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Insurrectionists' Strategium

Athrawes

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Big Bad Squig Veteran

Big Bad Squig

Posted
Posted

This will go into the stories thread when complete - in essence, this is going to detail the fall of the Godslayers, because, in case that wasn't blatantly obvious, it's my favourite part about them.

 

The Fall – Part One: A Visitor

                Daer’dd lay sprawled across Koschei’s chamber.  Again.  The familiar pool of blood slowly expanded across the metal floor, making the shape of an oval from which three spikes grew, two on the left and one on the right.  The hole in his brother’s chest glared accusingly at him.  You, it said.  You did this.  Koschei turned away, removing his chestplate and placing it on a table.

                “This was necessary,” came the expected reply.  The Legionnaire, as he was known in Koschei’s mind, stood staring.

                “Necessary,” he repeated, motionless in his charred orange armour.

                “Necessary?”  Koschei spat.  “Look what I have done!  Look!”

                He jabbed a finger at Daer’dd.  Daer’dd did not respond, nor did he ever.  Simply lying there, appearing dead.  He was not.  Koschei knew.  Dead men’s faces did not hold the contempt that his brother’s did.  Smirking, eyes wide and glassy.

                “Your ‘father’ is a tyrant,” the Legionnaire respond calmly.  “What you did was necessary to halt his unjust slaughter.  Had we not acted, the Primarchs would be dead by the Emperor’s hand.  I know you have heard the whispers, although you block them out.  The Primarchs would be dead, and your ‘father’ would rule this corrupt galaxy alone.”

                “Would that I were dead!”  Koschei said, looming over the spectre.  “I deserve to be!”

                The Legionnaire did not respond.

                “I cannot.  Not anymore.  I refuse.”

                “Refuse to what, coward?”

                “To follow Icarion.  To kill the innocent in the name of a dead man.”

                Koschei glared at the spectre’s battered figure.

                “And to think of all I promised you,” the Legionnaire said wistfully.  “All I did, for nought.  No matter.  Your insolence is of no consequence.  Beregites chto vy khotite, Kharkovic.”

                Beware of what you desire.  Koschei looked up, only just in time to see the figure melting away into the air.

                “I am a man of my word,” the figure whispered.  Its words echoed around Koschei’s chamber for a moment, and then died.  The silence was absolute.  There was a finality in it where there had been none previously.

                “Brother,” Koschei whispered, not daring to look up at Daer’dd’s body.  “I will make this right.  I will make this right.”

                He closed his eyes.

                “I will make this right.”

                He exhaled.  Amongst the flurries of thoughts and plans in the Dreamer’s mind, there was a stillness.  He reached out for it.  Caught it in his hand.  He would make this right.

               

A sharp knock on Koschei’s door.  It swung open without affirmation.

                “Sire,” Karl Volkov hissed, his face red with fury.  “Zbruch is under attack.”

Nomus Sardauk Venerable Brother

Nomus Sardauk

Posted
Posted

Dito. Like the guy macbeth sees in his visions...."Where is me bloody dagger???"

"Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?"

 

Mmm, close, but not quite. The dagger was Macbeth thinking on the murder he was about to commit, this is more Lady Macbeth's guilt-ridden hallucinations of blood on her hands that won't wash away later once the deed is done.

The vision of Daer'dd's corpse is Koschei's bloodstained hands, always there, accusing him, never letting him forget or hide from what he did. Under that dead gaze Nurgle's excuses of necessity ring utterly hollow, a poor shield easily sundered by the blade of Koschei's guilt.

MikhalLeNoir Venerable Brother

MikhalLeNoir

Posted
Posted

Mikhael might be referring to the recent adaptation with Fassbender. In that, the dagger is oferred to Macbeth by a young soldier he'd watched die (he's played as a grizzled and scarred war veteran, and the visions come from there).

Indeed I was ;) ( you saved me from the crowds making fun of me^^)

Big Bad Squig Veteran

Big Bad Squig

Posted
Posted

PART TWO

 

**********

                The atmosphere on board the Krylataya Pobeda was tense to say the least.  The Harbinger command had not been pleased about Kharkovic’s withdrawal to Zbruch with his legion, but by the time the message had arrived the Godslayers were already on their way.  Maksim Babichev stood as calmly as he could on the bridge amidst the flurry of activity.  Panicked legionnaires scrabbled past, readying for battle.

                “Lord!”  Babichev shouted over the discordant chatter.  “How long until arrival?”

                “Seven minutes,” came Volkov’s bellowed reply.  His expression was twisted, sour, and wholly unlike the unreadable, blank face he usually wore.  Babichev got to his feet, jogging towards his company’s marshalling point.  Pushing through the crowds, he spotted his men, Tenth and Thirteenth Squad, standing before the landers.  He sped up to reach them.  Coming crashing into a hunched, small figure.  It took him altogether too long to realise who it was.

                “Sire,” he said, dropping onto one knee.  “My apologies.”

