Carrack Posted November 17, 2015 Share Posted November 17, 2015 Part 1 Tracking Giants "The Terrible Eye will blink when the Wanderer finds his path". -from the "The Dreams of The Lost", M.33 Odeanta, Odeanta System. Vanicor Sub-Sector. Planetfall +1. Bluish moonlight found its way through the pines to reflect off of the snow, illuminating the forest floor in a ghostly light. The tracker paused at a good print, less disturbed then most by the last three days of light snow. It was big, padded, with claws retracted, one of the hunting felines with broad paws perfect for walking on the crust of the snow. It was not the much larger footprints of the white and grey beasts that the tracker had seen before, but those of the medium, man-sized spotted felines that hunted alone. The tracker didn't have the luxury of walking across the top of the snow, and trudged after the trail in heavily armored boots, sinking a meter into the snow, barely up to his black armored thighs. The tracker glanced back at the equally heavily armored warriors following behind him single file, in an effort to conceal their numbers with their own tracks. They stoically followed the tracker without a word spoken between them. The trail was leading into another village, but the tracker knew that. He was following the feline to find its private entrance to the village, which wasn't the single gate that broke the encircling wall of dirt and rocks between thick timber palisades. He was confident that he could equal the athletic feline in jumping and climbing. He reached a point on the eastern side of the village where a pile of snow covered fallen trees had provided a launching point for the feline to the nearby wall. He climbed the timber pile, and with a leap assisted by humming servos in his armored legs, struck the wall near the top with a dull thud. Spikes on his armored shins and forearms kept him from sliding down the icy wood. With no real effort, he crested the outer palisade and crouched on the fill between the outer and inner timber walls. He waited until his warriors had followed him onto the wall, then as one, they drew their weapons, the tracker choosing a boltgun clamped to his large backpack power plant. After waiting in silence for a few minutes, to see if anyone had heard their entrance, they jumped, one by one into the village, resuming their single file formation. The village was empty, burnt to the ground in most places, same as the last one. Embers were still glowing in some of buildings. The warriors silently stalked through the ruins of the recently depopulated village. Burnt bodies lay in the shells of their homes and halls, indicating to the tracker this had been another nighttime massacre, striking the villagers where they slept. The warriors followed the tracker into the center of the village to where a grander, but just as destroyed building lay. Before what was probably the entrance to this three story building was a small shattered satellite dish, damaged by a small explosion. One of the warriors told the tracker, "Mass reactive bolt." Indicating the damaged dish. The tracker nodded in agreement. The tracker walked into the open entrance into the shell of the building, unconcerned about the structural integrity of the charred rafters over his head, and bent down at a wide red stain over the snow covered ashes. Drag marks followed the stain out a hole in the south wall. The feline they had followed into the village had found an easy meal. The Tracker stood up straight, and opened a vox channel to his master from an inbuilt system in his great horned helm, "Lord, this village is the same as the last one, the central building was attacked at night three days ago. The attackers cut communications, then razed the village. We will continue our search, but I am not optimistic we will find any evidence of the Wanderer." After a brief pause of silence, the receiver replied, "Acknowledged and continue, Vinno." ***** Invidge peeked up through the ash covered slats in the larder door from beneath a pile of furs. He caught glimpses of the new invaders of his village through tiny openings in the ash he had made with the knife clutched to his chest. They were different then the ones who had burnt his home, razed his village and left him the man of the house at the young age of nine. But they were definitely invaders, that was clear. They were giants from the old stories his grandma had spun while doing her knitting by the fire. Invidge had matured enough to not be so sure of his grandma's wild tales, but these huge creatures fit no other description. Except the armor. In the tales of the giants, armor wasn't mentioned, but what was mentioned was that some giants were helpers of men, others were enemies. The armor of the giants announced which type of giants were standing in the wreckage of his home, the wreckage of his young life. Their armor was black, trimmed with brass and gold, and encrusted with spikes, hooks, and blades. Skulls hung from chains or were affixed to spikes and gauntlets, human skulls that looked small against the size of the giants carrying them. They looked like child skulls, like his very own skull. Their huge pauldrons were left an unadorned black on one side, the left for some and the right for others, with the opposite shoulder bearing runes of eight pointed stars or single eyes. They weren't just runes like you would see at a waystone at a fork in the trails though. Staring at them made the back of Invidge's eyes ache. One of the eye runes, the one on the giant who was standing up straight and talking, blinked for a moment, and an evil red eye stared down at Invedge. Invedge involuntarily shuddered, after desperately trying to be still, then the eye blinked back into a rune. Invedge realized he was holding his breath, and slowly let it out, so as not to draw attention with a gasp. Then, just as quickly as the invaders arrived, they left. Invedge resolved to stay hidden a while longer before he would venture out of the larder and face his ruined world. Perhaps the winter cat would come back again and save him the somber and heavy duty of burying his family members. Maybe even it would come for him. ***** Lord Carrack stood atop his Landraider, "Tenebris Lupus", and waved his battle axe over his head in a short circular motion. As he leapt to the road, jarring his bones and cracking the thick ice that covered the pavement, his armored strike force started their engines in unison behind their lord's ancient war machine. The low rumble of engines warming up on the frigid road was muffled by the trees and snow banks of the forest. Lord Carrack unlatched the seals of his spiked helmet and took in the cold air, his breath billowing out visible vapor from three lungs as steam rose of his bare head. He made a calculated guess as to which village the Wanderer would most likely have visited next, and the most secure route to get there, from the maps he had committed to memory. This village that his chosen were searching, was three days dead, the last was closer to four, they were gaining on the Wanderer, but did not have an abundance of time to find him. When he saw his chosen break the tree line and enter their rhino behind his much larger land raider, he entered the Tenebris Lupus, and his strike force advanced up the icy road. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/ Share on other sites More sharing options...
EesiOh Posted November 18, 2015 Share Posted November 18, 2015 I hope this ends up going as for as long as Calebra Hive Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4228196 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted November 20, 2015 Author Share Posted November 20, 2015 I hope this ends up going as for as long as Calebra HiveIt may be long, but I'm not starting this story out as an open ended tale, and then decide to end it like I did with Calebra. I have vague notions of a story arc that I'm working from. I'm also trying to do a better job proofreading this one. I'm thinking at this point I want to have specific goals in mind for each story. The first one was to throw in a bit of mystery, and to make a clean break from the urban setting of Calebra, and portray a wild wilderness setting full of animals, trees, and weather, maybe even bears. (I've also got a fair bit of snow terrain, and my painstakingly slowly growing army has tundra bases) The next part's goals are to show the interaction of Black Legionaries in the warband, and develop a few characters a little. Don't worry action will follow in part 3. Oh and rest assured, all the bright snow won't detract from the darkness or the grimness, even if every part isn't filled to the brim with grim and dark, their will be parts that make up for my sliding into the realms of rainbows, puppies, and Disney princesses. :) Thanks again for reading, I hope to see more of your stories pop up here soon. ************ Part 2 The Road "The Wanderer has been searching tirelessly since The Scouring. He has not laid his head down in rest since he began. I am quite sure he is mad, but in his long quest, he has travelled more roads than any being I have ever heard of, that's got to be worth something in the eyes of the gods, right?" -Captain Garaduk One-Eye, retelling a rumor he had once heard of the Wanderer from an unremembered source, approximately mid M39. Odeanta, Odeanta System. Vanicor Sub-Sector. Planetfall +1. Copil grabbed the wreckage of a man that served as his squad's back-up driver and shoved him into his alcove above the steering column. When the chosen of Lord Carrack mounted their rhino, Carrutage L'ull, no mere mortal would drive the Black Legion Elite. Copil seethed at still driving. For ages he had held the driver duties on account of being the least experienced legionaire in Vinno's squad, but with the casualties his squad had sustained in their last campaign, he had hoped to pass on the steering column. But it was not to be, two aspiring champions had been chosen by Lord Carrack as replacements. Champions who were at the Siege of Terror, and had two millennia of experience on Copil. Roughly eight thousand years of fighting the Long War, and Copil was still referred to as "the new guy". They did it to antagonize him. It worked. Copil hadn't even had the chance to relish his position as chosen of Lord Carrack much. He had been elevated to the position shortly before the Calebra Hive campaign, and at the start of that action, his squad had gone off on their own, working directly for the Lord of the Black Maw Warband. Copil wanted to, at least once or twice, order around some regular, line legionaries, maybe play some of the cruel practical jokes that were routinely played on him by his own squad mates. But this mission was so top heavy, there wouldn't be much chance for that. That brought a question to Copil's mind, he voiced, "If Lord Carrack, The Chain Maker, Dark Apostle Lavam, and even Garaduk One-Eye are here on this frozen world, who is commanding the rest of the Black Maw, who is seeing to the defense of our domains in face of the Thousand Son's incursion?" Vinno spat acid onto the floor of the bouncing rhino, the exact spot he had always spat when he had to speak the name of someone he hated, the spot had been repaired numerous times from his acidic saliva. He answered dripping with equally caustic sarcasm, "Why Garaduk's pet daemon, Cancon, of course, why wouldn't you entrust our fleet, our armies, our domains, and our treasures to something as trustworthy as a daemon." The rest of the squad was paying close attention now, Vinno may be close to crossing a line by questioning a decision of their lord. Noticing his audience and their interest, Vinno backed down stating, "In any event, the fleet is mostly scattered, having earned time to raid on their own after Calebra Hive. I have heard most will be striking that cesspit's own sub-sector after their defenders left. The armies are still firmly loyal to our lord and the warband, Cancon won't be able to go against either, even if he does somehow slip One-Eye's leash. As for the sons of Magnus, the Warmaster is delaying their encroachment until we find the Wanderer, then promises aid in the ensuing war with the sorcerous scum. We really have no choice to be here anyway, the Warmaster has directly commanded it be so." Copil, and the rest of the squad marveled at the insight given into the workings of the command decisions made by the leaders of the Black Maw, and even the parent legion. Before they were chosen, they never would have been privy to such information. Maybe being chosen wasn't so bad, thought Copil, until Vinno said, "Now silence young chauffeur, drive my rhino without so much useless prattle." Copil squeezed new gauntlet prints into the steering column, as the rhino reverberated with mocking laughter. The dents in the column from the last time he had squeezed the bar in rage, having been repaired along with the overhaul and customization performed by the Chain Maker on every vehicle in the strike force prior to this mission. For the Carrutage L'ull, that meant reinforced armor plating and a combi-flamer mounted on top of the rhino. All of the vehicles had been armored and armed to the teeth for this mission, perhaps a benefit of having the core officers of the warband with them. ***** Lavam unfastened his helm as the rhino started moving forward, then thought better and refastened the seals, switching the environmental suite of his power armor to internal supply. The incense just lit by the noise marines sharing his rhino was sure to have distracting, yet pleasant effects on his mind. The squad of six noise marines were his most recent converts to the Black Legion. He had long kept a network of spies and informants throughout the Eye of Terror, and one of the network's tasks was to keep track of warbands that were dwindling in strength. When warned of such occurrences, Lavam would make offers to members of the waning warband, offers to take the Black of the legion, and join a warband waxing in strength and favor of the gods. Such was the case of Noise Marine Squad Crescendo and their champion Moroguln, leaving the 3rd Legion warband, Masters of Decadence. Lavam was certain of their sublime skills in the art of war, and their value to the Black Maw's military might, but less certain of their value as conversationalists. Thus far, the only understandable words said to Lavam while sharing his rhino were, "Did you enjoy your fall, oh Dark Apostle?" Spoken by Moroguln on his initial embarkation of the armored personnel carrier. What a question to start a long voyage with. As the rhino bounced along the ice slick road, much to the delight of the gleefully gibbering driver, and to the terror and discomfort of the heavily furred cultist riding the roof of the vehicle, a ping announced an amber warning on Lavam's commander's console. He casually glanced at the display slate hanging on a swivel arm from the roof, an amber warning not indicating contact with the enemy, merely unusual activity. This warning indicated the discovery of a built up area that was unmarked on any maps communed into the rhino's machine spirit. The auspex of the rhino had discovered a large building 840 meters off of the road, 2020 meters up, on the far bank of the Fingi river, that the road was skirting. A number of smaller out buildings surrounded the main building. Immediately, a query signal chimed in Lavam's vox on the command channel. Lord Carrack was asking for clarification from Lavam's deeper understanding of the intelligence that had procured their maps, and why these buildings did not appear on them. Lavam considered the information available before replying. Lord Carrack probably already had a plan of action, and was merely consulting with Lavam for the sake of trouble shooting his initial instincts, or to test his officer yet again. His map was good, that he was sure, it was part of the census plan that tied directly to the tithes and taxes of the region. It was also confirmed by the passive scans of the Bitter Revenge grand cruiser that had carefully inserted the armored strike force planet side undetected. Then their was the terrain. The road cut through a coniferous forest of extremely tall pines, but the trees near the nutrient rich river were truly enormous. They probably shielded the unmapped buildings from all but the most thorough of aerial searches, which was the primary method used by the tithe assessors in mapping the southern reaches of the world. Lavam voxed, "These buildings are off the grid, they could be something as innocuous as a poachers lodge, but they may be something far more interesting. I feel they should be checked out at the very least, my lord." The reply was quick, "Agreed, take your squad, and the cultist to search it out. Vox back in one hour, and be prepared to catch up with us on the road at the coordinates I am sending now. Only use the long range vox for the hour check unless the situation calls for taking further risks with our communications. This may be the sort of thing that would interest the Wanderer." Lavam sent an acknowledgment signal across the command channel and directed his rhino and the following cargo tractor full of additional cultists off the road a short distance into the trees. He then dismounted the rhino with Crescendo and signaled the large band of Ursgatch braves in the cargo tractor, and the Fewood cultists that had suffered riding atop of his rhino to dismount. As the shivering cultists climbed down from the rhino, awkwardly in their heavy furs, Moroguln asked the cultist hetman, Ramone, "Did you enjoy your fall, however short it might have been, mortal?" Ramone looked at the giant in mostly black armor with splashes of pink still visible on the pauldrons, and with the misery of riding atop a rhino in sub-freezing temperatures in his eyes, merely shook his head no. 