned? The Codex Astartes itself dictated that one must adapt one’s tactics to suit the foe. And while the VII legion had eventually gone along with Guilliman’s division of the legions, did legend not say that primarch Dorn had at first resisted? And it was clear enough that chapters in the millennia since had swayed from that holy text. Perhaps this war here on Cyprius III was proof that the Stygian Guard ways were too draconian, too stringent. And he had already set the scouts to learn what they could of their foes.

He opened the book to be greeted by an elaborate illustration of a figure similar to the disfigured statue yet far superior in its artistry. A horned, feminine figure seated upon a throne flanked by sphinxes, holding a bowl beneath her pierced breasts. He frowned at the crude yet entrancing image and put the book in a pouch at his belt before turning to leave.

 

The base, corrupt populace of Cyprius III had it seemed mixed their honouring of the Adeptus Astarte statue with fragments of pre-interstellar Terran religion. This Astarte - Athtart in old Phoenician, Ashtoret in Hebrew, and Uni-Astre and Ishtar by yet other names - appeared to be a primitive goddess connected with war. This was something Angra could relate to and found himself nodding as he perused the text once he had returned to his quarters aboard their flagship Charon. But it seemed she was also associated with fertility and sexuality, two matters beyond the concern of the Emperor’s angels.

The symbol of a star within a circle.

The deified evening star.

There was mention of an ancient Cypriot goddess. This took him to the ship’s archives, where he discovered that it appeared to refer to a now long-lost isle north of the Afrik wastes on Holy Terra, not the planet Cyprius III itself. Yet how could there not be a link? Had the planet been damned since its settling?

Other matters caught his interest: the ancient use of the goddess’ image at the prow of vessels originating a trend which had lasted even until the twilight times of the 41^st millennium. She had even been worshipped in Aegypt it seemed, paired with another goddess and given in marriage to Set who contested with Horus.

The name of the arch-traitor.

More tales in the book told of Astarte being the daughter of Uranus and Earth - how the ignorant ancients were want to deify the cosmos! - and brother of a god named Elus. The overthrowing of her father Epigeius/Uranus and her and her sisters Asherah and Ba’alat becoming the incestuous wives of Elus. Associations with a Minoan snake goddess...

Lurid prose indeed, time and again Angra set the book aside with scorn yet finding himself eventually drawn back to it during lulls in the war.

The tale continued with Astarte eventually putting the head of a bull upon her own to symbolise her sovereignty. This was an image the Stygian Guard had seen with greater and greater frequency when fighting the native cults: both in statuary and fanatics wearing such animal’s heads. The goddess’ crescent moon image haunted him when he looked at the scythe blades of his chapter’s iconography on their pauldrons.

 

More occult texts were recovered by scouts and from assaults on other cult dens. One sect had pierced their bodies to such an extent that the decorations formed armour over their twisted bodies. The skin of others was split and peeled back, pinned by hooks so that these dervishes were driven into mad rages by their own pain. Angra had his chaplains record all.

More still were tattooed with what appeared to be floral patterns upon certain points of their bodies. A thousand-petaled, multi-hued lotus upon their crown, a silver crescent surrounded by sixteen turquoise petals tattooed into throats, and a great many had red and orange blooms upon their abdomens and loins. Angra culled what tomes could be recovered from their fanes.

 

Some months later he found himself looking down at the corpse of a Cypriusian cult magus, his chest blown out by a bolt from Angra’s own pistol. The cultist leader, hiding behind pillars carved with erotic reliefs, had almost caught the chaplain off-guard, but Angra was quick on the draw and had put a bolt into the man, center of mass, before he could attack. The man’s ribs were now splayed like the radial strands of a spider’s web. And like a web, the Stygians were caught in this war. The more cults they infiltrated and brought down, the more they learned of the enemy.

Master Sophusar had called Angra into his sanctum and had shared with the chief librarian that he had had a vision. That unless the chapter changed, unshackled itself, it would end. Long had the two debated but in truth both realised that there was but one course of action. The honourable choice was to remain stalwart and die, their principles intact to the blood-soaked end. But what meant honour to these Astartes? There was only the mission. Duty.Pride. He does not like to lose. He will not accept defeat. And so master Sophusar unshackled his chapter.

They began to use the enemy’s own tactics -and worse- against them until they came to a point at which they had to halt the process lest they damn themselves eternally. The Angels of the Emperor did not consort with the neverborn nor use their fell magicks. Not as this magus had.

He looked down at the man’s face and the tattoo upon his brow. It was a two-petalled lotus enclosing a downward-pointing triangle, the whole design in indigo. Ajna, he recognised it from the library of tomes the reclusiam had now amassed - Angra himself had revoked the ban on reading the writings of the enemy and it was now overseen by his chaplains, instructing the chapter’s companies. Ajna, whose presiding deity the texts told him was the half-male, half-female Ardhanarishvara. Perhaps this explained the combination of the ancient symbols of the feminine and the masculine used by so many of the Cypriusian cults.

The oval Anja design reminded him of the gilt eye upon Holusiax’s helm: the epistolary was currently MIA and, as the weeks passed, command was starting to believe he may have been killed by the enemy. But until his body was found they would not give up.

The loosening of the chapter’s long-held strict doctrines had been surprisingly quickly taken up by the rank and file. Tactics were adopted, those viewed once as honed battle conduct were cast of as staid and ineffective in the new light. The New Light, for they believed they had become illuminated, liberated. By the tactics of the enemy, no less.

Angra found the thought far less blasphemous than he knew he should, and flensed such doubts from his mind in the pain glove.

 

 

 

Four

Desire can attain the darkest human terror and give an actual ideal of hell and its horror.

-Octave Mirbeau, Franco playwright, M2

 

Hidden Content

The tide of the war turned. With the return of Holusiax to the chapter he dispersed teachings of Slaaneshi magicks throughout the remains of the librarius (the remains, for many had fallen against the daemonic allies of the native cults) and, in many meditative sessions with Sophusar, Angra and the other members of chapter command he spoke in depth of the damned power they found themselves wielding against the enemy. And wielding it with greater skill than that of the cults and their magi, as time went on. The serpentine-bodied sorcerer spoke of the Herald who had restored and enlightened him.

It was at the end of one of these meetings aboard Charon that Sophusar gave a grim nod and first trod upon their oaths to the Golden Throne.

“We now know that all we were before...all we strived for, the emulating of Lord Pugh...merely shackled us. We inhibited ourselves, blocking ourselves off from all but purifying pain. Had we cut ourselves off from even that elixir then I believe we would have been truly lost. For it is through pain that we have seen the truth. Asceticism is the end and the death.”

He had met Angra’s eyes at that point, for it had been the master of sanctity’s duty to enforce the chapter creed since the chapter’s inception. Should Angra have objected, would the chapter master have slain him where he stood?

Angra nodded, as was his role.

“Excess. Therein lies the answer. Every answer to every question which might ever be asked, but one.”

The assembled captains looked to their lord expectantly, but it was Angra who spoke.

“Pain and duty have always been our foundations. Nothing else existed for us. But what is duty?”

Sophusar answered, “To obey one’s orders. And while I know you and your men would all obey my orders to the ends of your lives...for we all now know the glory which awaits us in the empyrean...from whence do my orders come?”

All knew of what he spoke. They had accepted the new teachings of Sophusar, Holusiax and Angra while knowing full well that they were anathema to the Imperial Creed, the Codex Astartes and the very

rotten, twisted

foundations of the Imperium.

“Since this chapter’s inception we have been the loyal ferrymen of the Emperor’s foes into the afterlife. A weapon responding thoughtlessly to the will of the Lords of Terra.”

Terra! Terra! Terror! the voice came once again, echoing through Angra’s mind. One corner of his mouth was tugged upward.

“But are we not now willful? We have broken the shackles that bound us…shackles that we, in our blindness, chained ourselves with! And we have torn the blindfold from our eyes!”

Smiles and nods spread about the assembled Astartes. Some patted weapons, rattled swords in sheathes.

“No longer will we bow to the will of others. We now serve only ourselves. We are the masters of our own will!”

 

 

The war on Cyprius III ended soon after: master Sophusar and the wayward berzerk captain Viphic crossing blades over the corpse of the Cypriusian governor-turned-grand magus within the halls of the former Imperial palace. The first captain falling to the chapter master with the aid of the sorcerer Holusiax. Angra himself, leading his coterie of most trusted, skull-helmed warriors, slew one of the great bull-headed daemons cavorting within the palace’s wanton halls, the master of sanctity filled with a deep sense of regret that he had been forced to destroy the beast rather than learn from it or dare to master it as his slave.

But such opportunities would come, in time.

 

 

 

Upon their return to their homeworld of Fulcrum, lord Sophusar assigned each of his most trusted lieutenants with a duty. Chief librarian - they still used these titles for they wore the guide of loyalty - Holusiax was tasked with making contact with the power they had tapped into, that ambrosia of which they had supped upon the Planet of Cults. Once The Herald had made herself known again he was also to assist master of the forge Zenelaius and chief apothecary Polus in the creation of the Infernal Engine to tap into the psyche and emotions of their Eldar captives. And such a thirst did they develop for the souls of those ancient xenos!

And Angra was given the task of corrupting the loyal sects of the Imperial Cult on Fulcrum, and spreading his chosen pawn’s influence beyond the homeworld.