                It was as if Kharkovic had not heard.

                “Sire?”

                “Sire?”

                The final shout got the Primarch’s attention.

                “Yes?  What is it, Maksim?”

                “I ran into you.”

                “Ah.”

                “My apologies, Sire.”

                Koschei shook his head.  “Go.  Go on to the landers.  We have a battle to prepare for.”

                Babichev nodded vigorously.  “For Zbruch!” he said, saluting.

                “For Zburch,” echoed the Primarch.

                “For Icarion!”

                “Indeed,” Kharkovic muttered, pushing on through the masses without another word.

                Babichev shook his head, striding to reach his men.

                “Come on!” one helmeted legionnaire shouted out, motioning for Babichev to step aboard and stretching out his hand.  “Come on Captain!”

                “Are we all present?” Babichev inquired, pulling himself into the craft with the legionnaire’s hand.

                “All present, Maksim,” Sergeant Brakhas answered.  “Readied for take-off.”

                Babichev sat in one of the grey seats, watching as the lighting flickered to life.  The voices from behind him of his men were hushed as a klaxon announced its message.

                “Thirty seconds to translation.  Ready macrocannons and shields.  For Zbruch and for Icarion!”

                Babichev’s eyes narrowed.  Remembering what the Primarch had said.  Indeed.  Indeed was not the respect due to the leader of the new Imperium.  Whatever Koschei’s statement had meant, Babichev had no time to ponder it, for at that moment, with a colossal, mechanical roar, the lander lunged free of the Krylataya Pobeda and into the depths of space.  Screens flickered to life at the transporter’s front end.  And what Maksim Babichev saw on those screens was like nothing he had ever seen before.

 

**********

                This was no xenos incursion; that much was certain.  The garbled calls for help that the Godslayers had received from the Zbruchan populace and even the solo message transmitted from the Caves of the Dead had described green skinned aliens, which even Kharkovic himself had taken to mean some variant of greenskin.  But as he looked out over Zbruch, Maksim Babichev saw no greenskin craft.  No craft at all, a fact that rendered almost all the preparations useless.  Nothing on which to train macrocannons, or at which to launch flurries of boarding torpedoes.  All that was there was a horrific, red tear and an ominous emptiness.

                The vox lit up with confusion.

                “What is this?” came Sergeant Brakhas’ question.  “Why were we called here?”

                A trap.  That was what Babichev’s mind reached for immediately.  This was the trickery of the Emperor, a selection of faked messages to lure away the bulk of a legion from the frontline.  And yet the tear remained.  It had the appearance of a day old wound, inflated and irritated.

                “I do not know, Sergeant,” Babichev admitted, clutching his chainblade for comfort.  He had a sudden feeling of loneliness, confined even as he was within a tight metal container filled with other legionnaires.  He chased it away.

                “Godslayers.”

                The word came loud and sudden over the shipwide vox channel.

                “Godslayers,” the voice repeated.  “This is your Primarch.  All ships are to descend into Zbruch’s atmosphere at once.  There can be no delay.  Whatever has done this is foreign, new, but there is no space for wondering at it, nor for sympathising with it.  Whatever has done this has attacked a world of innocents, and will pay the consequence.  For Zbruch!”

                Babichev allowed himself to smile.  Inspiring.  And yet.  A word missing.  A name.

                “Go!” he cried, standing and gesturing to the shuttle’s pilots.  “You heard the man!”

                At that, the craft plunged downwards into a full speed nosedive towards the grey world.  Babichev’s men braced, reaching to tighten buckles even further.  Babichev himself remained standing, observing as his past home grew to fill the monitor screen.

                “Ready for entry, brothers!” a pilot shouted only moments before the landing craft gave a colossal shudder.  The image on the screen was immediately replaced with harsh white flame.  Babichev bared his teeth against the heat, crushing the pole he had taken hold of for stability.  Cracking.  Shaking.  Burning heat.

                And then, as suddenly it had come, the entry process ended.  Babichev allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.  Zbruch’s rocky plateaus unfolded beneath the craft as it sped towards Hive Primus.  The ship was part of the primary relief effort, under the command of the Primarch himself.  Maksim Babichev searched for villages or other signs of life dotted across the planet’s barren surface.  He saw none.  Then, smoke.

                “Slow down,” he ordered, jabbing at the point on the screen where the pillar of black rose from behind trees.  “Closer.  Get me closer.”

                The pilots dutifully brought the craft towards the smoke’s point of origin.  Even on the poor resolution of the screen, Babichev knew what he could see.  A burning village.  And at the centre, a heap of corpses.  Blackened by the flames.  This had been no trap.  This, Babichev realised, was real.

                “Captain!”

                Babichev turned.

                “Captain, are you hearing that?” It was Brackhas.  “Is it Zbruchan?”

                He paused for a moment, not understanding the question.  And then he heard.  It was a single word, a single muttered word over the vox-link.  Over and over, unending and insidious, and most definitely not Zbruchan.  Nurgleth.  Nurgleth.  Nurgleth.