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Carrack Posted November 24, 2015 Author Share Posted November 24, 2015 Part 3 Dislodged "Assume whatever the Wanderer is searching for is incredibly dangerous, and others may be after the same prize." -Vandehorn Tallahough, Hunting Myths from Beyond-forbidden text M37. Odeanta, Odeanta System. Vanicor Sub-Sector. Planetfall +1. Lavam raised a hand to halt his force's movement about 300 meters from the Fingi river, opposite of the mysterious buildings. The trees obstructed the buildings from view, but also hid his force. The trees had gotten considerably bigger as they drew closer to the river. Their were trunks that could hide a rhino, if one could be navigated through such dense foliage. The hetman from the Fewood cult and the chief of the Ursgatch braves came running to his position bowing in the snow in deference. He ignored them for a moment, he knew they felt honored to be serving aside him, a belief he had instilled in them with personal sermons given to each group, but he also must remind them of the vast differences in their standing within the warband, thus their leaders groveled in the snow why he addressed the champion of Crescendo behind him. He said, while removing his helmet, "Moroguln, your squad will be with me as we move up to the tree line before the river, Ramone will take his cultists with us. Barling will take his braves along the river and make a crossing north of the buildings. Once Barling has crossed, Ramone will cross directly into the complex." Lavam pivoted and with a raised palm, brought the mortal leaders to their feet and continued, "Barling, you will approach the complex as close as you can while remaining in the tree line from the north and hold. Ramone you will lead your men and women into the complex openly, declare that you are hunters from the Divi Isles and have lost your way. Ask more questions than you answer. Find out what is there and what they are doing. Avoid bloodshed if you can, and report back to me within 35 minutes. I am relying on you, the gods will be watching you, judging your wit more than your blades. However, if bloodshed occurs, signal with your pistols. Then Barling, you sweep in from the north, while I and Crescendo reinforce Ramone." Lavam took in their reactions to his plan. Barling was confident that he could accomplish his orders, his braves were use to crossing frozen rivers and hunting in the snow, the braves had already fastened snow shoes to their thick boots, it was why Lavam had selected them. Yet he bristled at having, what he believed to be a supportive role. Ramone was gullibly honored to be singled out, and was smiling with dreams of winning further favor from the gods, that and obscura. Lavam, knew these veterans of Calebra Hive's battles in the lower levels had seen Ramone bind his squad to the Dark Prince, and they had performed better than most of the rabble, that was why they were selected, but he also knew that they had looted a major dealer in potent black obscura and were all high as soaring birds of prey. They weren't in any danger of running out of the narcotic either by what he had heard. They would make the perfect distraction. Then their was Moroguln. Helmeted he was difficult to read, but didn't offer any critique of his plan. In fact he nodded in ascent when Lavam mentioned that the gods were watching Ramone. Was he also fooled by Lavam's manipulation of the magus's pride, or was he supporting it? Lavam had no idea. Moroguln did speak to Barling as he started leading his braves through the forest, he said, "You never fell Barling, you were fallen from birth." The tribesman didn't know how to take the question other than to make a crude sign of Slannesh with his fingers, before drawing his pistol and spiked seal-killer club. ***** Ramone led his squad through the trees towards the river. He was beginning to warm up after the wind blasted ride atop the Apostle's rhino, but had a river crossing to look forward to. The obscura helped, as did the thick furs, but he was simply unused to being so damned cold. It was an unusual and extreme experience, and he was sure the Slanneshi spirits were happy to experience it, but he himself was miserable. His squad eased into the silent, stalking, pace he had taught them from his days of poaching game from his lord's orchards and lands back on Fewood. The crunching of boots unused to walking in snow made their attempts at stealth pitiful, but the noise of the river was enough to mask their movement. As the colossal trees abruptly broke their line at the Fingi's bank, Ramone and his warriors paused and surveyed their objective. The river would not be too difficult an obstacle, most of it was frozen solid, save for a rushing, rocky, stream in its midst. Ramone was confident they could cross it without getting wet. Across the river, a brief line of trees sprung from the far bank, but gave way quickly to a cleared area on the steep bank. Built into the slope of the embankment was a large timber two story building with wrap around decks extending from both stories. A snow covered roof was peaked at a similar angle to the slope of the embankment, doing a fair job of concealing the structure from the air. Standing on each deck facing the river, were four men in padded overalls, patterned with a camouflage that seemed customized for the surrounding forest. Sleek optics bands protruded from their masked faces, and long, scoped rifles slung from their shoulders with identically patterned camouflage stocks and barrels. A couple of wood sheds were scattered around in the shorter scrub pines that grew on the slope of the riverbank. Smoke and the smell of slow cooked meat drifted out of the chimney on the northern shed, while the barking of dogs sounded from the southern shed. ***** Barling reached under his outer coat to pull the Howler 10 autopistol from its holster on his chest, he kept it stowed next to his body to keep the weapon warm and hopefully functional in the freezing temperatures. He had spent enough time on firing ranges during the voyage to Odeanta, that he felt he had a passable proficiency with the weapon, but had heard enough campfire stories about the Outsiders and there weapons to appreciate the limitations of the deadly tools in cold weather. His braves fanned out into a wide and loose line as they neared the tree line north of the buildings. He was glad he hadn't lost a single brave at the river crossing. It was a deceptively dangerous crossing, the ice grew thinner from the bank to the rushing stream of unfrozen water, but fortunately they had found deadfall branches thick enough and frozen solid enough to support their weight crossing the frigid waters. At these temperatures, untended wet feet would be frost bitten beyond any hope of saving in a matter of minutes. Barling and his war party stopped short, crouching low at the wood's edge north of the buildings as he signaled Apostle Lavam with a double click of the vox bead implanted into his jaw. ***** The ice cracked as Ramone landed on the far side of the stream. He scrambled madly to reach the bank of the wider river, but his squad behind him were already committed to their own leaps, and their landings, equally inelegant, were breaking the ice apart even further. His left foot slipped into the slushy water beneath the thin ice. He gasped out in pain, before he even knew what had happened. Wetness had just started seeping into his foot at his ankle, just over his boot. It was a tightening ring of excruciating pain that started at his ankle then crept down to his toes. Ramone, many years ago, had once been caught poaching monkey meat out of his lord's lands. Due to his young age, his lord had taken mercy on him, and handed the whip instead of the noose to the bailiff. That had been the single most painful experience in his life, and by the end of that morning, it had encompassed his entire back, and some of his sides, neck, and legs. It paled in comparison to what was happening to his foot. But then numbness quickly replaced the pain. Not the numbness he had felt atop the rhino, but a bad, and intuitively "wrong" numbness. Were the Slanneshi spirits testing him? He would prove his worth to them and continue on. Ramone was the driest of his squad by the time they reached the far bank of the Fingi. Then things got worse. The guards on both decks of the building unslung their rifles and opened fire on Ramone's squad. He didn't even have the chance to call out to them, or draw his own weapons, they simply cut his squad down. Jacketed rounds whispered out of the long barreled rifles to cut through branches of the scrub pines and fell his squad mates one by one. Ramone slid down the slope of the bank, cracking his head on the thick and unbroken ice on the river's edge, but landing protected from the rifles by a short ledge at the start of the sloped bank. His head swam, as much from failing the spirits as his busted head, that and the obscura, of course. As he faded from consciousness, he heard the sounds of the charging tribals to the north, and just before the lights went dim, he saw the apostle and those truly blessed by the spirits leap not just the stream, but most of the river. The champion of the truly blessed, laughing out of the elaborate amplifiers curving over his shoulders from his back pack, looked down at Ramone as he passed, "Yet another fall, Ramone, did you enjoy this one?" ***** Lavam surveyed the carnage of the lodge as he made his way from room to room following the battle. The defenders were skilled opponents for mortals, but were more prepared to defend against a surgical strike by equally professional attackers than a hoard of screaming tribesmen, and as skilled as they were, they had no answer for the noise marines or himself. On the surface, the building appeared as a well to do poacher's lodge. The rooms were well appointed, if rustic, down mattresses sat upon stained wood beds, the heads of great trophy stags mounted upon the walls, and great heated tubs of a richly veined marble sat behind painted screens. The floors were covered with the furs of silver bears and great white and grey striped cats. Of particular concern were the comms-suite desks with what appeared to be high grade electronics, but the riches of the rooms were not what he was searching for. Nor was he after captives, they had already been gathered at a central room on the floor below the dark apostle. A kinder man would have pitied them being held captive by the savage tribesman of the northern pole of Hell's Holdfast, the base of operations for the Black Maw Warband, and the far worse keepers of the former Emperor's Children. Lavam was far from a kind man though, he never had been in truth, even the faded and distant memories of the boy from Ur Hive on Cithonia were not memories of compassion and kindness, far from it. What Lavam was searching for was the source of a sensation he had immediately noticed when he entered the lodge. It was the feeling of some area or object that drew the attentions of the gods. He had desecrated such areas and objects to attract the gods' attention many times, and knew the feelings it instilled in those like him. Those easily able to discern the will of the dark gods. Lavam knew he was close to the object of his search when he entered what must be the master suite of the lodge. The fighting for this room was the fiercest in the battle, and no quarter had been given to its defenders. This room also had held what were probably the only noncombatants in the lodge, two beauties who had downed some type of poisonous vials at the onset of the battle. The opulence of the room was clearly visible in spite of the damage sustained in battle. With a practiced eye, long used to the surveying the aftermath of battle, Lavam immediately noticed something unusual in the room. The open floor before the bed that the women had killed themselves on, was covered with the fur of one of the large cats, this one was bigger than the ones he had seen before, a full 5 meters from snout to the base of the tail, and it was an albino, solid white without stripes and pink eyes. But it wasn't the pelt that caught Lavam's eye, rather it was the fall of the bodies, the bullet and bolt holes in the room, the blood stains. The defenders had taken great care to steer the fight away from the rug, and even to not fire over it, in spite of the handicap that afforded them. The rug was probably worth a small fortune, but Lavam suspected the defenders were equally valuable. From what he had seen, advanced optics, high quality rifles and training to match, as well as a lack of identifying papers, and carefully surgically removed scars and tattoos, only perceptible to Lavam's post-human senses, were the hallmarks of elite mercenaries. Something was under the rug, likely well protected. He called down to Moroguln, "Have the failure of Fewood come join me in the master suite. The cultist champion hobbled down the hall wincing in pain when his left foot took the slightest weight. He was sweating, and shaking ever so slightly, the flood of adrenaline from the fight, along with its affects on his heart rate, must have flushed the obscura out of his system and sobered the former na fruit picker and poacher. He was in the beginning stages of withdrawal. This would make the test even more interesting for Lavam. When Ramone finally reached the doorway, Lavam placed his gauntleted hand on the mortal's shoulder in a painful, but not quite bone shattering grip, and said, "Ramone, underneath that fur is an item of interest to the dark spirits, it is likely warded or trapped, I want you to remove the rug and disarm any protections it may have. The gods are not happy with you Ramone. Not because of your loss of your squad, the spirits delighted in their faithful charge, but your failure to die with them. The spirits have no use for cowards, Ramone. Perhaps you might redeem yourself with a tiny bit of courage now, well after the battle was won by braver men." Ramone was clearly torn. He obviously felt the gods had abandoned him, and his confidence was being further eroded with the onset of withdrawal, but he also still hoped that Lavam had found a way for him to redeem himself in the eyes of his "spirits". He trepidatiously entered the room, drawing the Calebra militia autopistol for the first time this day. Lavam was pleased with himself over the outcome of his little test, and judiciously stepped around the thick timber doorframe of the suite and awaited the fireworks. There were no fireworks. Lavam heard the sound of the fur being dragged off of its spot on the floor, and then sobbing and retching. He breathed a sigh of slight disappointment and turned back into the room. The rug had concealed a ritual pentagram. Lavam studied it closely, feeling twinges of fear and nausea, but nothing like that of the mortal sobbing as he crawled for a corner through his own vomit. Lavam was well versed in ritual markings from a wide range of practices and began to discern the nature of the one before him. It was clearly sorcerous in purpose, a focus for some spell or arcane ritual, but beyond that, it's purpose would have to be deciphered by one with sorcerous powers himself. But interestingly, the pentagram contained elements of two widely different traditions. First, the style in which the symbol was carved into the wood, and the wax consisting of a mixture of human fat, with just a slight amount of blood to dye the wax red originated with the cult practices of the XVII Legion, but was fairly widely copied by a number of cults with no allegiance to the Word Bearers. Secondly, the wards inscribed around the inside of the circle were protective wards only used by one organization. The Imperial Inquisition. The warning chime on Lavam's vox unit sounded that he had two minutes to his scheduled contact time with Lord Carrack. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4233743 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted November 26, 2015 Author Share Posted November 26, 2015 This week's Inspirational Friday challenge on the chaos marine board had me write a little more on the last post. Those weekly contests are great, check them out please. Anyway, this is the same story as Part 3, only told strictly from cultist champion Ramone's point of view. Ramone's Fall Finally the rhino beneath Ramone slowed to a halt alongside the icy road, pulling into the cover of the tall pines of the snow covered forest. When Ramone, and his followers had been selected to ride atop the armored transport of the great apostle Lavam, Voice of the Black Maw, Ramone had felt honored by such a distinction. Truly the spirits had been pleased with him. Yet the spirits bargained for their blessings, and the spirits Ramone had bound his followers to, always asked for the same thing, to relish in the extreme. The extreme they asked in return for this honor, was extreme cold. Back home on distant Fewood, Ramone and the men and women of his coven, had rarely worn more than simple loin cloths or shifts while picking na fruit and poaching game from at first Imperial, then Black Maw lords. After being selected by their new lords, they had stormed the lower levels of Calebra Hive, there they had worn boots for the first time, along with shabby clothes and shabbier armor. On this world, they were bundled from head to toe in thick furs and wool. It was not enough. There was no respite from the cutting wind while clinging to the bouncing rhino, no pity from the freezing temperature, but the obscura helped. In the final days of the war in Calebra Hive, the spirits had awarded Ramone for his service, by leading him into a storehouse of a gang's obscura supply, Ramone and his followers had kept it all, and they still had plenty. Truly the spirits were pleased. Ramone, however was miserable. The cargo tractor of the less favored, but more numerous cultist-tribesman from the northern pole of Hell's Holdfast, the base of the Black Maw, followed the Voice's rhino into the wood line. Once the bulky vehicle had come to a rest, the rhino's doors opened below Ramone, and the Voice stepped out, followed by the Lords Truly Blessed, the noise marines of squad Crescendo. Apostle Lavam signaled for the cultists to fall in as he began marching to the Fingi River, that the road had been skirting. Ramone and his followers quickly dropped to the snow and fell in behind the Legionaries of the warband. Quick to take the position of honor by being closest to the apostle. As Ramone gathered up his followers, the champion of the Truely Blessed looked at him through pink lenses in his horned helmet, and said, "Did you enjoy your fall, however short that had been, mortal?" Ramone was thrilled that this warrior, clearly an emissary of the spirits was talking to him, even by name, as if they were brothers. He was less sure about the question, was he referring to the fall off the rhino, or a more symbolic fall? He thought the latter was more likely, but weather it was the misery of the cold, or his inability to think straight with the obscura pumping through his blood, he shook his head no. It must have been the right answer since the Truly Blessed laughed. They moved further into the forest towards the Fingi River. After traveling to about 300 meters from the western bank of the river. The Voice of the Black Maw halted movement with a raised hand, and unsealed his helmet, breath visible in the cold air. The champion of Crescendo, turned to face Lavam as the chief of the barbarians came running atop the snow with what looked like basket lids strapped to his boots. Although the barbarian was moving faster, Ramone was closer, and he trudged the short distance to the apostle to be the first to abase himself in the snow at his feet, another sign of the spirits' favor of Ramone over that of other mortals. The Voice spoke, ""Moroguln, your squad will be with me as we move up to the tree line before the river, Ramone, blessed by the spirits, will take his cultists with us. Barling will take his braves along the river and make a crossing north of the buildings. Once Barling has crossed, Ramone will have the honor of crossing directly into the complex." Lavam pivoted and with a raised palm, brought the mortal leaders to their feet and continued, "Barling, you will approach the complex as close as you can while remaining in the tree line from the north and hold. Ramone you will lead your men and women into the complex openly, declare that you are hunters from the Divi Isles and have lost your way. Ask more questions than you answer. Find out what is there and what they are doing. Avoid bloodshed if you can, and report back to me within 35 minutes. I am relying on you, the gods will be watching you, judging your wit more than your blades. However, if bloodshed occurs, signal with your pistols. I have faith in you Ramone, for the spirits favor you above others. Then Barling, you sweep in from the north, while I and Crescendo reinforce Ramone." Just as it should be, thought Ramone, I will be the focus of both the spirits' attentions, and the mission today. Ramone led his followers through the trees towards the river. They eased into the silent, stalking, pace he had taught them from his days of poaching game from his lord's orchards and lands back on Fewood. The crunching of boots unused to walking in snow made their attempts at stealth pitiful, but the noise of the river was enough to mask their movement, the spirits had compensated for their lack of grace. As the colossal trees abruptly broke their line at the Fingi's bank, Ramone and his warriors paused and surveyed their objective. The river would not be too difficult an obstacle, most of it was frozen solid, save for a rushing, rocky, stream in its midst. Ramone was confident they could cross it without getting wet. Across the river, a brief line of trees sprung from the far bank, but gave way quickly to a cleared area on the steep bank. Built into the slope of the embankment was a large timber two story building with wrap around decks extending from both stories. A snow covered roof was peaked at a similar angle to the slope of the embankment, doing a fair job of concealing the structure from the air. Standing on each deck facing the river, were four men in padded overalls, patterned with a camouflage that seemed customized for the surrounding forest. Sleek optics bands protruded from their masked faces, and long, scoped rifles slung from their shoulders with identically patterned camouflage stocks and barrels. A couple of wood sheds were scattered around in the shorter scrub pines that grew on the slope of the riverbank. Smoke and the smell of slow cooked meat drifted out of the chimney on the northern shed, while the barking of dogs sounded from the southern shed. The ice cracked as Ramone landed on the far side of the stream. He scrambled madly to reach the bank of the wider river, but his followers behind him were already committed to their own leaps, and their landings, equally inelegant, were breaking the ice apart even further. His left foot slipped into the slushy water beneath the thin ice. He gasped out in pain, before he even knew what had happened. Wetness had just started seeping into his foot at his ankle, just over his boot. It was a tightening ring of excruciating pain that started at his ankle then crept down to his toes. Ramone, many years ago, had once been caught poaching monkey meat out of his lord's lands. Due to his young age, his lord had taken mercy on him, and handed the whip instead of the noose to the bailiff. That had been the single most painful experience in his life, and by the end of that morning, it had encompassed his entire back, and some of his sides, neck, and legs. It paled in comparison to what was happening to his foot. The spirits must desire extreme pain from Ramone, to accompany the cold. But then numbness quickly replaced the pain. Not the numbness he had felt atop the rhino, but a bad, and intuitively "wrong" numbness. Were the spirits testing him? He would prove his worth to them and continue on. Ramone was the driest of his coven by the time they reached the far bank of the Fingi. Then things got worse. The guards on both decks of the building unslung their rifles and opened fire on Ramone and his coven. He didn't even have the chance to call out to them, or draw his own weapons, they simply cut his squad down. Jacketed rounds whispered out of the long barreled rifles to cut through branches of the scrub pines and fell his squad mates one by one. Ramone dove for cover behind a large stump, but slipped, and slid down the slope of the bank, cracking his head on the thick and unbroken ice on the river's edge, but landing protected from the rifles by a short ledge at the start of the bank. His head swam, as much from failing the spirits as his busted head, that and the obscura, of course. As he faded from consciousness, he heard the sounds of the charging tribals to the north, and just before the lights went dim, he saw the apostle and those Truly Blessed by the spirits leap not just the stream, but most of the river. The champion of the Truly Blessed, laughing out of the elaborate amplifiers curving over his shoulders from his back pack, looked down at Ramone as he passed, "Yet another fall, Ramone, did you enjoy this one?" Needles of pain stabbing into his left foot jolted Ramone to consciousness. He was inside a timber building, most likely the one he had observed from the river's edge. One of the barbarians was leaning over his supine form. The barbarian was a women. That was the first thing he noticed, he had just assumed all of them were men, judging by their height, and the bulky furs they were concealed their features, as well as their forms. This one had her coat opened and hood thrown back, revealing high cheekbones and a long braid wrapped around her neck loosely like a scarf. The pain came from the woman plunging his foot into a bucket of cold water. Ramone, to his credit, did not cry out in pain, yet couldn't hold back a wince and gasp. She said in broken Low Gothic, "I start cold water, then less cold, then warm, too warm too soon, and the foot..." She stumbled for the word, then settled with a chopping motion. Ramone understood. He looked around, most of the barbarians were present, listening to the guttural boasts of their chief, or watching a handful of captives, bound and gagged in a circle. Of his followers, there was only one, he was stripped from the waist down, a trio tubs pushed aside. The same treatment Ramone was going suffering through having failed. Instead a burly man was holding the fruit picker down while another was heating his axe in the fire. Ramone wanted his obscura now more than he had ever wanted it before. The Noise Marines, were taking the captives individually into another room. Wether they were asking questions, or merely having sport with the captives was unclear. All that Ramone heard was a series of screams, each at different pitches, and some longer than others. After a while of listening, he realized that Those Truly Blessed were playing the pain of the captives like an instrument, making their screams a macabre symphony. Ramone needed his obscura. It was in the inner pocket of his coat, more was in his pack tied to the apostle's rhino, both were inaccessible, his coat across the room full of barbarians, and his pack may as well been across the galaxy. He was going to have to suffer without for now. The woman, beautiful in spite of her barbarian upbringing, or perhaps because of it, without comment or word plunged his foot into the next basin, more needles, just as painful lanced into his foot. This time he could not hold back a scream. The barbarians laughed mockingly, but to Ramone's despair, it may as well been the spirits laughing at him, he had failed them in some way, and now they were taunting him, the extreme pain that was too much for him to bear, the beautiful woman who looked at him now as some pathetic weakling, the longing desire for his obscura that was just as close as the woman, but equally out of reach. He must be a failure in the eyes of the spirits, and without any followers, and without the blessings of the spirits, he was really nothing more than a lone fruit picker and poacher in the service of people who still knew the blessings of the spirits and still mattered. Wallowing in misery, the woman held his foot down in the last tub. It was pain he deserved for failing. Just as the woman removed his foot and wrapped it in a dry towel, the champion of Crescendo came walking back into the room. Over the speakers projecting across his shoulders, announced the voice of Lavam, "Have the failure of Fewood come join me in the master suite." Even the apostle knew he was a failure. Ramone struggled to stand up, his foot still in excruciating pain, and hobbled in the direction the noise champion pointed. Climbing the stairs was brutal, but the servant must obey the master, and that was all Ramone was anymore, a servant with no friends, an addict, and a failure. Thoughts crossed his mind as he climbed the stairs that there was only one option left for him now, and it would end his shame and pain. They were bleak thoughts. He reached the top and saw The Voice of the Black Maw standing just inside a room at the end of the hall. He hobbled like an old woman over to the apostle, wincing in pain whenever his left foot took the slightest weight. He entered the master suite and saw what once was a room that could only be that of a wealthy lord, but was mostly destroyed by battle, all save a white fur of some predator that could possibly have eaten him whole. He quickly dropped to the ground before Lavam and pressed his head to the floor in submission. Lavam made him wait a moment, probably for Ramone to appreciate his failings of not just the spirits, but Lavam as well. Then the apostle grabbed Ramone's shoulder in a crushing grip, painfully manipulating the bones and tendons, and said, "Ramone, underneath that fur is an item of interest to the spirits, it is likely warded or trapped, I want you to remove the rug and disarm any protections it may have. The gods are not happy with you Ramone. You are a failure. Not because of your loss of your faithful followers, the spirits delighted in their courageous charge, but your failure to die with them. The spirits have no use for cowards, Ramone. Perhaps you might redeem yourself with a tiny bit of courage now, well after the battle was won by braver men." The bleak thoughts from the staircase were meaningless now. Ramone, in spite of his misfortune, did not want to blow himself up in some trapped rug. But what choice did he have, he couldn't disobey the apostle. Maybe this was all an elaborate test from the spirits. Maybe if he did this, not only would the restore their favor with him, but even grant new rewards. He was Ramone, he had held their favor before. But he did not want to die, and that seemed an equally likely outcome. Oh, how he wished he had some obscura. He stepped forward towards the rug as Lavam left the room, left him to his fate. He pulled the rug a little, it was heavy, the fur thick enough for the beast to survive in the surrounding forest, but it slid easily on the polished wood floor. Nothing happened with the slight tug, so he yanked hard and ran backwards, pulling the fur with him as fast as his left foot let him. There was no explosion, no electrocuting jolts, no poisoned needles showering the room with death, just a symbol carved into the floor and filled with red wax. Oh spirits! My eyes! Ramone had looked at the symbol, and immediately had known that he was beyond any redemption. He knew that the Emperor hated him, he knew that his soul was destined for eternal torment. On some level, Ramone had always known these things, even though he rejected them with the truth of the spirits, but this symbol showed it to him in a dire way that he could not so easily reject, it was terrifying and it made him sick to his stomach. Vomiting, he crawled to the farthest corner of the room, sobbing. Ramone had failed to keep faith with the spirits. 