On Fulcrum there were many sects dedicated to the worship of He upon the Golden Throne. Amongst the largest were the Egisians, followers of The Emperor’s Egis, who worshipped the Emperor as protector. The Imperator Afflatus sought His knowledge and divine inspiration and the Exalted Fecund who saw the production of offspring: the future of the human race, as the best way to glorify the Emperor.

It was this last sect which drew the dark apostle’s attention. For the will of the masses was weak and the pull of the flesh strong.

The worship of He upon the Golden Throne was soon twisted and corrupted. Those of rival cults were initially recruited, later pressured and eventually forced into joining. Those strong enough of will and spirit to resist were eliminated in pogroms which swept Fulcrumese cities. Few remained, and these were driven underground. In less than a generation She Who Must Not Be Named held sway over the once devout world.

 

Five

And whom He guides, there is none that can lead him astray; is not He mighty, the Lord of Retribution?

-M1 Holy Text

Hidden Content

The hammer fell when the Exalted Fecund’s corruption and its influence spread too far, too quickly. Zealousness on Angra’s part? Or another diabolical gambit by their patron deity to drive them further into his embrace?

Blood shed between the Stygian Guard and the Templars on an ill-fated mission against Eldar raiders and the cult drawing the attention of the inquisition saw the Emperor’s wrath delivered upon Fulcrum: inquisitorial agents infiltrated the planet to rally the remnants of loyal sects into a fifth column while Tempestus Scions sabotaged defences paving the way for the main assault:

Black Templars.

With a score to settle, the zealous sons of Sigismund descended mercilessly upon their fallen cousins and slaying all who opposed them, the assault only stalling when the Psychopomps - for the renegades no longer went by the name Stygian Guard - unleashed their newly devised fell technologies, daemonic forces and the berzerkers of their captive first company.

And it was during the renegades’ retreat that chaplain Caedmon faced the fallen chaplain. Caedmon had fought alongside Hastings of the sword brethren, whom the Templars believed slain at the hands of the Stygians on Berolar XII.

 

The city burned about them, the crackling and spitting of fire mixing with the boom of heavy ordnance, the harsh bangs of bolt guns being discharged and the screams. Oh the screams! It was not the musica universalis but it stimulated Angra’s every fibre. Here, in the crucible of war, here was where the extremes were found, were experienced. Were inflicted.

He was surrounded by crowds of the Exalted Fecund. Tattooed eunuchs, pierced and chained concubines and catamites alongside genebulked bodyguards. He had dispatched his Astarte guards to transport the librarius and reclusiam’s accumulated lore to the ships, for he knew that this was the end for Fulcrum. Their duty was now to stall the Templars.

By `their` he of course meant his cultists.

Rather than seeing it, they heard it first: the rumble of heavy tracks grinding over ferrocrete and Angra raised his eyebrows as the redeemer rounded a corner and came into view, its sponsons sweeping the roadside buildings with purging fire. Squads of cultists poured from their hiding places wreathed in flames. One had will enough to charge toward the landraider clutching a demolition charge only to be cut down, virtually sawn in half by a short blast from the massive tank’s assault cannons, which tore through the zealot and half a dozen of his flailing kin.

The voice gasped as if feeling the pain vicarously.

As the redeemer came to a halt at the mouth of the city square and its assault ramp began to lower Angra raised his crozius, smiled - for there would be no redemption for him - and swept it down toward the disembarking Templars.

A sea of madness surged forth, the dark apostle unmoving as it swept past him.

 

For five solid minutes, until ammo hoppers and promethium tanks ran dry and bolt guns clicked empty, the Templars held the crowd back with firepower. Then came the time for blades. The throaty roar of chainswords muted as they gored their way through apostate flesh and the hiss of power weapons cleaved effortlessly.

Eventually the sea parted at a challenge screamed out by one of the Templars.

Angra stepped forth to answer it.

“Master of sanctity Angra of the Psychopomps.”

“Chaplain Caedmon of the Black Templars. I will smash your crozius, Angra of the Psychopomps and take your head, for I name you an oath breaker, the master of nothing sacred, and a traitor to the Emperor of Mankind.” The Templar glared across the bloody, corpse-strewn flagstones at his foe. Both were clad in armour as black as the void though that of the fallen chaplain was decorated on the left side with what appeared to be the image of blooms of pale pink, with petals falling toward his right. As he strode forward the blossoms appeared to drift and fall. The impermanence of beauty. For all things, beautiful or ugly, natural or wrought by artifice, loyal or traitor, were doomed to fall in the end.

 

The accompanying Templars spread out; their blades keeping the crowd back, giving the two officers room to duel.

Angra cocked his head for a moment, listening. No, the sound of this battle was certainly not the musica universalis. It was an epicedium - but whose?

The time for words and contemplation at an end, the two skull-helmeted warriors charged at each other, crozius arcanums raised. One tipped with a great gilt aquila grasping a cross betwixt its talons, the haft terminating in a smoking thurible; the defaced aquila of the other stamped with fell runes and the icon of the lord of hedonism, and terminating in a long silver spike.

Power fields coruscated over the holy mauls as blows were struck and parried, the weapons clashing again and again, finally locking before each warrior as they pushed against each other in a competition of pure strength, their deathmasks scant centimeters apart.

“Puppet!” spat Angra. “Dancing to the tune of fools in the name of a corpse!”

“No worse than the pawn of Infernal Powers!”

“I serve no one but myself! I am my own master!”

Caedmon's retort was stifled as he cried out, the other twisting his blasted crozius and driving its spike down behind the Black Templar’s knee plate and into the meat of his leg.

Before Angra could take advantage of the wound, Caedmon thrust his head into his opponent’s and the two staggered apart. However, the Eternal Crusade made one tough, far tougher than one who had spent years garnering forbidden knowledge from ancient texts and the Black Templar smote his foe’s weapon, shattering the head of the crozius before planting the foot of his wounded leg in the dark apostle’s chest and driving him to the ground hard.

But no sooner had he raised his weapon once more, to deliver the finishing blow, than Angra drew his pistol with that long exercised speed and squeezed off a shot.

Caedmon’s raised hand exploded as the bolt detonated and he cried out in pain, staggering as Angra rolled out from beneath his armoured boot. He needn’t call out to his men for a replacement arm as a powersword was already being tossed his way. Deftly catching it he brought it down as Angra rose to a knee, centering the sights of his pistol on the Templar’s gorget.

The blade descended swifter and the Templar chaplain split his foe’s head from crown to chin.

 

And verily Slaanesh did laughed once more as the enraged, anguish-wracked masses of cultists swept in, for he was not yet done with the demagogue and he dispatched one of his servants forthwith...

[EesiOh]

holy :cuss teentege 0.0

[EesiOh]

well... After reading THAT im not bothering to enter this week

 

edit: Gosh darn it Keirdale

[Kierdale]

well... After reading THAT im not bothering to enter this week

 

edit: Gosh darn it Keirdale

That's not the attitude to have!

Firstly my entries don't count: as I run Inspiration Friday I can't win it. However, I find myself inspired to do so. ;)

Secondly I've been writing that piece for at least half a year, on and off.

I hope we'll cover every unit entry in the codex eventually, as well as myriad other topics, so there's nothing to stop you starting work on entries for other Chaos units as, eventually, you'll be able to submit it. Unless we've already done it, in which case submit it anyway whenever you complete it. :)

 

And lastly, you've got two weeks. Surely you can some up with something (if you don't already have ideas about your warband's apostle(s)) in that time :)

 

Lastly, please watch your language. While the board will automatically change swearing to the 'cuss' emoticon, those who subscribe to the thread get email updates...which are not censored.

[Slave to Darkness]

Yeah i hit a brick wall with the story. I will finish it asap dont worry.

[Scourged]

Well then... sounds like I'm doing a sequel to my story from two weeks ago. I believe it's time we all learned more about the Prophet of the False, through the eyes of new recruit Teshin... y'know, once I figure out what more there is to learn, first.

[Carrack]

The Black Book of Dark Apostle Lavam

 

 

For the eyes of Inquisitor Chella Bonatelo. All others, I implore you stop reading and destroy this synopsis, less your soul fall from the light of the Emperor forever and ever.

 

For three years now I have convalesced at the Sanitarium of Our Martyred Saint. The tender ministrations of the sisters hospitaller have restored a semblance of my former self. I only agreed to these measures knowing that one sister would be assigned to me day and night, armed with a bolt pistol and the knowledge to use it, should my fractured mind invite in the daemonic. It is reassuring. However, in spite of the chemical therapies, the cleansing of scourging, and the peace and calm of the sanitarium's gardens, the sisters feel that the only safe way to release me from madness is with a selective lobotomy to scrub the memories of the Libro Nero di Lavam from my mind. I eagerly await the procedure. Yet I must write you of my reading of the profane text, and my analysis of its contents before I lose the memories that haunt my waking hours as well as my dreams. If not, my suffering will have been in vain.