                “Not Zbruchan, my friend,” he replied with more courage than he possessed.  “Not Zbruchan at all.”

                Then, “Onwards!  We must reach Hive Primus.  And vox the others about the village.”

 

                He doubted anyone had chosen to listen to him in favour of the vox-ghost. 

simison Venerable Brother

simison

Posted
Posted

Daer'dd, Alexandros, Icarion, & K'awil will definitely die. 

 

Squig, I'm curious that you mentioned Koschei. I know he died in 'canon', but I'm not sure what happens to him here. I know his legion falls to Nurgle, but isn't he a Warp suppressor, therefore free of potential corruption?

Raktra Veteran

Raktra

Posted
Posted

 

Just Primarchs. I was sure Hectarion died, but apparently I got mixed up.

Hectarion most certainly doesn't die. Flip side of that is he's got Khorne hounding after his and his legion's souls the entire time

 

He'll get appraised of that soon enough to be fair. The Old Blood does weird :cuss to a man.

Raktra Veteran

Raktra

Posted
Posted

This'll go in the story bit if you guys think it's decent, but for now, here's the Berserkers declaring their leave of the Imperium.

 

"My lord," the data-servitor croaked, a skin of dust shedding with the unexpected movement of its head. Malcador waved away a serf to address the matter personally.

"Is it them?" He asked, his voice almost wavering from a sudden rush of anxiety.
"Confirmed. Contact established with the Hooded Guillotine." A slow breath left Malcador's lips, the combination of the room temperature and a small psychic shiver causing a small layer of frost to temporarily form on his wrinkled lips. Three months silence from the primarch and his legion finally broken, a scramble to gather the High Lords and summon the Emperor himself to commune with his wayward son.
"After this time, has he returned to us?" Wondered Malcador, daring to hope.

It was scarcely five minutes since the signal had been received, but the hammering of his ancient heart and the monotonous drone of data-devouring servitors stretched this time into an eternity. As what could only be a breaking point was reached, the door to the chamber split open, and the Emperor entered the room.
All sound, what little there was, ended. His presence overwhelmed everything around him, all bowing heads in reverence, all shying their unworthy eyes from his glory. He bade Malcador stand beside him.
"Servitor," he said, at once soft and booming. "Open the link."

 

A few moments of flickering, distance between Terra and wherever the 'serkers may be interfering momentarily. A few quick flicks of hololithic symbols and the image solidified, Raktra's face coming into view almost as clear as if he were there in person.
"Father." The word came with such venom. Though barely an expression could be seen behind the mask, Raktra's eyes blazed. "I want to share a series of thoughts with you that I've had recently. The nature of the crusade, of the legions, of yourself." He began to walk, but the camera stayed focussed just on his head and shoulders. "You told me when I was found, that part of your grand vision for mankind was the removal of religion. The abolition of the belief in gods and deities, to keep the destructive nature of faith in check. And yet, you preach about the human form." A strangled sound came from somewhere off-screen, quickly silenced. "You made the Thunder Warriors, you made the primarchs, you made the astartes. All men that hail from a kingdom a level above human. Only shackled to humanity in the most token of ways. But so many of us have been censored for trying to bring ourselves beyond even that, emulating your actions, to bring greater hell upon the enemies of Mankind, under the guise of perverting the sacred human form." He laughed. "'Sacred'. How ironic that a word so deeply rooted into religious teaching would be your choice to define the race." Raktra pointed to his eyes. "You know what my legion can do, that I do greater than all others. I see every weakness of the flesh laid bare before me. Every old cut, once-broken bone, every nerve cluster. I see better than any can comprehend the imperfection of man, and know better that we can always strive to improve. But you shackle us with your damned decrees and ivory tower hypocrisy."

The camera now pulled back as another grunt of pain came, and now the source was revealed - a chaplain of the legion, forced to his knees with his arms shackled, the back of his head gripped tightly by Raktra.

"And now you have this," he waved his arm and suddenly a dozen more feeds sprang up, lining the room. All those still possessed of sentience felt their jaws drop. The entire chaplain corps, over one hundred astartes, were lined up and restrained in the same manner as the one kneeling in front of the primarch.
"Your chaplains. Forced upon us because you disliked our ideals, to enforce your will and spread your word. Again the painful religious irony rears. You insist that none refer to you as a god, but you demand worship and sacrifice in your name. You claim that faith is a cancer, but thrust priests upon us to keep us in line. You deny a heaven or hell, but send us against angels and daemons in your name." His grip moved from the back of his prisoner's head to the scalp. "All that you have ever taught is a lie. Nothing but a plastic shaman dispensing false wisdom from your pulpit, hiding behind a human shield and mask of honour."

Raktra raised a fist, and as one the Berserkers who stood behind their chaplains stepped forward, hands placed either side of their captives' heads.
"No gods. No masters."
A chorus of cracks rang out, like branches in the wind, and the feed cut out.
 

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