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Carrack Posted November 30, 2015 Author Share Posted November 30, 2015 Part 4 Falling from Heaven "The Wanderer? Astartes from the Eye of Terror, are not always what they seem." -Paimun, Chosen of Lord Carrack. M39. Paimun trudged in the snow behind "Saint" Tiam's icon, and his squad's champion, Vinno. They were once again scouting an entrance to a village, but this one showed clear signs of life. Their was the low buzzing of industrial saws coming from buildings just beyond the timber and fill walls, and much of the town was turning on lamps, or lighting torches in the rapidly setting sun. Vinno's previous method of scouting entrances by tracking scavenging predators, while effective in the first two villages, was inappropriate for this village, named Gurink on their map. The walls were too high for one, this village being noticeably more prosperous than the burned out villages they had already searched. Secondly, there it was, the sound of two racks of antlers smashing into each other yet again in the distance, antlers backed by a ton of muscle each from two stilky bucks. The rut was on in these late autumn days, and the bucks had enough hormones raging through their veins to attack any predator that they caught the scent of, not to mention each other, or even the occasional tree. These two bucks had been continually ramming each other since they had dismounted the rhino. They might go on for days. He wondered what would happen if they caught whiff of his squad, it might be interesting to see if Vinno would accept a challenge to lock horns, the idiot might. Vinno was the next logical target of Painun's secret mission. His personal Long War was quite different than that of his squad's, and his warband's, even his legion's. His secret mission had almost been discovered in route to this backwater world. While aboard the Bitter Revenge, he had to see the chirurgeons of medical bay 4 to attend to a wounded foot he picked up during the assault of Calebra Hive. The rapid healing of his Astartes physiology had improperly set bones in his ankle as his foot mended. The idiot chirurgeons had ran a full diagnostic scan with newly looted equipment, most likely to see how it worked on a marine. They had found evidence of his secret communication node implanted on his spleen. The heretics had lied to him, saying it was some sort of daemonic mutation that had formed what looked like a brain. Paimun had heard the same lies before, he was not fooled by such trickery. Yet he was almost discovered, if their advanced equipment had seen the truth, that it was a concealed link between him and his mysterious masters in the Holy Inquisition, they would have reported him and his cover would have been blown. He dodged their counter espionage attempts by testing out the new power fist he had picked out of the spoils of Calebra Hive. The cursed machinery, and the heretics of medical bay 4 alike were crushed to a pulp. Although not worthy opponents, Paimun knew that the God Emperor, his ultimate master, cared not for whose blood flowed, only that it did, and that skulls were collected for His Golden Throne. But if Paimun was to succeed in his ultimate task of resting control of the Black Legion, and bring it back into the light of the Emperor, his next step was to replace Vinno. The pompous heretic deserved to be unseated anyway. Paimun began to notice subtle differences in this village's defenses, beyond the taller and broader walls, as they skirted the tree line surrounding the village. The trees were cleared before the walls for one, perhaps coincidentally, but out to optimal range for a lasgun. There was a watch tower reaching skyward from the central building, whose top floor was visible over the walls. A number of antenna and satellite dishes protruded from its roof, maybe a sign of the village's prosperity, maybe not. The path they were making was criss-crossed with tracks, both mortal footprints, and the triple lines of motorized sleds. Possibly the work of hunters, but in any event, well patrolled. But the village appeared to be yet another logging camp that had sunk more permanent roots, same as the last two. Paimun wondered what made this village different, the timber resources were the same, as was its relative inaccessibility to the main population of the world that huddled around the warmer climates of the tropical zones, yet it was better defended. Against what? Paimun and the rest of the Chosen of Lord Carrack crouched in the tree line after they found their entrance. Vinno was needlessly dictating his vox message for young Copil to relay to Lord Carrack. It would have taken less time and effort to simply transmit the message himself, but it was amusing for the squad to watch the latecomer bristle at being treated like a flunky. The entrance itself was a side gate in the wall, that was being left open as tractors hauling the last of the day's logs came in from a nearby cut in the forest. The gate was being watched by a pair of lasgun toting guards standing next to a portable heater. The sound of the heavy tractors would conceal the approach of the Black Maw's armored assault, should Lord Carrack opt for the direct approach. ***** Lord Carrack received his Chosen's transmission on the short range vox aboard Tenebrous Lupus. His retinue of terminator elite were busy staring hate filled eyes into the one unwelcome passenger aboard the land raider, Lythane the Black, Equerry to their Lord. Lythane was making a show of ignoring their glares. He wasn't really ignoring them, only a fool would ignore murderous looks by hardened killers such as those of Carrack's retinue, but his show of indifference was a reminder of the secureness of his position. He was installed as Lord Carrack's equerry by none other than the Warmaster himself. They would be short lived fools to do more than glare impotently. Lord Carrack considered his options. He had approximately a 90 minute window to act once the sun completely set. After sunset, radiation from the moon would make long range communications impossible, then the moon would drift far enough away from the surface of the polar region to allow long range communication to continue. He could sack the village, part of him desired this option irrationally, he craved bloodshed for its own sake, and in doing so he might find what the Wanderer was searching for on this backwater. But then, he had no real idea what the Wanderer was after, and unless it was obvious, he would miss it. Another option would be to wait in ambush for the Wanderer to strike this village, as he had the last two, but Lord Carrack had only estimated that this would be the next target, he might wait in vain. He could further divide his armored strike force, leaving a team here to observe, but he would have to commit to spreading his forces out over a wide area to make that strategy effective. He was loath to do so, he wanted a overwhelming force at his personal command to effect a capture on the mysterious Wanderer. He had already had to split off a portion of his strike force to investigate what Lavam had called a coven house of either a fallen inquisitor, or that of a so called radical inquisitor that was still fighting for the false emperor, despite already being damned it the Imperium's eyes. He chose to take the village and hold it, hopefully leaving its appearance of autonomy intact if the Wanderer did indeed pay the village a visit. He began to coordinate the plan to capture the village, utilizing speed and heavy armor. Lord Carrack sent out multiple orders over the command vox net, calculating start times for each unit, queuing up multiple contingency plans for each unit, all while performing his personal, pre battle rituals with his arms and armor, all in mere moments. He had been doing this for a very, very long time, command was as second nature as any other drill to Lord Carrack, and perhaps his most dangerous weapon, but his huge daemonic axe would at the very least, be a close second. ***** The sun had set, bringing in blue moonlight that glowed off of the snowy ground. The Doom of Gurink was at hand. Paimun idly passed the last moments waiting for the assault, by watching Casper appraise an herb bush growing in the shade of the pines. Casper was voicing his thoughts on how to use it to spice his favorite dish, and what wine would pair best with its flavors. The disgusting, heretical, cannibal hid his horrid nature behind a veneer of urbane civility. An explosion sounded off from three miles north of the town. Garaduk One-Eye's diversion had the desired effect. Spotlights from the watch tower started sweeping the north side of the village, and the gate guards pulled the gate shut, just as a tractor pulled into the village. The Carratuge L'ull raced down the edge of the forest, shaded by the trees to stop in front of the Chosen's position. Paimun and the rest quickly mounted their rhino, and young Copil shoved the moaning thrall-driver, kept alive by feed tubes, lines and catheters, back into the overhead compartment. Just as they embarked their rhino, the booming voice of the old dice cheat sentenced to half-life as a helbrut boomed through the trees nearby, +I AM KHARFUS+. Kharfus would be the one to knock on the door of Gurink. The fizzing sound of Kharfus's multimelta preceded the explosion of the timber gate, a hole ripping through its center, and flash heating the tiny pockets of air in the timbers to explode the gate in a shower of burning splinters. Kharfus ran through the breach, once again telling everyone who he was. Carratuge L'ull followed. As they made entry to the village, headed for the central building, Tenebrous Lupus barked out its own violent call, as Lord Carrack's spear tip thrust through the village's main gate, also headed towards the central building, likely the center of command and control for the village. The Carratuge L'ull followed Kharfus along the corduroy road, both taking passing shots at villagers running for cover, Kharfus with his multimelta and flamer, and Copil and Vinno with the rhino's combi-bolters. Kharfus was exceeding the mission's guidelines, his weapons could easily start an uncontrollable fire. They were here to take the village, not burn it to the ground, thought Paimun. He wondered briefly if he would be acting against the Emperor's Will, by slaying His subjects, but reminded himself that his mission was more important than the lives of peasants, and he must maintain his cover amongst the heretics of the Black Maw. He looked down at his power fist, involuntarily clenching and unclenching in anticipation of battle. He was truly an expert in hiding his identity. The inquisitors monitoring his mission via the communication node on his spleen, agreed. ***** As Lord Carrack drove his spear tip into the heart of the village, he was quickly shocked by the village's defenses. Not shocked by the toothless resistance of lasguns and hunting rifles occasionally pinging shots off the armor of his war machines, but by their quad barrel heavy bolter opening up with a potentially barrel melting long burst. He was not concerned with the weapon being fired from the roof of the central building damaging his land raider either. He was shocked, because the weapon was being fired into the night sky. Was Garaduk One-Eye and his raptors jumping into the city, rather than waiting in reserve? He would kill that walking fly nest if he kept countermanding his orders! No, it was the blessings of the gods being bestowed upon the Black Maw, he had chosen the correct village! Three Storm Eagle Assault gunships came screaming into the northwest of the village from almost directly above. Falling from the heavens. Vengeance Launchers were blasting out suppressive fires across the village. The same radiation that was blocking communications must have hid the gunships from auspex. His forces immediately began firing on the unknown assailants, but were not well equipped to strike fast moving aircraft. The Storm Eagles touched down below the peaked roofs of the houses and buildings of the village. Lord Carrack's forces quickly diverted from striking the central building, to racing to the vicinity of the interlopers. "Storm Eagles!" Bellowed Lord Carrack. The assault craft of the Astartes Legions of old. They must belong to the Wanderer, but how was he operating aircraft here without alerting the world's authorities. He himself couldn't do it, even limiting their use to the times of the lunar radiation interference. Perhaps they were relics of a loyalist chapter, coming to do battle with his warband. He hadn't even gotten a good look at the gunships, he had recognized the sounds of their engines and their silhouettes in the moonlight, but the glare from their firing weapons and engines had concealed their markings. Just as Tenebrous Lupus turned the corner to the gunships' position, the Storm Eagles' engines roared as they fled the village. Lord Carrack's parting shots with his land raider's sponsons shot wide and low. He dropped the ramp and stepped out into the cold night, his equerry and retinue joining him. Before them was the burning remains of a hut, the meanest in the village, yet with the most space between it and the neighboring buildings. They all had seen it. The corruption of the ancient gunships, unique; cabling on one mutated into fibrous cords of muscle, barrels ending in daemonic faces, with mouths agape on another, yet consistent with vessels that had spent Millenia in the Eye of Terror. They had also seen the markings of the Storm Eagles, damaged by countless battles, yet still clear. White markings against black fuselages. Markings of a sword over a set of wings. Markings of the 1st Legion. The Fallen Angels. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4238966 Share on other sites More sharing options...