 

As I am sure you recall, an infiltration cell of Throne Agents, under the direction and sponsorship of you, Inquisitor Chella Bonatelo, had reached the Black Maw Warband's base at Howler's Charn on the former Imperial world of Frederic III, disguised as unscrupulous arms merchants. Their mission was a failure with the entire cell being killed or captured shortly after landing. Those captured were held prisoner in the Tower of the Voice, under the supervision of the Black Maw Dark

Apostle Lavam. Lavam took great delight in stripping the allegiances of the agents to the Golden Throne, using a combination of torture and subversive arguments. Before Agent Olover was broken, he managed to escape by making a key impression of the cell lock out of heated, malleable, soap, than somehow baking the key until it was hard enough to turn the lock. Before he exited the Tower of the Voice, he slipped into Lavam's office and stole a book that was opened on his desk. He than stowed away aboard a ship of the infamous Zanizar Network, and when the ship smuggled illicit goods to Jaxon's Fields, he escaped with the book. Due to the nature of the book, and my special education in the guarded reading of profane tomes such as this text, I was tasked with searching the text for information that may be of use to the Inquisition. Without further explanation, here are my findings.

 

Overview

The book is called the Libro Nero di Lavam. It is bound in black sharkskin, with a golden eye of the great betrayer the only exterior marking. A gene-lock was placed in a gold clasp that held the book shut, but this was overcome by one of Inquisitor Chella Bonatelo's specialist. The specialist informed me that a trio of Vaskan Censor Worms were held in stasis in the binding of the book, and that if the lock was not overcome with the greatest of care, the worms would have been revived and eaten the book in the blink of an eye.

 

The Libro Nero di Lavam is something of a personal memoir and a esoteric lab book. It is a journal which includes a collection of dark knowledge, either gathered or created by Lavam.

 

Section I. Illustrations

This section is devoted to blasphemous artwork. Most are sketches done by an experienced artist, however there are a few full color illustrations. The subject matter covers several known and a few unknown breeds of daemon, along with vivisected mutants, scenes of unholy rites, a page filled from bottom to top with skulls, what is believed to be a self-portrait, and the most vile of pornography. In a failed attempt to preserve my sanity, I did not spend much time on this section. I believe it may have served either as inspiration for the author, or possibly be an insidious trap, designed to corrupt those who opened the book by burning such foul imagery into the memory of the reader. What has been seen, can not be unseen, no matter how hard I try. Yet, ignoring the subject matter, the artwork is exquisite, worthy to hang on the wall of a Lord Governor's palace. That is if they weren't so blasphemous.

 

Section II. Journal.

In true chaotic fashion, the journal does not seem to follow any chronological order. Some entries are apparently memories of earlier events. Several entries are separated by blank pages. Others run from one entry into the next. Some entries contradict previous entries, or that of known information about the Black Maw and its parent legion. Another aspect of this section that confounded me, was that there were entries that described failures, personal and professional, which in my opinion, adds to the veracity of his journal, yet in other entries, he clearly lies, and for no obvious gain. I get the impression that this Lavam must lie so much, it has become a habit, he even lies to himself within his journal. In spite of the obvious heretical nature of Lavam, I find a twinge of admiration for the willpower of Lavam for being able to persevere in the face of so many trials.m he describes. Important intelligence gleaned from this section includes:

 

1. Lavam, Lord Carrack, and nearly all of the officers, as well as some of the rank and file, have origins dating back to the Great Crusade.

 

2. Lavam was the first to openly worship the Dread Four, and leads most of the warband's religious ceremonies.

 

3. Lavam has a key role in the indoctrination of newly corrupted or created Astartes.

 

4. Lavam has set up an academy in Howler's Charn, (and may have done so in other locations as well) to train cult magos and cult recruiters.

 

5. Lavam oversees the desecration of cathedrals to the Emperor, along with the conversion of conquered worlds to the heretical worship of the Dark Gods.

 

6. Lavam rarely ventures into combat anymore, but is quite formidable when he does.

 

7. Lavam is untrusting of Lord Carrack and the other officers of the Black Maw.

 

8. The corruption of Ganda, the Tyr system, and Bulltop II, were all the direct result of his nefarious activities. There are numerous others.

 

Section III Oratory and Apologetics

 

This section records some of his speeches and sermons that he felt were particularly effective or noteworthy. It also details intellectual arguments about the existence of the Dark Gods, and why someone should put their faith in them over that of the distant Golden Throne.

 

Judging by his speeches and sermons, all penned by his own hand, it must be awe inspiring to hear him speak. Not that I would ever countenance doing such a thing, just that his speeches and sermons, no doubt were successful in winning new converts, and strengthening the convictions of the Black Maw.

 

The Apologetics were the most seditious words in the Libro Nero di Lavam. I have to admit that the logic of Lavam's arguments was hard to refute. I must confess that in spite of my abundant faith in the Emperor of Mankind, I have never seen His miracles, yet the works of the dark gods are plentiful, and easily produced. Thus most of his arguments were not done with mere words, but with demonstrations of the power of the warp. And what wondrous demonstrations! The twisting and manipulation of flesh as if it was clay in the hands of a sculptor, the vitality to withstand the most extreme torments, the sights, the sounds, the sensations, the undiluted essence of rage, more powerful and stimulating than even the eversor cocktail! I must pause, the sisters are growing concerned with my demeanor.

 

Section IV. Rituals and Rites

 

This section begins with detailing the rites of worship common to the Black Maw Warband, such as pre and post battle sacrifices, ritual branding of slaves, and semi-regular rites. Some of these come from the Black Legion, while others are organic to this Warband. Lavam talks of this as an analogy of the relationship with the Warband to the Legion. They share some things in common, yet they still maintain a culture that is noticeably unique. Since the reign of Lord Carrack, all of the rituals involve blood, something that occasionally riles the "purist" principals of Lavam. Deeper into this section are rituals with more than just a symbolic meaning. Rituals to beseech the gods for favor, rituals to call forth the neverborn on the eve of battle, rituals that bind a willing fallen angel to one of the Four. Rituals that call forth possessing daemons into unconcerned hosts, rituals so foul, so damning, yet so beautiful to read about and envision. Rituals I have attempted in secret with the blood of rats found in my cell while my watcher's eyes glazed over with fatigue. I will have success before they rip the beauty and clarity of the true gods from my mind, even if I have to kill to get it. I will. I. The 16th Beast of the Final Days will snuff the light, from Candlebright. A new Prince will arise, to friend and foe's surprise. Yet the fabled Candle of Light, may well fade to darkness Black as night. The Maw of the Black Beast, will devour its bloody feast. The Raven Protectors and the Knights of Grey, will see the

 

Note. Dear Inquisitor Chella Bonotello,

We have completed your task of drawing out the information you requested from Adept Cassi. I know you requested my mission to turn over the information to one of your many flunkies, but being as these are the last words of a man under your employ, I send them to you, so there is no doubt of what you have done to this poor adept. No further information will be forthcoming from Cassi, as I have exorcized the malign influences in his head and heart with blessed mass reactive bolts from my own side arm.

 

"I do not need to know the ways of the heretic, I only need to know his location so that my mace may smite him." -St Juniper.

 

Sincerely Palatine Caroll

 

 

Reply. Dear Revered Palatine Carroll,

Even if Adept Cassi didn't know the danger involved to his soul when I assigned him the Libro Nero di Lavam, for which he assuredly did, I would still not have hesitated in assigning him the text, even knowing the toll it would take upon the brave adept. I probably will do something similar again, maybe even now as we correspond. So rest easy tonight, knowing that there are men and women like me and Cassi out there in the dark, doing what must be done for the sake of the Imperium.

 

[EesiOh]

great work Carrack

[Carrack]

Thanks

[Scourged]

Well, what I've got so far is a sequel, just not the one I planned. Couldn't scrape together a satisfactory idea for Apostle Bhuramas - not yet at least, as I might come up something by the 13th. We'll see. Instead, I let my mind wander on the Zephyrmaster from my last story, and I whipped this up today.

 

Prayer of Jubilance

 

 

Prayer of Jubilance

This year’s harvest at the Festival had been quite fruitful. Over seven score of spawned beings had been collected from those touched by the Zephyrgeist this year. Such bounty was a rarity. Surely it was a sign of good fortune handed down from the Zephyr. The Zephyrmaster vowed to himself to later pray in reverence to the Spiritual Wind and see if it would reveal hints of coming fortune. Such things would have to wait, however; the Congregation would be waiting for him.

 

Shuttles had brought the hundreds of the untouched children from the Festival to join the congregation ahead of him. A shame they could not reach Transcendence. Those lucky beings that had were rounded up and hauled toward the congregation as well. Oh how his followers will rejoice when they see the bounty of the Zephyrgeist! He could practically hear and feel the adjuration of the crowd from his presence, and see their transfixed eyes upon hearing his annual sermon. His personal shuttle could not fly him to the crowd fast enough.

 

The entirety of Tachylite’s holy army had assembled in the capitol to hear the Zephyrmaster speak. As they did every year, the Changemongers filled the open streets and alleys, fighting and shuffling for the best position to vid casters and vox speakers. Countless soldiers in piecemeal uniform and stolen armor shared stories throughout the crowd. Swathes of the mutant rabble gathered in cliques, respected and welcomed amidst the untouched. Men and women collected around the Zephyr Spawn as they danced in their enclosures, ever a delight to see. They were all waiting for him.

 

The great basilica of the Tachylite capitol towered high through the atmosphere, bas-reliefs of intricately carved volcanic glass woven into the gothic spires and gargoyles supporting the building. The Zephyrmaster stepped onto the processional balcony that served as his annual stage to those who waged war for the cause. His acolytes - blessed by the Warp Wind’s touch - had already gathered, sitting meekly in the corners. The regimental command flanked the left, holding the banner of the Changemongers aloft high, Overlord Zhufree Khal standing at attention at the front. The leader of the Zephyr’s militant arm met the spiritual leader with a salute, and the robed man bowed in return.