EesiOh Posted December 1, 2015 Share Posted December 1, 2015 Do i sence Cypher? >:) Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4240088 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted December 1, 2015 Author Share Posted December 1, 2015 Do i sence Cypher? >:) Maybe. :) Honestly, I am liking writing about the setting, and fleshing out some characters, but the mystery element I feel I'm struggling with. I'm debating in part 6 just revealing most of who the Wanderer is, obviously holding back a trick or two, but then that would be breaking a pretty big part of the story I want to create. I just don't know. Also, action. I've only had one major battle, and I ended up editing out a good portion of the action because it was a rather one sided affair, and it didn't really add much to the story. That was with Lavam's assault on the mysterious building. I'm still deciding on when and how to escalate the fighting. Part 5 is at least halfway done already, I should post it in the next day or so. Once again, thanks for reading and leaving feedback. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4240124 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted December 2, 2015 Author Share Posted December 2, 2015 Part 5 "The Wanderer himself, has always looked to the stars with great interest." Reading the heavens from the hells. Scroll unearthed from Kasr Woolten, Cadia. M39 Note I have tuned the Grimdark dial to 11. Chaos Marines are the villains, after all. The Taste of Knowledge Casper, Chosen of Lord Carrack, looked out over the huddled villagers collected, bound, and guarded in the timber yard. Lord Carrack had ordered one of the thinblood squads of newly made Astartes, Allip's squad if he remembered the champion's name, to set up portable heaters for the defeated prisoners. It always amazed Casper how prisoners grasped at the slightest kindness of their captors, and if they were honest with themselves, undoubtably their executioners, in unfounded hope that their lives might be spared. Lord Carrack knew well this facet of human nature, and was employing it to limit the number of villagers they would slay in foolhardy escape attempts. In truth, the prisoners situation was hopeless. None would be spared before the night would end, but not until Lord Carrack was satisfied that the questioning was complete. Casper's hope for some evening entertainment was looking hopeless as well. He had found a unique strain of rosemary in the forest, and was eager to assess its properties. Casper was a consummate chef, and a connoisseur of fine dining, and while the other Chosen were busy interrogating the villagers about the hut that the Wanderer had raided, no doubt in an effort to gain standing in the eyes of Lord Carrack, Casper thought he had earned himself the reward of a pleasant dinner. But the entrées he wished to season with his fresh herbs, did not appear to meet the standards he held himself to when it came to dining. Casper was an Astartes, a true masterpiece of the art of gene forging a superlative warrior, and he had well stood the tests of time and wars. Some of the genetic implants of an Astartes had obvious combat uses. The Black Carapace, for example allowed him to interface with his power armor in a complete and seamless manner. Yet other implanted organs had more specific uses, that didn't necessarily lend themselves to a clear role on the battlefield, but offered options that were occasionally very useful. Casper had fought in the Great Crusade, and the Heresy of his father that ended it, and the Long War after that. Casper, more so then most, he believed, had truly mastered each of the implants that had made him an Astartes. But one was his favorite, the one he relished the most, his omophagia. The omophagia was an organ that connected an Astartes's stomach to his central nervous system and allowed an Astartes to learn from eating by gaining knowledge coded into a creatures DNA, and occasionally fragments of memory if the right proteins were consumed from the brain of the creature. Casper had mastered this organ, but more than just mastery, he relished the experiences that came from eating. Eating people and their brains. But Casper was no barbaric cannibal, despite what the rest of the Black Maw thought of him. When he dined for pleasure, he enjoyed the unique experiences of those with a genetic predisposition for being gifted with poetry and music, with being gifted with a keen and scholarly intellect, and with artistic ability. The hairy and burly loggers and hunters of Gurink were unlikely to produce the choicest cuts that a cultural center or academy might. Not by first glance anyway. Yet Casper had studied humanity for a very, very long time in an effort to help him source his preferred meals, and he knew that sometimes, in these cold climates, rugged peasants would find interesting ways to pass the time in the winter months, when they waited for spring to leave their homes and once again, make their living off the land. Casper began searching the log houses that the villagers resided in, not for evidence of the Wanderer's interest in Gurink, but for paintings hung above mantles, libraries that contained more scholarly books then almanacs and popular novels, and for hand written books of poems and prose. Casper found what he was looking for. He was delectably surprised by his fortune on the evening of the Doom of Gurink. He stoked up the fires in the hearth of the log cabin, and pushed the swivel mounted grill into the flames, temperature gauges inbuilt into his armor helping him maintain an even temperature over the open flames. An even temperature was important when cooking in this rustic fashion. As he poked the flames here, and used a billows there, he studied the art produced by the resident of the cabin. Next to a quaint recliner was a small stand covered in red felt. Upon the stand was a collection of immaculately cleaned carving knives. The works of said knives cluttered the room. Of particular note, were short totems of detailed beast upon the mantle, a collection of walking sticks so ornate, that they would look at home in the hands of detestable sorcerers, if they had been properly sized, in a stand by the inner door. Sorcerers. They could not master themselves, as Casper had, and instead sought to master the warp. Weak fools. Satisfied that his fire was evenly heating the grill, Casper left the cabin for the lumber yard that was holding the villagers. He hoped his meal hadn't died in the conquest, that would be unfortunate. Casper preferred fresh meat. As he entered the holding area, Casper snatched up an elderly woman and a young maid is his gauntleted hands, holding them aloft by their throats. He had the attention of the villagers. He jerked his left hand rapidly back and forth, snapping the neck of the old woman, then slowly squeezed his right gauntlet. He announced to the villagers, "I am Casper, Chosen of Lord Carrack, and I never tire from killing the worshippers of False Emperor." Strictly for effect, he bellowed out some suitably maniacal laughter. It felt good so he laughed a little more and dropped the dead crone onto the sawdust strewn yard. He snatched up another hapless villager in his free hand. He then got to the meat of the matter, "I will continue killing you ignorant wretches until I am told who resides in the fourth cabin east of the central hall." Fingers started pointing to a tall, middle aged man with a salt and pepper beard. Casper was mildly disappointed that his dinner did not have the courage to volunteer himself up, but was impressed with the quality of the meat. He tossed the two villagers into the crowd and stomped his way to the carver, crushing villagers underfoot and gouging deep lacerations with his armor's spikes into others. He didn't care. He grabbed the artist by the elbow and strode to the cabin. The artist, Casper didn't bother asking his name, he was sure to learn it anyway, was a fine specimen. Casper had thought he would not find such fare in this backwater village, but was happy he had. The villager, like many others, had been putting on weight before the lean times of winter, but still had a solid layer of muscle from a life of cutting logs. There would be good marbling of the meat, not to mention a slightly larger than average head, hopefully filled with artistic visions. Perhaps his appraisal was tainted by hunger and anticipation, it had been known to happen before. Casper threw the villager through his window into the cabin. It was important to have the meat's heart pumping at its peak rate before slaughter, that way the blood was less likely to pool in the muscle, and spoil the taste. Besides, blood must flow. Skulls must be taken. Without their offerings, Casper would not receive the blessings of the Blood God, and be less of a warrior. If he enjoyed it, who would deny him such simple pleasures? Butchery commenced. ***** Casper bolted upright, knocking over the table he had set with his own personal silver kept stored in a leather grenade pouch. He left it on the floor of the cabin as he ran out to the village center, not bothering with the door, just bull rushing through it in a shower of splinters. His helm, and the vox caster within it, were mag-locked to his backpack power plant. He didn't bothered with vox either, but screamed out for his lord in Cthonian battle cant. Lord Carrack was standing outside of his land raider conferring with Vinno. Casper remembered to drop a knee before his lord briefly, before reporting, "I have discovered what the Wanderer was looking for. The hut belonged to a witch." Vinno spat acidic saliva into the snow bank aside the land raider's tracks at the mention of a witch. Lord Carrack, hulking in his terminator plate, stared impassively from behind his great helm. Casper elaborated, pausing to wipe a spot of grey matter from his lip, "A villager I have interrogated, Buck, had carved a wand to the witch's commission. The wand had symbols of the Changer of Ways whittled into its shaft, quite intricately I might add. The villagers used the witch to divine the richest timber tracts, with the most marketable grains of wood for their loggers. This was the reason for the village's prosperity over its neighbors, and also the additional security to protect its secret. Yet Buck was certain that the magics the witch performed were but a sideline for the witch, to keep her secure and provided for, while she attended to darker matters. Matters that Buck knew pertained to astrological readings given during the disruption caused by the moon's times of proximity to the polar regions of this world. Readings performed at the behest of an unseen master." At this pronouncement, the sorcerer Lythane the Black stepped out of the land raider, helm in hand, and intensely interested. Lord Carrack grasped Casper's shoulder in a gesture of appreciation, and voiced through his helm's vox speaker and the dirge casters of Tenebrous Lupus, "My Chosen have uncovered what we can. I pronounce the Doom of Gurink. We Are Returned!" Reports from boltgun fire and revving of chainswords, along with roars of flamers, responded to Lord Carrack's command. In minutes, there was nothing left of the village of Gurink but a charred waste. 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paulJam Posted December 7, 2015 Share Posted December 7, 2015 Mmmmm... villager with fava beans and a nice chianti... winter comfort food at its best. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4245439 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted December 10, 2015 Author Share Posted December 10, 2015 Part 6 "...and the Wanderer was cursed to remain close to the Eye of Terror, forever trapped in a maze of his own design, until he could find the correct path to freedom." -The Nine False Roads of the Path to Glory. Fragments of a scroll believed shelved within the elusive Black Library. High orbit over the northern pole of Odeanta, Odeanta System. Vanicor Sub-Sector. Planetfall +2. Buried Secrets Lythane the Black, Keeper of the Liber Apocal, Equerry to Lord Carrack, and Scion of the Black Legion, stepped out of the land raider as hanger clamps secured the vehicle to the grated floor. He was back aboard the Bitter Revenge. Lord Carrack was stalking towards the corridor leading to the bridge of the ship, while sending and receiving a torrent of communications with the Elect, the officer caste of the grand cruiser. Lythane saw Lord Carrack's conflicting movements and communications as an example of the riddle that was Lord Carrack. The riddle of Lord Carrack was; what was real, and what was show. If Lythane had never witnessed Lord Carrack in battle, he would have marveled at the chaos lord's keen intellect and firm control of his surroundings. This was especially evident in operations within the pitiless void. Lord Carrack could direct entire fleet engagements with but three or four commands, or as he was doing now, take complete control of a vessels operations, all the while commanding ground operations and ruling his warband. Their father had had that ability. The ability to direct one's attention to a cover such a wide range of fluid information, mold it, and order it into a seamless plan. It was what had led the fool to name their father Warmaster. They all possessed the same ability to an extent, those who had somehow survived the Long War, Lord Carrack just so closely resembled their father when doing so, it was astonishing. Yet Lythane had witnessed the carnage filled spectacle of Lord Carrack in combat. Lord Carrack, called the Slayer of Multitudes, possessed all of the speed, grace, and power required of one who would command the loyalty of a warband, but there was something more that was blatantly obvious to any who witnessed the chaos lord wield his axe, and survived. There was a bestial aspect of the warrior that contradicted the control that Lord Carrack exhibited outside of battle. He relished in gore, waded in it, and seemed to give in completely to the will of Khorne, once his axe started swinging and blood started flowing. Hints of this animalistic loss of control could be found in Lord Carrack's mannerisms and actions outside of combat by one who had witnessed the truth of the lord in battle. Lord Carrack could never be seen to merely walk or march, he always was stalking, always ready to pounce upon prey. Even at rest, his hands found his axe, and more than just idly handling the weapon, he was always ready to strike with it. Lord Carrack, acknowledged salutes and gestures of fealty with a vague since of challenge, always reinforcing his position as the alpha predator. The riddle was which was the real Lord Carrack. Was he really in control of himself and his surroundings, and displaying this bestial nature as an elaborate bluff to keep those around him from underestimating his intellect? Or was he really just little more than a great beast that could occasionally conquer it's true nature and show a more rational front? Lythane was no closer to solving the riddle, than when he first pondered it. As Lord Carrack made his way to the bridge, Lythane saw to the rapid reconfiguration of Assault Bay 4. The armor of the strike force being retrieved from Odeanta below, had to rapidly be stowed, and boarding craft had to be readied for ship to ship combat. This complex ballet of moving deadly machinery was going effortlessly thus far. The hanger thralls knew well the consequences of failure. So did the mustelid scavengers that lived below the bay's deck grating, even now signaling to each other with calls that sounded eerily like human laughter. They knew that with this many skittering thralls about, alongside the assembling force of Black Legionaries, that thralls would soon be dropped to the deck, within reach of their rasping tongues. Learned behavior, no doubt. ***** Lord Carrack guided his ship carefully to remain within the obscuring radiation of Odeanta's moon. The unpredictable and fluctuating radiation cloud demanded rapid responses from the helm of his grand cruiser. It was a gamble, but one he felt he must take. Under normal circumstances, his warband could quickly overwhelm the defenses of this backwater world, but he was forced to make do with less than the full might of his warband for two reasons. First, his domains outside the Eye of Terror, largely within the wreckage of the Siliquastrum Sub-Sector, were being threatened by rivals pouring out of a temporary passageway from the Eye. Rivals from the remains of the VI. Sorcerers and their eternal pawns were encroaching upon