 

To the right gathered the recent additions to the ceremony. Three demigods of sapphire armor stood motionless until the Zephyrmaster’s arrival. They were envoys of the Zephyr, archangels sent from the great Void. Their leader discreetly nodded his head in acknowledgement, and the holy man fell to his knees in supplication. Such an honor to be recognized by the chosen warriors of the Zephyr, the True Master!

 

Rising again to his old knees, the Father of Tachylite finished his long walk to the railing, looking down at the crowd beneath him in all directions. They had fallen silent, anticipating his words once more. Oh, how their adulation fueled him so! Yes, to serve the Zephyr was the purpose of existence, and he served with great honor. But as the great books taught, nothing in this life is without selfish pursuits. Knowing a planet worshipped his words almost filled the Zephyrmaster with as much bliss as his service to the Zephyr! Almost.

 

Making the sign of the Zephyrhost, he spoke at last: “The Equinox has come, and the Warp Winds bless!”

 

An eruption of cheers cascaded over him. Human voices called out in rapture and joy. Bestial shouts from the Transcended joined the fray. Tanks and artillery fired celebratory rounds in booming punctuation to the celebration. Even the stoic Zhufree Khal was cheering. Ah, yes, the love of this crowd was divine. The wrinkled but graceful hands of the Zephyrmaster rose and silence the crowd reluctantly.

 

“Thank you, valiant servants of the Zephyr - the Guardian of Tachylite, our True Master. Our Equinox has come again, the holiest of nights where the veil between realms is at its most thin, and we can hear the Warp Winds at their loudest. Do you hear the Winds, my children? If not, then open your minds, and listen, as the Zephyr praises us all!”

 

Again the fervent cries of the zealots filled the city. There was no question that they all believed in the power of the Zephyr. He had watched, all his life, that belief foster and grow throughout the population, from one town to the next on his pilgrimage. The Old Ways of Tachylite could never be buried under the darkened lies of the so-called Imperial Truth. Hah, such preposterousness! Tachylite was fueled by the will of the Warp Winds, and the Zephyrmaster had led his people back to the light.

 

“Our True Master has blessed us incredibly this Festival. In so many years that I have spent as your Zephyrmaster, children, I have never seen such a resplendent harvest. Look now, and see your brothers and sisters chosen by the Zephyrgeist! Witness the miracle that is Transcendence!”

 

And oh, how they did! The crowd’s pleasure could not be contained! The reveal of this year’s Zephyrspawn was an endless delight to all those who could see. So many of them, so many, but all of them so special and unique. Not one of the Transcendent shared a single feature among them. They were beautiful, wonderful icons of the blessings of the Zephyr. This was what it meant to truly serve in the name of the Changemongers!

 

“But please, please, be calm once again my children. For the gifts given unto us from the Almighty Zephyr, the Specter of the Void, we must give thanks. Join me now, one and all, with heads bowed in reverence, hands in the sign of the Zephyrhost, as I lead you in the Prayer of Jubilance.”

 

As always, the crowd lowered their heads and made the sign. They obeyed, they always did. Such beautiful children, they were. They were so very lucky to have him as their Zephyrmaster. Already it was such an honor to simply be born on Tachylite, as it meant you were a chosen of the Zephyr, glory unto it be. But to serve now, in the time of glorious renewal, in the growing light casting aside the Imperium’s shadow, under his tutelage, the pious and mighty Zephyrmaster? Oh, if only other souls in this galaxy could be so lucky!

 

His acolytes, in keeping with revived traditions of centuries past, unfurled the vast scroll of prayer, inked in the holy runes of Tachylite’s ancient dialect, and wrapped the aged parchment around the outstretched arms and body of the aged man. The Warp Winds were already stirring through his core as he spoke the prayer.

 

“Holy be the Zephyr, the Warp Winds, Noble Guardian of Tachylite.

Oh, how we resplendently serve you, for you are our Almighty True Master!

On this day, joyous Equinox, we have gathered again in Your honor.

 

“Your children offer you a world of gratitude for the gifts bequeathed to us.

With your divine touch you have allowed the Zephyrgeist into our minds and souls,

And ushered the luckiest among us all along the path toward Transcendence!

 

“We give thanks to you, the Specter of the Void, for all that you provide for us.

Speak to us now, oh Holy Zephyr, and reveal to us your expectations.

We eternally serve you, and spread your glorious name through all the Cosmos!”

 

His body rose as he spoke. With each reverent phrase, his eyes glowed brighter. As before, at the Festival, a strong breeze began to cyclone through the crowd. The Zephyr heard his prayer, and was blessing the children. He felt it, yes, the divine presence again! It was in his body, his mind, his soul, his everything! It filled him, consumed him, inspired him, changed him, destroyed him, birthed him, taught him… it was him. Here, in this one beautiful moment, with the curtain of reality pulled sheer on the Equinox, he and the Zephyr were as one!

 

And there, in that moment, the smallest details were made bare to him. The True Master revealed the next piece of the puzzle to be completed. The actions to be taken by Tachylite and her Changemongers for the next year had become clear. His role as the Zephyrmaster for the next year had become clear. Their interactions and alliance with the scourged archangels for the next year had become clear. All was clear in that one shining moment, and it passed as quickly as the breeze itself.

 

The crowd waited again in silence for their Zephyrmaster to recover. They knew he was fine from his fall back to the podium. They knew he was tired from his commune with the Zephyr. But they knew that he was unharmed, and would soon regale them all with their new plans. Such was the traditions revived from the past. He was their Oracle, and this was the day of Prophecy. Such was the Equinox.

 

“Travel to Ephaeda… spread the Wind. Defend the fleet… pirates coming… red and black. Hunt... the sons of Macragge. Hazhim… must fall. This is the Will of the Warp Winds, the Zephyr commands.”

 

Again, the crowd was lost in jubilance. They had their directives from the True Master, all thanks to the Zephyrmaster. They cheered his name again and again, and he loved it. But he was tired. Commune with the Almighty drained his strength, and he needed rest. Overlord Khal and the archangels would attend to the crowd. There were plans to be made, wars to be crafted, and they were far better suited to those tasks than their pious leader.

 

His acolytes were carrying him through the halls of the basilica. Some might find the attention embarrassing, but he enjoyed it. So reverent were his subjects that they would literally carry him away. This was a glorious life to live, and it was his. Set upon his bed, the acolytes left him in peace. The Zephyrmaster closed his eyes and smiled. An entire planet had once again cried out for his words, and rejoiced upon receipt. Such glory...

 

Nowhere else could a meek child with no name ascend to such a gilded throne. No other planet would reveal her secrets long buried under Imperial expansion and reward their discovery. By his will alone, an army of men, mutants, and beasts had grown from nothing and could now spread his beautiful knowledge. He was the Father of Tachylite, the admired and respected Zephyrmaster, and everything had turned out so much better than planned. All thanks to the Zephyr.

 

 

 

So yeah, I may enter a second tale before the deadline is up. Could elaborate on my Apostle. Or, I'm kicking around a humorous idea as well. Anyway, enjoy.

[Kierdale]

Thedarkprincesnun, might I suggest putting your entry into Word and letting it point out grammar/punctuation that needs work?

There's no hurry to submit entries. I'd rather members take time, check spelling and grammar, proofread and then post nearer the deadline. :)

 

Carrack and Scourged, outstanding work!

[EesiOh]

new challange when ;) 

[Kierdale]

As I said, the challenge runs until Friday Nov 13th.

Then you will have a new challenge.

 

Actually, I lie.

There will be a bonus challenge set before that date... :devil:

[Carrack]

As I said, the challenge runs until Friday Nov 13th.

Then you will have a new challenge.

 

Actually, I lie.

There will be a bonus challenge set before that date... :devil:

I'm ready.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Building on two previous challenges, Nemesis of Chaos and New Meat, and also a little background for my Treadheads and Battles of the Space Marines challenges.

 

Hidden Content

Dark Apostle Harnak of the Word Bearers paused, glancing at the winter-barren trees as his hot breath formed fleeting clouds in the well below freezing air. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, tasting the air. Harnak knelt among the brown, frost covered leaves and brushed them away until he could see the dirt of the path.

 

"You were here..." The Dark Apostle whispered to the large, bare footprint long frozen into the ground. His armoured fingers traced a profane symbol in the middle of the footprint, then clenched in an angry, shaking fist. "Warsmith Bolverk..."
 

After a moment the Dark Apostle collected himself, suppressed the righteous anger and stood straight. The heat from his bare head steamed away in whispy curls, and with another deep breath Harnak continued his walk down the forest path.

 

The village was not quite a town, but the stone walls were high. The Dark Apostle strode purposefully across the frozen farm fields, the icy, black tillage not slowing him. He stopped at the edge of the field within a stone throw of the village gate, and considered the gruesome scarecrows.

 

"I will avenge you, children of the truth." Harnak said with a passion he did not feel. The anger had been pushed back down, but he had yet to bring up the rapture of the Primordial Truth. In-between emotions he was numb, and he used this pause to give himself time to achieve the right sense of being. The long dead mutants and their rotted, icy bodies would never hear his promise. He knew their souls had been forfeit the moment they were murdered.

 

After a moment he pressed on.

 

A Predator tank idled just inside the village gate, covering the road with its autocannon. The large wooden gate itself hung crookedly on one side from being smashed open, and the other side was naught but timber ground into the pavement beneath the tracks of the tank. Harnak did not acknowledge the Predator's TC as he raised a hand in salute. Harnak made his way down the empty streets, following the ever growing noise of despair.

 

In the village square were packed a few hundred people. Shoulder to shoulder they huddled row upon row, forced to their knees with their heads bowed in terrified supplication. Around the square two squads of Word Bearers space marines stood herd over the prisoners, with a Rhino APC at either end of the main street blocking the largest exits. The people were ragged and shivering, most wearing only their sleeping shirts and wrapped tightly in thin blankets. The raid had come before dawn, and the rustic folk had already begun their winter habit of sleeping in. The local star was by then about two fingers above the forest tree line, as the peasants would reckon it. About 1000 hours standard Imperial time.

 

"I do not think you appreciate what I've come here to do for you." Dark Apostle Harnak addressed the crowd. They flinched or cowered from his voice, whimpering and moaning with despair. Harnak listened to their lamentations with impatience. After a few heartbeats he knew he was close to losing his audience, that the right moment to seize and hold their attention was coalescing.

 

"Bring out the prisoner." Harnak ordered. He did not need to raise his voice for his vox bead to pick it up, but the command was as much for the crowd as it was for the two Word Bearers who disappeared into the lead Rhino. These two reappeared after the sounds of a brief scuffle, and they dragged an Iron Warriors space marine behind them, pulling on the chains attached to his arms.

 

The crowd murmured, uncertain now what their part to play in all of this was. Most were convinced that they only awaited an inevitable command to be gunned down by the brutish invaders, but the appearance of the prisoner spoke of some other purpose for the gathering. Even the most frightened now watched for the drama to play out. Harnak smiled; he had scripted a good pacing for this, and he knew he had the crowd right where they needed to be.

 

"Now the woman." He whispered into his vox, and a single space marine stepped gingerly past the first two rows of cowering villagers to gently pull on the elbow of an old woman, causing her to stand and shuffle toward the Dark Apostle. Harnak himself held the woman by her shoulders, leading her to stand in such a way that the crowd could see them both, with the captured Iron Warriors space marine shoved to his knees center-stage.

 

"Loyal citizens of the Imperium, I give you the first of many truths." The Dark Apostle lifted the bruised and bloody face of the captive to show it to the crowd. With a silk kerchief he wiped away the blood from his latest escape attempt, grabbed his chin roughly and held it so the crowd could see his face. The old woman gasped, fell to her knees.

 

"Wilhelm!" The old woman covered her mouth with trembling hands. The Iron Warrior stared through his one unswollen eye. After a long moment a measure of comprehension dawned upon him. He turned to look up at Harnak with a spiteful expression.

 

"You bring me before my mother?" The Iron Warriors space marine spat blood and acid at the Dark Apostle, then yelped as the Word Beareres yanked his arms wide and shoved an armoured boot into his back where his power pack had been removed.

 

The aged woman cried out again and reached out to touch the Iron Warriors face, but Harnak stepped in between them.

 

"Your sister, I think." Harnak knelt and looked into the face of the Iron Warrior. "Time moves more quickly than you could imagine, young one."

 

Harnak stood up and faced the crowd again.

 

"Your Harvest Festival is a lie." He began. "But you know this. Deep inside, you know this. The children taken by the Old Man of the Woods are really taken by the Arch-enemy to be made into Angels of Death, just like those in your Ecclesiarchal sermons. They fight the Long War against the Golden Throne, against the Emperor."

 

The old woman shrieked, drawing her reaching hands back as if her brother was fire.

 

"And well they should." The Dark Apostle smiled. "But even outside of the Imperium there are lies and conceits. I am here to open your eyes. I am here to help you."

 

"Just kill us and get it over with." The Iron Warrior said wearily. "Or take me back to your torture chambers."

 

"I am here to help you, cousin." Harnak placed his hands on the Iron Warriors face, forcing him to look into his eyes. The anger in the Dark Apostle was gone, replaced by an earnest desire to share the Primordial Truth. "To help you! Your Warsmith is insane! I have to stop him! I have to save you! I have to save your brothers!"

 

"The Warsmith is our salvation!" The Iron Warrior raged at the Dark Apostle. "What rewards do you earn from the Warp? Mutation and damnation! You are a slavish plaything to inter-dimensional xenos filth!"

 

Harnak roared with anger and struck the Iron Warrior with the back of his hand. He then stood and unleashed a savage kick to his captive's face. With a sickening crunch the Iron Warrior's jaw broke and a handful of front teeth scattered across the cobblestones.

 

Breathing heavily, the Dark Apostle struggled to regain control of his emotions. His sense of outrage often overcame his rational thought when thinking on this Warmsith's many crimes. He wanted so badly to punish the Warsmith for his crimes, and it hurt him deeply whenever he failed to reach one of the evil bastard's followers.

 

"I am sorry, cousin." Harnak knelt once more and drew the Iron Warrior's head to his breast, stroking his blood matted hair. "I have a temper. The True Gods are testing me because they know my patience is overcome by my zeal. You don't understand how much I love you all. You don't understand how much it hurts me to know you are wasting your lives building his castles in the sand. You don't understand how much it hurts me to know you are willingly yet unwittingly shoving your souls down the Great Devourers maw. You are so special, and you could be so much more, but he has lied to you! You rejected the Rotten King and his False Empire, why can't you also see the lies of your Warsmith? I have so much I want to show you!"

 

The Iron Warriors space marine was slack in the Dark Apostle's arms, but he was mumbling something under his breath. Harnak stopped and listened to the odd language, searching his memory for the meaning of the ancient words. It was an old tongue, and ancient tongue from Terra, and this was an obscure dialect of it. The Iron Warrior was singing, and when the Dark Apostle recognized a few of the repeated words he suddenly realized the source.

 

"Mercy?" The Dark Apostle leaned back to look at the bloodied face of his captive. "I am here to offer you the truth! You want mercy? The dead cannot grant you mercy! The Warsmith LIED to you! Don't you understand? THERE IS NO MERCY IN THIS UNIVERSE!"

 

The captive Iron Warrior suddenly lunged forward. Harnak reflexively reached for the crozius that hung upon his belt, but the captive made an odd maneuver. Instead of lunging toward the Dark Apostle's face, the Iron Warrior went for the Dark Apostle's knees. There, on a sharpened spike that usually held an oath or prayer scroll, the Iron Warrior slashed his own throat. A bright spray of blood fanned across the Dark Apostle, the old woman, and many of those in the front row of the captured villagers.

 

The villagers all began to scream, and the old woman wailed in anguish, bloodied hands covering her face.

 

"Apostle?" A questioning voice came over the command vox, and the livid Dark Apostle stood and gritted his teeth before acknowledging it.

 

"We can still salvage this." Harnak wiped the fresh blood from his face with the same silk kerchief he had used to wipe the face of the now dead Iron Warrior. "Bring out the other one."

 

From the second Rhino another pair of Word Bearers dragged forth the xenos captive. Her wild appearance and savage demeanor hushed the agitated crowd. It was one of the cruel eldar who plagued the shadows of this world, one of the dark reavers who hunted and killed those who could not pay tribute or were caught outside of town on deadly summer nights. The Wych was dragged to the Dark Apostle and forced to kneel in the steaming blood of the Iron Warrior.

 

"The Old Man of the Woods sings to you about the evils of the xenos." Harnak tore at the Wyches already sparse clothing, revealing tattooed flesh. At the sight of the symbol those in the front row of the crowd gasped. "His devoted warrior's dying words cursed me for a xenos plaything. Yet look upon the Warsmith's hypocrisy, look upon the proof of his perfidy!"

 

Tattooed over the heart of the Dark Eldar female was the symbol of the Wychcult, and worked into its design was the iron skull of the IV Legion.

 

"He is no yuletide saint!" Harnak drew his athame and slit the throat of the struggling Wych. "He is no wise man of ancient tradition! He is a hypocrite and a liar, a false prophet of dead gods! He consorts with your oppressors while warning you of the taint of the xenos! He took this one's leader for a bride, and the stray travellers of your world were his wedding present to her followers!"

 

"Books? Songs? Annual festivals? Quaint traditions?" The Dark Apostle lost himself in his fury at the evil Warsmith, and the ecstasy of preaching the Primordial Truth. "The Warsmith professes to love humanity, but he holds them in the thrall of lies of his own diseased imagination, to keep you for his own use! But with the truth I will set you free! I will show you the undeniable, objective reality of this universe!"

 

Harnak grabbed the old woman, the sister of the dead Iron Warrior, and pulled her to her feet by her hair.

 

"Not all of you will be worthy." The Dark Apostle held his athame to the old woman's throat. "So begins your formal lesson in the truth: there is no mercy for the weak."

 

+++++++++

 

"Clear the throne room." The Warsmith ordered quietly, and his Terminator bodyguards stalked forward, belligerently chasing the stragglers with harsh words and kicks to the backside. Only the Dark Eldar Wych was allowed to remain.

 

"Such a pity that by our little treaty we could not intervene, husband." The Dark Eldar woman took delight in the Warsmith's frustration. "But we saw the whole thing, saw the Warp fires contort the humans and reshape them in the image of the Enemy. Shall I describe it to you in detail, my dear?"