his holdings as the majority of his fleet was released from their obligations of service, and raiding the weakened Luminan Sub-Sector. Secondly, although a backwater world, Odeanta was close enough to the Eye of Terror, to be within striking distance of the massed Imperial defenders stationed to protect the slaves of the False Emperor. Lord Carrack's best estimates, were that he had but three to four days to safely evade an Imperial response to his presence, once discovered, so he was forced to make due with but one ship to avoid detection. There was no hiding the might of the Black Maw fleet, even with the pirates pledged to its service out pillaging. But gamble he must, he was risking the mission on what might be his best chance at capturing the Wanderer. The Wanderer had been careful to cover his tracks in the snowy forest of the Odeanta polar region, but had slipped and left clues to his whereabouts. The witch he had quickly retrieved before the Doom of Gurink, had been found to be peering into the heavens trough the lens of the very radiation field Bitter Revenge was now maneuvering in. Just before Lord Carrack's conquest of Gurink, the Wanderer had retrieved the witch using Fallen Dark Angels storm eagles. The presence of the Fallen was intriguing, was the Wanderer one of their kind? Lord Carrack didn't really care, let the Fallen keep their secrets, but the important matter was their use of the venerable storm eagles, ancient assault craft that dated back to the Great Crusade. The Wanderer was under the same constraints as Lord Carrack, who could not freely deploy his forces from orbit to the world below, but was forced to quickly land a strike force under cover of the moon's radiation, and return his ship to hiding, outside of the Imperial sensor net. The Wanderer most likely had brought his ship into range during last evening's time in which the moon was close enough to the pole to cover its approach. There was also the discoveries of Lord Carrack's apostle to consider. Lavam had taken the secret lodge of a coven of warp dabblers who had believed they were working for the Imperial Inquisition. After intensive searches, and interrogations of captives, Lavam had reported that the coven had coordinated the efforts of the Gurlink witch, and possibly several other hermit witches scattered throughout the forest. They all were taking readings of the stars. Lord Carrack guessed that whatever the Wanderer was after here, was closely tied to these readings. He didn't have the time, or the desire to discover exactly what the readings were for. He would leave that to Abaddon, after he exchanged the enigmatic Wanderer for support against the Thousand Sons. Warning klaxons sounded over the vox, shortly before damage reports came in from the port midship thruster engines. The quick series of coarse corrections the Bitter Revenge was making was beginning to take its toll on the ship. The Bitter Revenge was a Retaliator class Grand Cruiser, but Lord Carrack was steering it as if it was a nimble frigate. He knew pushing his ship as he was, was not without its consequences, and was prepared for the inevitable damage and casualties, the Bitter Revenge was his flagship though, and he had insured before this undertaking that she was well stocked and crewed. The damage and casualties, he assessed as sustainable. Finally, with just minutes of radiation coverage to spare, Lord Carrack received a message on a private channel from his Warp Seer, Ghannor, the news he had been waiting for had arrived. Auspex was useless because of the radiation, and while the ship could be steered by optical systems, they were not suited for finding another ship in the void, even the relatively narrow gap between the moon and Odeanta's pole was too large an area for a visual search to have any chance of success. To find the Wanderer, Lord Carrack had to rely on Ghannor, the sorcerer who guided his ship through the warp, and his thrall wizards. They had detected the Wanderer's vessel, concealed at the bottom of a ravine on the moon's rough surface. They told Lord Carrack that the ship was old, older even then the Bitter Revenge, and possessed of a malign spirit that darkened the aura of its location. Ghannor said the ship's name, or at least that of its machine spirit, was Occulta Chartis, and it reeked heavily of taint and corruption. As Lord Carrack carefully picked his approach to the Wanderer's vessel, his own ship was discovered. The Bitter Revenge's defensive turrets open fire, shooting cannons wildly into the void at a squadron of hell blade fighters. The nimble fighters easily evaded the unguided shells, suffering but one loss, as a clipping shot winged the interceptor, sending it careening into the surface of the moon. The rest of the squadron jinked and rolled, as they sped for the ravine that hid the Occulta Chartis, to deliver their warning in person. Now was the time to take another calculated risk. He signaled to the Chain Maker to initiate his diversion, and sent coordinates to his prow lances for a specific, limited fire. ***** The Chain Maker, Warpsmith of the Black Maw, launched a probe out to an orbital sensor array straddled above the equator of Odeanta. The probe was a masterfully crafted diversion. It's shell, was covered with pieces of the psycho-reactive plastics used by the xenos Eldar. Once the probe was out of the vox-distorting field of radiation, it would begin broadcasting an encrypted message in the language of the foul Eldar. The encryptions used however, were deliberately simplistic, and should be decipherable even to the Imperials of Odeanta. The message was a warning to a phantom team of Eldar on the surface below, that their ship had been discovered, and to immediately complete their mission. Hopefully this would be enough to get the lackeys of the Corpse God looking in the wrong direction, but if not, a plethora of his personally crafted machine viruses, along with a flesh virus concocted by Garaduk One-Eye, were held within the interior of the probe. If the gods were pleased with the Chain Maker, the probe would delay an Imperial response at least an additional day or two. The Chain Maker secretly hoped for much more than a mere delay. ***** The lances of the Bitter Revenge, slayers of many a foe, fired into the coordinates given by Lord Carrack. The ship herself, had no hope of outrunning the scouting fighters, and whatever vessel lay within the ravine, may have a chance to flee, once warned of the Black Maw's approach. Yet the ravine did more than conceal the vessel from sight, it protected it from fire unless it's attackers were directly above it. But the Bitter Revenge's lances, fired at below full strength, in an effort to minimize their flash, did not target the vessel of the Wanderer. Instead they struck the near edge of the ravine itself. Large chunks of quartz and frozen hydrogen blasted away from the surface of the moon, much of which drifted down into the ravine to bury whatever lay at its bottom. The Wanderer would not be wandering away anytime soon. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4248931 Share on other sites More sharing options...
EesiOh Posted December 11, 2015 Share Posted December 11, 2015 I loved this chapters, space 'battles' (in this case a space slaughter) are always fun. Also reading the quotes you put at the top of every chapter reminded me of a quote from something or other "A wandere is not always lost, sometimes they know exactly where they are" Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4249184 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted December 11, 2015 Author Share Posted December 11, 2015 I loved this chapters, space 'battles' (in this case a space slaughter) are always fun. Also reading the quotes you put at the top of every chapter reminded me of a quote from something or other "A wandere is not always lost, sometimes they know exactly where they are"Consider that quote stolen. ;) thanks in advance. I also intend to use the quote. "I'm the Wanderer. I roam around, around, around." -Remembrances of Dion, maestro of the Belmonts school. M2The song has gotten stuck in my head at least once a chapter, much to the regret of those who have to hear my renditions. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4249298 Share on other sites More sharing options...
EesiOh Posted December 11, 2015 Share Posted December 11, 2015 god dam, same thing happened to me. I wondered how it had got stuck in my head and then I realised... Fallout 4. GOD DAMMIT Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4249416 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted December 16, 2015 Author Share Posted December 16, 2015 Of Saints and Angels "A wanderer is not always lost, sometimes they know exactly where they are" -Lord EeshiOh M40 Moon of Odeanta, Odeanta System. Vanicor Sub-Sector. Planetfall +2. Author's note: Sorry about the length. "Saint" Tiam reared his horned helm back and roared, "Blood for the Blood God!" The other Chosen of Lord Carrack echoed the cry throughout the rhino, as they had done countless times before. The rhino, Carratuge L'ull, ended its long, careening jump over the chasm below with a series of dissatisfying light bounces. The low gravity of the moon had made the jump possible, but robbed Tiam of the thrill with its weak landing. He wanted to slam, he wanted to bite his lip and taste the blood, he wanted the feeling of exhilaration to stir his soul before combat, but deep down, he knew nothing would. Nothing save the blood of his enemies, nothing pleased Tiam save that which pleased the Blood God. Like the death defying leap over the chasm, fatal even with the gentle gravity, all other thrills had lost their appeal over 10,000 years of war. Even his "sainthood", no longer brought a smile to his cadaverously grey lips. For Tiam was truly an Imperial Saint. In the early 37th millennium, on the most holy shrine world of Ophelia VII, a Ministorum movement took hold with the aim to canonize all individuals known to have performed a personal service to the Emperor, prior to His Ascension. This movement was called the "Famulanati", and was responsible for canonizing several hundred saints. The movement uncovered records of the pacification of a planet now called Maroon. Luna Wolves and Blood Angels had quickly brought the world into compliance, while being led personally by the Emperor, a rare, but not unheard of occurrence at that stage of the Great Crusade. Following the victory, fleet command voxed down to relay a message to the Emperor. Tiam took that message and delivered it personally to the Emperor. The careless remembrancer who wrote of the incident, recorded Tiam as a Blood Angel, and thus Tiam, now a Black Legionary, was made an Imperial Saint. For hundreds of years, Tiam had taken great delight in revealing his sainthood to the followers of the False Emperor, to relish their shock and doubt in their last moments. But like all other joys outside of spilling blood and collecting skulls, it too, like so much uncared for gold, had lost its luster. But joy was soon to be had, Tiam and the Chosen were about to board an enemy vessel, and in the cramped quarters of ship fighting, the confines of the Zone Mortalis, blood would surely flow, his or his enemies, Khorne cared not. Boarding actions were the true crucible of battle. They were the operations that Astartes were made for. In truth, which in spite of his abundant arrogance, Tiam still recognized, mortals could equal the might of marines, if they had sufficient numbers. Paltry lasguns, while insignificant on their own, could bring down a Demigod if enough of them were brought to bear. Conversely, Tiam's own weapons, his bolt pistol, boltgun, even the bloody staff of his wrathful icon, could only slay so many, many, mortals, but mortals could bring more bodies than he could slay. It hadn't happened yet, but it was theoretically possible. In the close quarters of boarding actions, the narrow halls, cramped cabins and stations, the individual supremacy of an Astartes could not be matched with numbers, there simply wasn't room for it. It was the form of warfare where the deadly advantage of the genetically enhanced super-soldiers was most obvious. Tiam loved it, cherished it the way lovers cherished reliving their favorite encounters. It was the same for the rest of the Chosen of Lord Carrack. It was why their echoing cries were still as potent and passionate as Tiam's own. This boarding action was to be unique in its entrance. They were not screaming through the void in boarding torpedoes or dreadclaws, but driving to the enemy ship in rhinos. The lances of the Bitter Revenge had hobbled their prey, which had been hiding in a ravine, by collapsing an avalanche of Quartz and frozen Hydrogen atop the enemy's vessel, but then, the Bitter Revenge was forced to hide in the same ravine to avoid detection from the Imperial world below, and for the same reason, did not wish to risk more traditional boarding methods. Carratuge L'ull came to a stop at the buried prow of the Ocultis Chartis, the warship of the enigmatic Wanderer. The other rhinos of the boarding party pulling off to either side of the ravine in a herringbone pattern, and the Black Legionaries dismounted. The last rhino, that of the Chain Maker, Warpsmith of the Black Maw, drove directly up onto the buried prow, via a natural ramp of fallen debris. The back hatch opened to reveal a pair of heavily augmented mutants, each bigger than a bull ogryn, crawling out while dragging a sinister drum, easily capable of refueling all of the party's rhinos, if it was filled with mere promethium. It wasn't. It held a Rock Worm from the daemon world of Vaska. A two meter wide worm that chewed through the flesh mountains of the Kasta range for nourishment. Like the big mutants, this worm was fitted with augmetics as well, control spikes were sunk deep into each segment, it's eyes, all six of them, were covered with armored blinders, and it's six hinged mouth opened into a magma cutter. The mutant thralls placed the drum, top down over the buried prow and crawled back to the rhino. As they entered, the drum blew apart and the worm screamed silently in the vacuum of the void. A mechandril snaked out of the gunner's hatch of the Chain Maker's rhino, to caress the nubs of the control spikes, and the worm went to work, digging through ice, crystals, and then hull. A breach had been made. The Chosen of Lord Carrack were the first into the breech. As Tiam dropped through the breech, he saw the remains of the worm thrashing on the deck below the deck they had scrambled to land upon. It had melted its head off with the heat from its own magma cutter. He left it to die as he followed his champion, Vinno down the corridor towards the center of the ship. Alarms were blaring through the ship. Good, thought Tiam, there would soon be blood. As the Chosen made their way down the corridor, Tiam took in his surroundings. If he had to guess, the Ocultis Chartis was most likely a strike cruiser, the layout of the prow deck was a familiar one. Yet it was obviously tainted. Sparkling motes of dust hung in the stale air of the ship's corridors, but unlike normal dust notes, the ones aboard Ocultis ChartIs moved on their own, without the propulsion of gusty drafts from the life support systems, seemingly with intelligence. The bigger, more sparkly motes would occasionally chase into the smaller motes, devouring them and growing larger, as if the had the sentience of a predator, and swarms of smaller motes would gang up on larger ones, breaking them down into a scattering of tiny flecks of dust that shined in the light. Side passages were sealed with mirrors, just as durable as a more typical armored bulkhead, but reflecting back shocking images. Tiam had seen himself warped and twisted, overcome by the gifts of the gods in one mirror's reflection. He had seen a barely remembered version of himself as a child in another. Inhuman howls echoed from behind the sealed doors. Tiam wanted to break through the seals, and slaughter those within. He could feel the icon pulling him towards the Crowded cabins of the prow gun crews, auxiliary magazines, service stations, and fire control shrines. All were no doubt filled with prey, yet secured behind armored blast doors as part of the ship's counter boarding measures. They would have to be ignored for now. Contact with the enemy was soon made. Contact that would provide the first chance to spill blood onto the decks of the enemy ship. As the Chosen navigated through a "Z" shaped break in the corridor, a defensive measure to limit line of sight and fields of fire for boarders, a gang of mutants were pounding on the door to their cabin, caught outside before the ship had secured its doors. Tiam counted 15 of the mutants. Once human, but like the ship they served, tainted. Mutation would inevitably take its toll on mortal crew of a warship that frequented the Eye, Lord Carrack's own flagship, Bitter Revenge, had few crewmen who had served aboard her without some obvious sign of the attentions from the gods, however, these mutants were more tainted that the worse of Bitter Revenge's still functioning crew. Eyes protruded from stalks, tongues, and tentacles, those that weren't recessed into arms, claws, bellies, and backs of heads. Few had two arms, two legs, and a head, some had many more, and others less. Faces were sloughed of to the side, or had migrated to new positions at the whim of the gods. Skin had hardened, sprouted feather or scales, changed colors, or left their owner completely. Wretches, one and all. With timing honed over Millenia of war, Vinno and Tiam slid to a knee on either side of the corridor, crouching low, with Vinno's power sword and Tiam's Icon against either wall, low and protected. As the Champion of the Chosen, and the Bearer of Wrath, let loose a few shots into the mutants with their bolt pistols, the whoosh of Harold's and Bassi's flamers rushed over the kneeling Legionnaires to set the majority of the mutants aflame. With a nod from Vinno, Tiam shouted, "Slulls for the Skull Throne!" To the echoing response of the Chosen. Tiam then ran forward, firing his bolt pistol and holding the icon aloft, The icon borne by Tiam was a blasphemous cold-forged iron standard. From lance head to butt spike, the icon was twice as tall as an Astartes. Affixed to the top third of the haft, was a brass rune of Khorne, which radiated a palpable evil, and was forever stained with blood. Skulls were mounted on the rune, hung from from chains, and were pierced through by both butt spike and lance head. Physically, the icon was little more than a spear or bludgeon in battle. Spiritually it was much more. The icon was their flag, it proclaimed their allegiance to Khorne for all to see. The icon was their focus of worship, the witness of their bloody deeds done in the service of their god. Perhaps its greatest importance with the Chosen, was as a symbol of honor. The icon would never be abandoned, it would never fall. It was carried by Tiam by the unanimous consent of the squad, not by orders from their champion, or any other. Tiam was judged the most devout to the Blood God, the most worthy to carry the squad's symbol. Yet Tiam knew, the day he fell in battle, another would quickly pick it up. The Icon carried the legacy of their squad, and it would live on past the life of its bearer. Tiam knew, because he was not the first with the privilege of bearing it for the enemies of the Blood God to see its cursed rune and lament. He raised the icon high and led the charge. Ancient warriors screamed their rage as they followed their icon into battle once again. The bangs of autopistols, and swings of claws and heavy wrenches were ineffective against the rush of ceramite clad demigods. Demigods of war, with weapons that were bloodstained from a multitude of worthier foes. The blood of the mutants ran the deck red, misshapen skulls were held aloft in offering to a thirsting god who cared not for the quality of the blood being spilt, only that it was. Tiam was alive! He felt the power coursing through his veins and pooling in the icon. The power of the rawest of emotions echoing through the warp, spilling down well worn paths into the rune of Khorne. Hate, anger, bloodlust. They fueled him and the other Chosen of Lord Carrack, propelling them again and again into work gangs of mutants. Until they met real resistance, until they met cousins of an older era. They had just butchered their way through a hasty barricade thrown up in the corridor, bulling through slabs of hull patches and overturning a belt-fed stubber. At the end of the corridor, a squad of black armored Astartes had taken position before a set of blast doors. A pair of plasma gunners out front, prone, supported by a pair of kneeling, and a pair of standing marines with boltguns aiming down the corridor. Behind them stood their champion, bareheaded and holding a power mace, along with another trio of marines behind him. They opened fire as soon as the Chosen of Lord Carrack cleared the barricade. A searing beam of light struck Marbas behind and left of Tiam, another scouring into the wall to his right, revealing a bizarre arrangement of tiny daemons spitting energy into one another, rather than more mundane cabling. The plasma blasts were accompanied by a barrage of mass reactive bolts exploding against the armor of Vinno and Tiam. Their armor held, but Marbas lit up like a green torch as the plasma burnt through the loose ties between his soul and reality, hellfire pouring out of the flexible joints at his neck, elbows, groin, and knees. Whatever denizen of the warp that lay claim to Marbas's soul, would soon collect the insufferable bastard. It wasn't the first time Marbas the Revenant had been slain, not by a long shot. Marbas had attained an immortality of a sort long ago. During Abbadon’s 2nd Black Crusade, Marbas found himself engaged with Eldar from Craftworld Ulthwé. The victorious Eldar completed banishment upon the dying Marbas and sent his soul to the warp. A century later a Black Legion sorcerer discovered a way to reverse the banishment for a short time and bring back Marbas from the warp, in order to bolster the ranks for key battles. A few months later the sorcerer worked out a way to permanently bring Marbas back from the warp but his squad members murdered the sorcerer and destroyed this knowledge so they don’t have to spend any more time with Marbas then they have too. The Chosen fell back behind the wreckage of the barricade. It was too long a corridor to charge into determined fire. Part of Tiam, or perhaps just the influence of the icon he carried, wanted to rush the corridor anyway, damn the losses, just get to grips with the foe and rend and tear. But Tiam had not survived The Long War, by recklessly charging every foe. Vinno dropped a melta bomb a few meters away and pulled and primed a frag. The melta bomb began spewing forth heat that could melt the front armor of a tank, at a junction of floor panels and the supporting beam beneath it. When the section of floor gave way, the frag rolled into the hole exploding in midair in the bay below. The Chosen followed the frag, dismayed that they had entered an empty maintenance bay for refitting void fighters. They sprinted beneath the corridor to the other side of the blast doors, where Obbo and Casper unloaded an alternating series of meltagun shots into the support beam above, with similar results. Vinno's frag this time, did not explode into an empty room, but sent shrapnel scything through a captain's antechamber and a dozen black clad Astartes, armed with a range of power weapons, bolt pistols and boltguns. The Chosen of Lord Carrack leaped with servo assisted legs into the antechamber above, weapons brandished and the cries to the Skull King once again on their lips. The initial charge hit the enemy marines hard, particularly the lethal work of Vinno's red glowing power sword and Paimun's power fist, but the enemy took the losses and gave back just as good. Bassi went down, a power mace crushing his helm and the skull beneath it, Cannil lost a leg at the knee to an energized axe strike, and dove for the safety of the bay below. The rest were suffering minor wounds and armor damage at a pace that could not be sustained. They were being overwhelmed. Tiam ignored the tides of battle, lost in the throws of a duel, exchanging strikes with his heavy icon with the combat blade of an unhelmed, robed, Astartes. It wasn't that he was lost in the rage of the moment, although it's pull was undeniable, it was the face of his opponent. So familiar, yet so startling. The Astartes swung a blade with an octed pommel, other emblems of the gods adorned his spiked armor as well, but that face, green eyes staring down a patrician nose, framed by long golden hair. A fallen son of the Lion. The Fallen Angel darted in after jumping Tiam's leg-sweeping strike with the icon. As Tiam struggled to recover his over committed swing, the Fallen found a seam under Tiam's arm, and rammed the blade through armor, carapace, bone, and flesh to puncture a lung. Tiam took the damaging blow, and instead of twisting away to trap the enemy's blade, lashed out over handed with a bolt pistol weighted fist. The Fallen Angel sat down abruptly as his skull cracked at his crown and he bit through his tongue. Tiam kicked out with his armored boot, shattering the Son of the I Legion's jaw in a shower of teeth. Tiam glanced over the rest of the battle to see brothers being brought down by paired Fallen, one Fallen would stay on defense, only launching predictable, but deadly swings. As the Chosen of Lord Carrack were forced to deal with the frontal attacks, another Fallen would be waiting in the wings, ready to exploit the tiniest chink in the Black Legionaries' defenses. Tiam loosed a few bolts into the back of one such assassin and drove the but spike of the icon into the chest of the Astartes at his feet. With that strike, the tide of battle shifted quickly in favor of the Black Maw. It wasn't the coup de gras of the wrathful icon driving into the primary heart of the Fallen foe. ;) it was what happen next. As the icon drank deeply of the enemy's lifeblood, a clarion call sounded through the warp from the icon, proclaiming loudly who the blood flowed for. Away from the Ocultis Chartis, further down the ravine on the bridge of the Bitter Revenge, the icon's call reverberated through the warp to land in the ears of another of Khorne's favorites. Lord Carrack heard the call. Not fully understanding how, the Chaos Lord and his terminator retinue called for a teleport. Lord Carrack was well aware of the dangers of teleporting into the guts of a warship buried in tons of Quartz and frozen hydrogen, but teleported anyway, directly into the raging battle of the antechamber. The lord of the Black Maw and his guard landing in a circle around Tiam's icon. Before the waves of nausea and rush of displaced air accompanying the teleport strike left the antechamber, the Chaos Lord set about the Fallen with barely controlled swings of his great axe. His retinue, also clad in ancient terminator plate, added to the carnage with claws and axes of their own. The Fallen backpedalled to the far blast door forming a loose semi-circle to protect their backs from the rabid terminators. The doors slid open and revealed the Wanderer. Reality ripped asunder with his entrance. The sparkling of the dust notes, and their perpetual civil wars, grew in intensity to an eye searing brightness. They swirled around the vague shifting form of the Wanderer, each violently jockeying for his attention. The Wanderer ignored them. The Wanderer himself was once an Astartes, but had long since transcended that classification. It was difficult to get a clear view of him, the bright lights surrounding his form and the rippling in the air caused by his mere presence was enough to distort the vision of even the advanced optics of Tiam's armor. What he could see was something far from human, far from mortal. Four arms sprouted from a scaled trunk, further protected by pieces of black power armor. Two arms ended in 8" claws, one had a short tentacle coiling around a scroll case, and the last arm held a twisted staff, dangling fetishes, charms, and bags of human skin. One leg was that of a heron, long and skinny and ending in a talon, the other was that of a marine, fully armored with spikes at the knees and a silver spur attached to the boot heel. The neck of the wanderer was easily as long as his body was tall, its movements resembled that of a serpent, yet instead of scales, blue and green feathers, like those of some tropical bird, sprouted in bushy clumps. The head of the Wanderer was reptilian, massive jaws promised a lethal bite, and caged-in a pair of tongues, one pink and one green, both long and forked. One eye was the dull yellow of a reptile, yet the other was a glowing green. Both eyes turned independently to take in the surroundings. The fighting had paused at the arrival of the Wanderer. Both leaders stared challenges as their warriors began to clear space for a duel. Lord Carrack had the look of a feral beast about him, his third simian arm pounding its claw against his chest in a threat display. The Wanderer had the look of a cruel intelligence behind its mismatched eyes, and was clearly assessing the likely outcome of the coming fight. The moment passed. Lord Carrack bellowed an animalistic roar and the elite of the Black Maw charged. Before their blades crossed with those of the Fallen, the Wanderer waved his staff in a short arc, opening a hole in reality that pulled him and his followers through. The impossible colors of the warp could be seen within. The hole abruptly closed, leaving Lord Carrack slashing through the empty space in a frothing rage. The Chosen and the the terminator guard eased to the corners of the room, having witnessed their Lord's rages before. Hopefully this one would subside quickly and without further casualties. They would have to find the Wanderer again. At least now they had laid eyes upon him, and perhaps their would be a clue somewhere on the Ocultis Chartis. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4253456 Share on other sites More sharing options...