 

"Yes." The Warsmith whispered, surprising the Eldar female. "And then, wife, I have a task for you."

 

"Business or pleasure?" The xenos purred, knowing that there was no distinction once the Warsmith was moved to forgo the restraints he had placed upon her bloodlust.

[Scourged]

So, a bonus entry from me this week. I had this stupid idea in my head for a tale of inspiration, so I put it to the page thanks to the extended timeline. I figured... not everything we write here needs to be so serious all the time. I took the idea of "Interview with a Dark Apostle" a bit too literally. So consider this entry something a bit more lighthearted, to show us the fun side of Chaos.

 

Now sit back and enjoy Mal Content's Bazaar:

MC: The time is now 4:59::59 in the Maelstrom, and you’re listening to KTYR, 106.9 - The Tyrant. You know what that means… here comes Mal Content’s Bazaar!

*show introductory theme plays*

MC: That’s right, you devoted denizen’s of the Warp, you denigrated slaves to demigods, Mal Content’s here-

KK: With Kal Kilmerdor

EA: And Eve Ale.

MC: -to bring you another hour of news and entertainment on this decrepit space station.

*”Oh Yeah” sound clip plays*

MC: We’re going to have a good show for you today, aren’t we?

KK: Don’t we always, Mal?

EA: Not as long as I’ve been here.

ALL: *laugher*

*studio audience canned laughter plays*

KK: Talk about shots fired!

*sound clip of bolter fire plays*

MC: Well let’s see if we can’t make today a good one. Long time listeners know the drill by now: we’ll have our morning update on the Long War-

ALL: *shouting* Death to the False Emperor!

MC: -with our Eye on the Eye warp storm reports every twenty. But first up this morning we’ve got ourselves a special guest in the studio.

KK: Yeah, and who’d that be Mal?

EA: An actual listener maybe?

*crashing glass sound effect plays*

KK: I sure hope it’s better than that!

MC: It is, Kal. Today in the studio we’re joined by Tok Nangal, a Dark Apostle from the Word Bearers. Welcome, Tok.

*studio audience canned applause plays*

TN: Greetings and salutations, my friend Mal, Kal, and Eve. It’s a pleasure to be on the show.

KK: Would you listen to this guy? Sure is a skilled orator.

EA: Oh, I’ll bet he’s got a skilled oratory.

*wolf whistle sound effect plays*

KK: Down, Eve! Control yourself! Down!

*cracking whip sound effect plays*

MC: Don’t mind them, Tok. We’re not used to such celebrities in our little studio.

TN: That’s quite alright, Mal. I’m most assured they mean me no disrespect with their playful banter.

MC: Great, great… so, what brings you all the way out to this side of the Materium? Should we be looking forward to a raid on the Imperium-

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Death to the False Emperor!

MC: -any time soon?

TN: *chuckles blasphemously* Oh, even if we were I couldn’t tell you that. Top secret and all that.

MC: Hah, of course.

KK: Can’t blame my guy for askin’, am I right?

*ricocheting bullet sound effect plays*

TN: You are indeed correct, Kal. No harm done whatsoever. No, Mal and friends, and all those listening today, I am here to simply spread the good words of Chaos-

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

TN: -worship and devotion.

MC: And here I thought your visit today was going to be to earn supporters in your run for the Dark Council later this year.

TN: *coughs heretically* Oh? That? Well, I wasn’t going to bring it up, but since you did, Mal…

MC: We can get to that later, Tok. But let’s focus on your sermon first. Here at KTYR, we’re big fans of Chaos-

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

MC: -in all forms, but I’m sure you knew that already.

TN: *pauses treasonously* ...yes, I can tell.

EA: You have to be out in these parts. It’s not like you have a choice when you sit in orbit around New Badab. You feel me, guys?

KK: You wish we did!

 

*studio audience canned shocked response plays*

 

*sexy saxophone music plays*

TN: Oh, but you do, my exuberant children. All of you were given a choice. You all chose to abandon the Imperium-

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Death to the False Emperor!

TN: -and all of it’s lies, and accept the truth and freedom that Chaos-

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

TN: -offers. But it is not simply enough to chose the Eightfold Path of Cha… er, the Eightfold Path. It can serve you, yes, but only do you know what true blessings it offers when you give yourself in supplication and worship to Chaos.

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

MC: Well, Tok, what can you tell our listeners about the benefits of worship?
 

TN: *sips water chaotically* I’d be glad to elaborate. As we all know, Chaos-

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

TN: -offers gifts to those who embrace its touch. Yes, so many of you out there already have devoted yourselves to one of the many Ruinous Powers - and that’s great! But true worship means you give yourself unto Cha… uh, unto the Warp undivided. When each god is praised in equal measure you shall know true glory!

*studio audience canned cheering plays*

MC: I couldn’t have said it better myself.

KK: Neither could I.

EA: Yeah, boys, we know. No one could.

MC: But hey, that’s why we have you, isn’t it Tok?

TN: But of course.

MC: Now, before you continue, what would you say to taking a few calls from our listeners? I’m sure they’d love a chance to speak to a Dark Apostle first-hand themselves.

TN: By all means, Mal. I’ll gladly address any who wish an audience with me.

MC: Righty-o. Okay, let’s go to line four: Hello, caller, you’re on 106.9 - The Tyrant talking to Mal Content and Dark Apostle Tok Nangal.

Caller 1: Uh, is this me?

EA: That’s what Mal said, bright boy. You’re on the air.

Caller 1: Oh, uh good. My question is for the Dark Apostle guy, Tok. So, um, my wife and I, uh, we love Chaos-

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

Caller 1: -in all forms. But she just can’t get enough of Slaanesh, and I just can’t keep up with her. What should I do?

EA: Sounds like a Helcat™ there, caller!

*growling space panther sound effect plays*

TN: A common question, caller. Often times, may cultists feel that they have to devote themselves to one of the Dark Gods before the others. And that’s okay. Let me ask you this: does she bring praise to all the powers of Chaos?

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

Caller 1: Uh, yeah, she does. I guess so. It’s just… I’m so much more of a Nurgle guy-

KK: That’s my boy, right there!

*bursting pustule sound effects play*

Caller 1: -uh, hah, thanks Kal. But yeah, how do we make it work?

TN: *ponders the question nefariously* I think I have just the solution for you, caller. The next time Papa Nurgle gifts you with a glorious contagion, share it with your wife. Yes, it may not be her exact cup of warp-tea, but she will value the new experience and sensations you give her. Do that, and I can promise you and your wife will praise the Dark Gods effectively.

Caller 1: Hey, great advice. Thanks.

MC: Great advice, indeed. Alright, line three: You’re on the air with Mal Content’s Bazaar. Go ahead, caller.

Caller 2: Yeah, hi. Long time worshiper, first time caller. Just want to say Death to the False Emperor!

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Death to the False Emperor!

Caller 2: Right. So, my question is for the Apostle. You know all about Khorne, right?

TN: Of course, caller. My life is devoted equally to all of the Ruinous Powers, and that certainly includes Khorne.

Caller 2: Great, great. My buddy and I have had this bet going, and we need you to settle it: Would Khorne rather we MAIM! KILL! BURN!? Or does he want us to KILL! MAIM! BURN!?

TN: You’d be surprised how often I get asked this question.

KK: That is surprising.

*chain axe - definitely not a chainsword - sound effect plays*

TN: Caller, though I can’t help you win the bet, what I can tell you is Khorne cares not how the syntax flows. You are your friend are both correct, really. Blood for the Blood God, caller.

Caller 2: And Skulls for the Skull Throne. Thanks Apostle.

MC: Alright. We have time for one more before we have to go to a break. Line seven, you’re talking to Dark Apostle Tok Nangal on KTYR. Go ahead.

Caller 3: Hi Mal, Kal, and Eve. Hi Tok.

ALL: Hello.

Caller 3: So yeah, um, what’d I’d love to know is how could I be a Dark Apostle like you, Tok?

TN: You sound young, caller. Would you mind telling us your age?

Caller 3: I’m… seven and a half.

*studio audience canned “aww” plays*

EA: We get the most adorable cultists calling in.

 

*baby mobile chimes sound effect plays*

TN: Well, caller, knowing that, I have good news for you. You just might have what it takes to join the Word Bearers. How much do you love Chaos?

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

Caller 3: I’m a super huge fan of Chaos!

ALL (except TN): *shouting* Glory to the Dark Gods!

TN: That’s great. You’re off to a good start. Only the strongest and most devoted to the faith can make it as an aspirant of the Word Bearers. Talk to your local recruiter, ask about the XVII Legion, and they’ll direct you to our recruiting worlds. Then, if you spend your entire existence praising the Eightfold Path, and give yourself to all powers equally, you just might see yourself rise in the ranks to be an Apostle. Who knows, you just might be one of my Acolytes one day.

ALL: *laughter*

Caller 3: That’d be great! Hey Mal, can I get a T-shirt?

MC: You sure can. But you know the rules, caller: to get a shirt, you’ll have to see what the Bazaar Prize Wheel says!

*game show sound effects play*

 

*studio audience canned cheering plays*

MC: For any new listeners out there, here’s how it works: here in the studio, we’ll spin the prize wheel. There are eight spots on the wheel - just perfect for those who love the Eightfold Path already.

TN: Perfect.

MC: Now, if we spin and it lands on a 1-5, our dear young caller will find himself cast into the tumultuous void of a warp rift where he stands and be consumed by daemonic entities until his soul is forever adrift a sea of torture and despair in the Maelstrom!

KK: Hah, oh no!

*recordings of unrelenting horror and eternal despair at the host of daemonic hordes play*

*dramatic organ chords play*

 

*flushing toilet sound effect plays*

MC: But don’t worry, caller: if you’re lucky enough that the wheel rolls a 6+, you’ll be saved! And then that sweet T-shirt is yours. Tok, since you’re our guest today, want to do the honors and spin for the future Legionnaire?

TN: I’d be delighted to, Mal. Good luck, caller. *spins the prize wheel maliciously*

*sound of a prize wheel spinning*

*dramatic celebration bells and whistles sound effects play*

EA: Alright! Nice spin, Tok!

KK: Woo!

MC: Congratulations, caller! Tok Nangal came through for you, and spun a 6+, so you’re safe!
 

Caller 3: Yay!

MC: We’ll collect your contact information over the break and teleport it to you right away. But, speaking of, our time is up with the Dark Apostle. Thank you so much for joining us.

TN: Thank you for having me, Mal.

MC: Anytime! But, we’re going to head to a commercial break. Don’t you listeners go anywhere! This is Mal Content’s Bazaar on 106.9 KTYR - The Tyrant.

*commercial outro music plays*

[Son of Carnelian]

Been away too long. Let's get this going. 

 

The blood flowed easily across Guvval's hand. He traced its every branching path with his eyes, mesmerized by the dance of the red liquid across his palm. His acolytes stood behind him in utter silence, a rarity for anyone under Khorne's thrall. Yet they stood like statues, waiting with every breath for the prophecy that Guvval would divine from the blood that spurted from neck of the decapitated man. 

 

Guvval had long ago discovered the secret to communicating with a god who despised dialogue. Khorne would only reach his subjects through the blood that they spilled in his name. From the first time Guvval cut into a man with Khorne's name on his lips, he could see paths in the crimson spray that led him forward. Eventually, he understood the pattern behind each cut, slice, wound, and gash. Blood spoke to Guvval, and in it, he heard the voice of the eldest god of Chaos. 

 

Others began following him. Time and again he would deliver them from certain death, or even better, towards certain slaughter. The more blood flowed, the clearer the signs became. Some called him the Apostle of Blood. Others called him the Red Shaman. Still more called him the Diviner of Death.

 

Guvval could see the paths now. The decapitated commissar's vital fluid had shown him the their next world. The name had come to him as easily as if he had read it in Low Gothic. His breath slowed and he dropped his voice to a whisper as he thanked Khorne for this latest prophecy. Then he spun to face his followers behind him, exploding on his axis like a fevered preacher of his cousin Word Bearers.

 

"We go to Cadia!" Shouts of approval echoed through the chamber. One voice asked why, not out of insolence, but out of a fevered desire to hear more from their god. Guvval smiled warmly, his sharpened steel teeth gleaming in the darkness. 

 

"Abaddon has called us- To the final Black Crusade!"

  

[Teetengee]

I am not as happy with the pacing and everything on this one, it just seems off, but I don't really have the energy to fix it right now.

Captain Luther Starscream

Hidden Content

“Whom did we serve in faith?”

“THE WARMASTER!”

“And who shall be returned to us?”

“THE WARMASTER!”

The reply reverberated around the chamber, catching and twisting in the emotionally reactive architecture of the cathedral. Sprites of “Horus” and “Duty” and “Renewal” made their ghostly way toward Luther as he pressed the deactivation rune on his throat-vox. He looked out wistfully over the rainbow of marching ceramite as it left his domain for that of the fields of war. Pressing back his alabaster hair with a ringed and bangled right hand, Luther reached out to take the wine glass his serf was proffering.

Luther took a long drink of the deep red liquid. “Thank you Kal,” he said, returning the glass to the serf.

“I live to serve, Speaker,” Kaloc said, bowing his head reverently. “Your meal has been prepared, Speaker. If you will follow me, Sir?”

Luther motioned him to lead on. As they proceeded out of the Whispering Hall, Luther rested his right hand on the pommel of his powersaber, every motion calculated to display an easy confidence Luther rarely knew anymore. Luther’s long braid caught on the stiff gold collar of his teal uniform as he looked up to the murals of past conquests and consequences.

“So many lives I’ve lived…” Luther muttered to himself, as his thoughts wandered and wondered.

“I’m sorry, Sir?”

‘It’s nothing Kal, keep going.” The eight pointed star about Luther’s left eye seemed to glitter as might the star-filled void in the torch lit corridors. They walked the rest of the way in relative quiet, only the echoing clicks of their bootheels, the hum of the ship, and the whispers of the ceiling dwellers could be heard.

A pleasant glow filled the room as Kaloc activated several runes upon their entry. In the center of the room was an empty grate over a heater. Lined against the back were several figures robed in white of all ages and genders, flanked by two uniformed guards. The robed figures each had their left hand chained tightly to the wall. On the youngest faces tracks of silent tears could be seen. Luther worried at his mutated canines with his tongue as he walked down the row performing his inspection.

“I need age now. That one.” Luther motioned to an elderly gentleman who was stooped down whispering to the child beside him.

“Yes, Sir!” said the two guards as they walked smartly to the elder and released the catch to let out his chain, grabbing him firmly and walking him toward the heater. The man did not struggle as he was brought forward and then dropped to his knees in front of sweltering heat.

Luther stepped forward and knelt in front of the man, seemingly oblivious to the glowing hot metal behind him. “Thank you,” he said to the man, staring his bright blue eyes into the man’s sad brown. He then stood and stepped around to the back of the hot altar as Kaloc stepped forward wine glass in one hand, and a serrated blade in the other. Kaloc stepped over the man and crouched, blade at the elder’s throat and wine glass held beneath, craning his neck up to time his actions with Luther’s first words.

“Blood from the living,” Luther said the words with hollow ceremony as Kaloc dragged the blade across the man’s throat. Luther then reached over the hot burner to take the proffered wine glass once more, drinking deeply the remains of blood and wine as the dying man convulsed on the floor. No one else spoke while the man died, writhing, twitching, and then still. Then Kaloc took his knife and cut through the robe, now a bright red, to reveal the man’s shoulder. He carved thin strips from the carcass and hung them from the spit. The sizzle and crack of quickly cooking meat was accompanied by the strangely quiet removal of the old man’s body and the evidence of his death by several hooded and multi-limbed attendants who had entered from another room.

Finally, Luther spoke, “And meat from the dead,” before taking a piece from the fire and consuming it in quick methodical bites. He felt a tired ache leave his joints when the ritual was finally complete. The witnesses were removed to their cells and a great banquet table replaced the spit which had returned to a concealed recess beneath the floor. Kaloc put the remaining meat on a plate with assorted vegetables and refilled Luther’s wine as he sat.

Once Luther was seated comfortably, he turned to Kaloc, smile renewed, “You may let them in now.” Kaloc went to a large set of ornate doors at the foot of the table and opened them to allow a small procession to enter.

The first to enter was a young woman, her held head high as she examined the frescos of the dining room. Her forked tongue snapped in and out of the room, tasting the air as she went. The second to enter was a one armed old man, leaning heavily on a cane and limping as he made his slow entrance. The third and fourth were twins, hand in hand, who skipped into the room without a care. Last to enter brought a small proud smile to Luther’s face as he entered. He was a giant of a man covered in scars and sockets, an astartes of recent years but whose time in the warp had gifted him already with skin that glowed blue in the candlelight.

“Please sit down and serve yourselves,” Luther said, motioning between mouthfuls, “no need to stand on ceremony here, the purpose is to get to know each other a bit better.” They sat down with varying amounts of awkwardness. The old man sat first, closest to Luther and grabbed a plate of food with the trained movements of one who had long known that any meal might be his last. The young woman sat next to him and the astartes after her counterclockwise, putting that large man at the foot of the table. The two children pulled the chairs close together and hopped up in unison, the boy further from Luther than the girl.

“Please, introduce yourselves, perhaps say a bit about where you are from or what you do,” said Luther cheerfully, giving each speaker his full and comforting attention in turn.

“My name is Dorver Samson,” began the old man, coughing occasionally while he spoke, “I have worked in Restraud Mine my entire life, but my recent injuries have put me out of work. I seek assistance in protecting my family.” The old man looked on the verge of tears when he spoke.

The young woman glanced toward Dorver before snapping her head to Luther, “I am Calliah, head mech-tamer for the Beast and I answer directly to the King of Scars. I live aboard the Bitter Hope. I seek guidance in my new duties.” She spoke it with a feigned defiance that Luther knew all too well.

“Augustus Soloson, Dead Brethren, Third Band. I seek answers to questions unbidden,” said the astartes, eye’s darkened by lack of sleep.

The twins spoke in unison, “We are Ophelia and Pferan. We were born on Gem. We seek your blessing on our upcoming Lodestone Rite.”

“Very well. I seek to understand. We all bear witness to each other’s pains. By sharing our truths, we grow stronger,” Luther said the words as he had so many times down the millennia. The varied guests he had this evening reminded him of why the Truthspeaking was perhaps the most important of the Rites of Bonding. The sharing of these types of personal secrets and concerns made the warband as a whole stronger. The different histories behind the participants in such meetings allowed for insights into problems that their sufferers would rarely be exposed to. Additionally, these sorts of councils often hinted at unseen dangers when taken in aggregate. Furthermore, it improved understanding between separate castes and sects such that they would all appreciate the vastness of their mutual endeavor. Lastly, the Truth had ultimately been the reason for the fighting to begin with, and it seemed best to use it to their advantage.

The meal continued as expected. Each guest detailed their problem. This was followed by a period of questioning and then reflection. Finally, every other person at the table, always ending with Luther, offered any advice and sympathy they had. Some cases were easy, for instance calming the nerves of the twins preparing to bind their souls as ship to ship communicators. Most of their concerns were of feelings of loneliness, but Augustus and Luther reassured them that the very nature of their duties, being that of nearly constant contact, would mean that they would be unlikely to suffer much from that worry. Others were more difficult, delving into Calliah’s complicated relationship with her new functions and position and the costs it took to get her there resulted in no easy answers.

When the meal finally concluded Luther rose to his feet, quickly followed by the others. “Leave now in combined purpose. Though you are unlikely to meet again, remember each other as we join together in faith and function.” Each of the guests thanked Luther as they left the room. Luther sat down again at the table, nursing a glass of wine, waiting for Kaloc to return with news of his next deployment.

Several minutes later Kaloc entered, flushed with excitement. After Luther recognized him he blurted out breathlessly, “Recruitment drive, Speaker. Orders from King Escharron, you are to bring the Verum Tabellarius to Gojan sector as reinforcements to the guard outposts there. He wants you to bring them into the fold if you can, and wipe them out if you cannot. I have already mobilized your crew.”

“Thank you Kal,” Luther said, as an old fire filled his belly. He sprang to his feet and strode out the door while fastening his cloak. His crisp steps and the wisps in the spires announced his coming as the whole ship prepared to leave port, making sure that none slowed his path. The grin on Luther’s face was that of purest joy, and everyone who caught a glimpse of it found themselves infected with that same mad lightness of spirit, even if only for a fleeting fraction of a second.

“Officer on deck!” called out as Luther entered the bridge, hundreds of crew snapping to attention.

“Chief, how far are we from launch.?”

“Thirty seven minutes Captain.”

“Let’s cut that to thirty three officer, I want to move, it has been far too long since we were deployed.” Luther said with a certain amount of glee. He went over and sat in his command throne, locking into the ship communication network.

“This is Captain Starscream, all those who are not a part of my crew have thirty minutes to leave or you will be joining us on our deployment. Go in faith, and may the four winds be ever in your sails.” Luther activated his vox and spoke to the bridge. “Work quickly sailors! We have an appointment to keep with the worshippers of the corpse god!”

The roar that followed was little different from those of his sermons, Luther noticed as he settled into his chair. “We shall soon see whether I will need more weapons than words,” he muttered with a smile. “Plot a course for Gojan sector, and get the astropaths working on what is waiting for us there.”

 

[Kierdale]

Very good entries! :tu:

I wonder if we will have any more in these last few days?

 

This Friday's topic is prepared, and the bonus topic I spoke of will be starting next, to run for a few weeks...

[Kierdale]

Thanks all for your excellent entries about Dark Apostles. Those zealous, silver-tongued, fire and brimstone preachers of accursed creeds!

Thedarkprincesnun gave us The Devil’s Word, about a Word Bearers dark apostle by the name of Zankus and his interview.

I gave you the tale of Angra, master of sanctity of the Psychopomps, his fall and death.

The Black Book of Dark Apostle Lavam was Carrack’s entry this week. This tale was told from a unique perspective: that of an inquisitorial agent tasked with garnering knowledge from the tome of a Black Maw dark apostle whilst convalescing, watched over by Sisters.

Scourged gave us more of the Zephyrgeist, focusing on the Zephyrmaster himself. This really fleshed out the depth and breadth of the corruption and twisted religion of Tachylite. I really liked this story, particularly the master’s communion with the Zephyr.

...and then he also gave us Mal Content’s Bazaar I especially liked the advice given to the Nurgle-devotee who has a Slaanesh-devoted wife.

Warsmith Aznable’s tale this week was not from the perspective of his Iron Warriors but rather that of a Word Bearer apostle hunting them. I liked that it continued on from his earlier entries and we could see the apostle attempting to sway and convince mortals. Finally, congratulations to the Warsmith on his marriage...to no less than a foul xenos! I hope we’ll hear more about this.

Son of Carnelian - welcome back! - told us about Guvval, an apostle of Khorne (something I’ve never seen before. Very refreshing). I liked that the apostle discerned patterns in the cutting, the wounds inflicted and the blood spilled. With Khorne’s hatred for sorcerers, this provides an interesting method of scrying.

And Captain Luther Starscream from Teetengee. That the captain dined (upon human flesh) with members/supporters of his warband - some mortals even - and conversed with them over his meal was very, very original.

Finally, it was good to see Calliah again.

I really enjoyed reading everyone’s entries this week. We had some very unique takes on dark apostles, which is what I wanted to see. Again it was difficult for me to choose as content-wise I felt a few were tied in my eyes, so instead I looked how the story was told in order to discern this week’s winner...

Step forward Carrack and claim your reward!

I really liked that the story told us about Lavam via his book. I liked that his writings were contradictory and how as the story went on we could see adept Cassi’s descent into madness as the apostle’s work steadily corrupted him until he had to be executed. That his inquisitor master had expected as such and showed no compunction was a great way to end it. After all, the ends justify the means, do they not?

And here begins our next challenge...

Chaos Powered Armour

Impurity shall be our armour

Hate shall be our weapon

Immortality shall be our reward

- Codex Chaos Space Marines, 4^th Edition

Look to your battle gear and it will protect you.

- First line of the Warrior’s Catechism of Worship

This week I want us to look at the armour of the chaos space marine, be it anything from venerable mark II Crusade Armour to mark VIII Errant Armour or even artificer armour (let’s keep the TDA for another time). Tell us not only of the armour, its origins and (no doubt) long history but also of its modifications and mutations, its colours, iconography and trophies. Be it a general overview of the armour used by your warband or a detailed look at that of a single unit or a single character, is your choice.

Accompanying photographs most welcome.

The challenge runs until November 20^th.

You have one week.

Let us be inspired...

[Warsmith Aznable]

My favourite bit from Mal Contents Bazaar was "Khorne cares not how the syntax flows." Good stuff all around, as usual.

 

Power Armour as a topic seems timely, and I've already got a couple of ideas. Wasn't there going to be an additional challenge this time too?

[Carrack]

I'm honored to have my story picked out of such good stories this last challenge. I pictured the Mal's Conrents Bazaar broadcasters complete with bad hair pieces and cheap suits. :)

[Kierdale]

Wasn't there going to be an additional challenge this time too?

That should be starting next week. It ties in to something else starting then...

[MaliGn]

The Armourer

 

The Host was returning to Sicarus, battered and bloody after a lengthy, brutal, yet victorious campaign raiding several shrine worlds and seeding cults of the primordial truth within Imperial Space. As their actions had begun to draw too much attention they had returned to the Eye, whereupon they had been waylaid by a rampaging warband of crazed followers of the blood God khorne. The battle had been brief yet bloody and a brief respite was welcome. Less welcome would be a pilgrimage to the dark forge-cathedral of the Armourer.

 

The Malefactorum was a vast edifice, shrouded in a perpetual cloud of filthy black smoke and surrounded by a desolate plain ridden with seismic faults revealing the dark heart of the planet. A single Road crossed this dark tundra, half a mile wide at its narrowest and thronged with innumerable slaves, driven forward by cruel overseers and marched as inexorable tide of grist to the infernal mills of the ir destination.

 

Several members of the Host had embarked on the pilgrimage to the Malefactorum, a penance for failing in battle, taken out of the fight but not slain. Stripped of their armour and forced to carry it on their naked backs they are set among the rabble, a chastisement in itself, but they had bewitched the honour of the host, and through it the legion and blessed Lorgar himself.

 

After the months long journey each of the penitent word bearers is brought before the Armourer. Ancient even by the standards of the legion the Armourer is feared even by the Dark Council, for the pacts each has sworn with him, although necessary at the time have left him in a uniquely powerful position. His diabolical knowledge is second to none, but it is the way in which he manipulates the entities of the warp to his bidding that sets him apart. Any warpsmith worth his salt can bind daemons into vehicles and weaponry, the best can create infernal daemon engines, but the Armourer has mastered a rare form of Malefic smithing. His skill in the repair and creation of Power Armour is unheard of amongst the legions, an understanding of techniques long lost, now in unholy combination with daemonology of the darkest sort.

 

With fine work, comes a high price, for once he works on the armour of a Word Bearer it is forever bound to him. The daemons he works into the armour are loyal only to him, and at his command remain dormant in the recipient's battle plate. There is no knowing when The Armourer might take control of the armour, but a great many word bearers have sought his talents over the millennia of perpetual war. How many damaged suits of battle plate, torn asunder by the weapons of the legion's many foes, have been repaired with one of The Armourer's daemonic repairs? Only he knows, but to move against him would surely rip the legion apart.

 

The foul processes utilised to perform the Armourer's work are an easily kept secret, for despite being awake, and under neurological influence to ensure their transgenic physiology feels as much pain as possible, the word bearers that undergo this work are barely able to comprehend the procedure, and are not inclined to discuss what they do remember for shame of the memory of the March.