EesiOh Posted December 16, 2015 Share Posted December 16, 2015 Of Saints and Angels "A wanderer is not always lost, sometimes they know exactly where they are" -Lord EeshiOh M40 hahaha I like it, though Philosopher Eesius sounds more suited (but hey, I aint complaining about being a lord) Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4253796 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted December 17, 2015 Author Share Posted December 17, 2015 Footsteps Karmin sat in his bare cell aboard the heretics' ship, idly searching through his chair's secret compartment. He hadn't a choice, either in his cell or his position. He had been captured in the poachers lodge by the Arch-Enemy, and he hadn't done anything but sit since a jackhammer round had cut through his spine one night on that contested corner in the Red Hive. So long ago, yet still vivid in his mind's eye. That fat, hollow round had ended a short, misspent life, only to lay the foundations for a greater, meaningful life, in His service, and the service of Inquisitor Damark. But it hadn't been easy, that was sure. After years in the service of the Holy Ordos, where all he really had to offer was his sharp wit, it would probably be pretty easy, staying several moves ahead of gangers who were perpetually lost in the clouds of haze crystals, or obscura, glad stones, kalma, drink, or any number of illicit substances, but at the time, it was hard. He had made due though, survived, even thrived, by a well placed rumor here, a connection exploited there. Until he was so caught up in a web of lies, that he broke the one steadfast rule of the underhive. He snitched. At first it was to remove rivals, then for money, then because the enforcers demanded it, and they hung his reputation over his head as blackmail. Before long he had dug himself in too deep, and threw himself at the mercy of his payers, pleading for sanctuary as the gangs began to suspect his cooperation. He was turned over to the Inquisition, they had use of his abilities. Damark granted him protection and a new life, provided he use his intellect and keen understanding of the baseness of human nature in the service of humanity. In the service of Damark. In the service of the Inquisition. Funny how whenever times got bad, memories of that night came unbidden into his mind. Damark understood the nature of humanity, same as Karmin, but Damark knew well the threats humanity truly faced. The threats out there in the dark that even other Inquisitors failed to realize how dangerous they really were. Damark knew that some brave men and women had to sacrifice their purity, their lives, even their very souls if need be, to turn the very weapons of the Arch-Enemy against themselves. The same Arch-Enemy that, years later would destroy the Red Hive of Karmin's birth. The same Arch-Enemy that had recently captured him, and tortured and killed his friends. Karmin pried the compartment open and emptied its contents. A pen knife, a book, a com bead with a spare battery, a short spool of wire, and a multi-tool. He slid the pen knife up his sleeve, perhaps he could open a vein if they came to put him to the question, other than that, he could think of no real use. The book, Spheres of Longing, how many copies had he been given by fellow servants of Damark over the years? They all assumed he had so much in common with the famous Inquisitor who wrote from the confines of a stasis chair. He always pretended insult, it was his defense mechanism to those who viewed him as something less than a full man, but he had secretly kept a copy. When no one was watching, he would read it, at first with a critical eye, then opening himself up to its beauty. He left the copy, a first edition, open on the floor of his cell, perhaps it would catch the interest of a guard who might open his cell to confiscate it. The com bead he cheeked, and began checking channels with flicks of his tongue, but the heretics must be using non standard frequencies. He would have to attempt to adjust the bead later. The wire he fastened from his wheelchair to the door handle with half of its length, and the other half he set up a tripwire from the door hinge, across the entrance, to a sink that was suppose to double as a latrine, which Karmin would never be able to use. Speaking of which, Karmin's bag was full, that jackhammer round had stolen more than his legs, it had stolen the basic dignity of being in control of one's bladder. He emptied the bag on the floor beneath the trip wire, and before returning it to its private position, removed the plastic clip that secured the bag from unexpected openings. Using his multi-tool, he cut slivers out of the clip, and jammed them into the door's lock. His preparations in place, Karmin began loudly reciting some of the common rhyming schemes of the Red Hive patois, interspaced with focal words he had learned studying the rituals of the Arch-Enemy. For all of Karmim's preparations. The Arch-Enemy merely ignored the sounds coming from his cell. Karmin sprawled his broken body on the cool metal floor. The patois had quickly grown irritating with their limiting forms, and this irritation was being amplified by the strain of uttering the blasphemous focal words. He was thankful for the strain. He had known a fellow servant of Damark that had confessed that the words no longer strained her soul to speak, as they did when she first gave them voice. That servant had begun to sprout nubs of horn from her brow, and tended to twitch and scratch at unseen vermin. Karmin distracted himself by going over his escape plan. Eventually, he hoped his prone form, his damned rhyming, or the open book would convince a guard to control wand open his cell and investigate. He counted on the guard not bothering with back up for a crippled and unarmed man. When the heavy door opened, the wire tied to his wheelchair would cause it to jerk about and distract the guard, who would then slip on the wet floor and trip himself on the wire. Next, Karmin would quickly pull himself into his chair, slip the knot securing it to the door and leave his cell, closing the door behind him. The fouled lock would prevent the guard from keying open the door, and leave him imprisoned in his own cell. From there Karmin would head towards the sound of the humming generator at least 300 paces out of the brig complex. 300 paces was what Karmin had counted from when he was blindfolded upon being escorted to his cell. From there he would hide, a ship of this size and age, was sure to have unused lockers or crawl spaces that he could stow away in until he could plan his next step. It wasn't the greatest plan, Karmim had to admit, but it could work, and Karmim was sure that mercy from his captors was as likely as meeting a Cadian pacifist. Finally, as Karmin's voice started to grow hoarse, a loud pop from the lock of his cell announced the entry of his captor. The door went swinging open as it was nearly ripped from its hinges. His chair went flying after the door, only to catch at the frame and snap the wire tying it to the door. In walked a black armored giant. Giant, didn't begin to describe the horror of what Karmin beheld. The warrior was a massive being, made bigger by heavy, black, armor adorned with brass arrows and human skulls. A great helm concealed the face of the warrior and supported a pair of massive horns capped in brass. Red eye lenses poured hate through a baleful glare. Oversized weapons were magnetically locked to the warrior's thighs and backpack. Karmin, already prostrate on the floor, cowardly averted his eyes to the deck, he could not bear the sight of the warrior, and in the service of the Inquisition, Karmin had seen things that mortals were not meant to see. The sight of the warrior was worse. The left boot of the warrior stepped into the cell. The boot was easily as massive as Karmin's chest. The boot slipped a fraction of an inch on the puddled urine, before finding purchase. The right foot entered the cell. Karmin doubted the warrior even noticed the trip wire as it was ripped from the sink. The left foot picked up from the puddle and kicked in Karmin's ribs. Karmin was sure the kick was naught but a gentle nudge for the warrior, but for his mortal frame, it broke at least three ribs, if not four or five. A gauntleted hand reached down and picked Karmin's trembling and broken form up by the neck. A booming voice thundered out, "You will answer questions from the Voice of the Black Maw, lie to the Appstle Lavam, and he will heal your pitiful spine, only to break it again and again." With that, Karmim was dragged screaming from his cell. Not really a chapter, just a quick divergence down a grim and dark path in search of the elusive Wanderer. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4254616 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted December 27, 2015 Author Share Posted December 27, 2015 Planet Fall "Thus the fires from the Doom of of our fair city will light a beacon to friend and foe alike. Cursed be the Wanderer." -Prophecies of the Northmen M40 Moon of Odeanta, Odeanta System. Vanicor Sub-Sector. Planetfall +3. Lythane the Black left the busy assault bay, and strode purposefully to his chambers. Time was short, and he must consult the Liber Apocal, an undertaking that could prove dangerous if rushed. One hour, that was the quickest time he could give Lord Carrack, and he had eaten 12 minutes of that hour riding back from the Wanderer's ship. He would lose 9 more minutes reaching his quarters aboard the Bitter Revenge at its highest level of alertness. All the doors would be secured, and their would be checkpoints and patrols by both the ship's mortal crew and their Black Legion lords. But the security was necessary, an assault by the Wanderer was likely. He may have abandoned his ship and fled through the warp in the face of Lord Carrack's assault, but he hadn't gone far, that is what Lythane had discovered aboard the Ocultis Chartis. The available options for the Wanderer seemed limited. Perhaps he had another ship hidden in the system, or he would likely have to retake his ship and blast it out of its frozen tomb, or take the Bitter Revenge. Lord Carrack had all the forces he could spare, without compromising his own ship's security, aboard the Ocultis Chartis led by the Chain Maker. They were scouring the ship for clues to the Wanderer's location, and no doubt pillaging anything of value that could be carried off. Given the time constraints and the size of the strike cruiser, Lythane doubted either activity would be particularly successful. Lythane slammed the doors to his chambers leaving strict instructions with his guard to admit no one. A hasty reading of the Liber Apocal could go horribly wrong with the slightest break in his concentration. There were already strains to his concentration as it was. There always were before a reading. The power of the Liber Apocal did not come cheap. It had an attraction, it stirred the ambitions of lesser men with cravings for its power. In truth, it did so with Lythane as well, especially right before a reading. It wanted him to rush through the precautions in his desire to read from its sorcerous empowering pages. It wanted him to make the fatal mistake of touching the pages with his own hand, and imprison his soul in the very tome, as so many lesser sorcerers had done before. But Lythane knew this craving for what it was, and mastered himself before calling out to the warp for his familiar daemon. The daemon that could turn the pages that no mortal could touch. The lecherous little wretch took his sweet time answering the call. With a sickening wet sound, the diminutive daemon birthed himself into reality, naked and smoking a cigar. Insolence almost reeked off the neverborn. Lythane waited for the usual bargaining, slaves, sacrifices, material wealth, or minor acts of corruption were the norm for the imp, but this time it was different. Perhaps the imp recognized Lythane's desire for expediency and short temper, or maybe it was some elaborate game, but the daemon demanded nothing for turning the pages. Lythane began reading and felt the power forming in his psychic focus. ***** Lord Carrack sat brooding in his command throne on the bridge of Bitter Revenge. He was quietly seething with rage, a rare expression of anger for the Slayer of Multitudes. He was much more prone to violent outburst and beheadings. The mortal crew were actually more fearful now, they didn't know what to expect from their lord in this unusual state. Lord Carrack was angry that he was forced to rely on the sorcery of his unwanted equerry to find the Wanderer. He was angry that he didn't have time to take the Ocultis Chartis as a prize. But most of all, he was angry he was cheated of a fight by the cowardly Wanderer. But he knew this anger was unjustified. If he had gotten the fight he desired, he would have slain the Wanderer and failed the mission to capture him. Which would have displeased the Warmaster, never a wise move. But he craved bloodshed. He always did. The Warp Seer Ghannor, came strutting onto the bridge from the pilot's shrine on his augmetic legs. He shouted, "Do you hear the voices, to?" Lord Carrack, as much as he loathed his equerry, had to admit that Lythane was the most sane sorcerer he had at his disposal, not that that was any great distinction. He responded, "I am the voices!" Ghannor grabbed a handrail, visibly stunned. Flustered, the sorcerer got out its message, "My lord, a ship has translated into the system, it's identity and intent guarded from my scrying." He gave a general vicinity of the translation point. Lord Carrack wanted eyes on this ship, but was auspex blind from the radiation emanating from the moon's core. He would have to resort to more primitive measures. ************* Keeper kept his spacing as his squad made their assent. They were climbing the ravine edge, dragging a huge optic scope that was meant as a back up system for the prow lance array. The scope was many times more massive than what the combined efforts of the squad could lift, much less haul up a three kilometer ravine under normal gravity. Terran gravity. One day Keeper would feel true "normal gravity" as he burnt down the heart of the Imperium and threw off the chains of the Corpse God, but not tonight. Tonight they only needed three Black Legionaries to haul the scope up the steep slope, because the moon's gravity was much less than "normal". This let the squad's champion, Allep, take the lead and act as pathfinder for his squad. Climbing in low gravity was deceptively easy. There was less strain on the Astartes' muscles, they could even leap gaps or short vertical cliffs, but as they got higher, a missed leap or an unsecured handhold could prove dangerous even to their genetically enhanced bodies. Keeper was the squad's security. He guarded the flank facing the Wanderer's ship with his plasma gun. The Wanderer was lurking nearby, they had been told, and may be looking to seize the Bitter Revenge, or his own ship, the Ocultis Chartis. Keeper followed Allep over the crest of the ravine and their squad hustled over to a low depression in the quartz and hydrogen surface. Allep began directing the rest of the squad to set up the scope and direct it towards the location given them by Lord Carrack. It took some time to set up, and would take at least 25 minutes to scan the area with a slightly greater than 50% chance to find what they were looking for. Finding a ship in the void was not a simple task, and they did not have the time to more thoroughly scan the area the ship was believed to be in. Keeper remained scanning the area around him and the ravine below him, and it was good that he did. Coming from the direction of Ocultis Chartis, was a flock of flying monsters, unconcerned with the airless void, for such mortal concerns were completely foreign to these daemons. Some looked like gargoyles from some cathedral's buttresses, others were more avian, with feathered wings and hooked beaks, all had sharp talons and were flying towards Keeper and Squad Allep with tremendous speed. Keeper called out the distance and direction across their squad vox net and took fire at the incoming daemons. One dropped to the ravine after a hole was burnt through its wing, and much of its shoulder. They kept coming, now about 16 strong. Keeper squeezed off a pair of plasma blast with silent prayers to the gods that his potent relic of a weapon held it together for the shots. It mostly did, discharging a bit of excess heat into a large crystal off to his right. Keeper's plasma blasts were joined by boltgun fire from his squad mates, and more plasma from the main barrel of Allep's combi. They kept coming, down to 12, but they were now almost on top of them. At this close range, Keeper opted to shoot his bolt pistol instead of wildly shooting the dangerous plasma gun. He hit one center mass, but the mass reactive bolt passed through the daemon as if it wasn't there. They made the last burst of speed to slam into the Black Legionaries. Daemonic talons were met with bolt pistols, clubbing blows from boltguns, and strikes from spiked and armored feet, shoulders, and forearms. The daemons fought hard with their initial charge, but the return strikes, coupled with the losses they sustained trying to cover the distance were telling. They fled back to the hell which had spawned them. One of Keeper's squad mates had his helmet torn off, but should be able to survive on held breath until they returned, as long as temperatures remained sustainable. Allep was in the worse predicament, the daemons had tried to bull him over the ravine edge. He almost fell completely down, but was able to arrest his descent by driving a blade from his combi plas into some frozen hydrogen. Allep was hanging off a cliff holding onto the pistol grip of his weapon with ichor soaked and slippery fingers. Keeper told the squad to finish their search and climbed down to Allep. Allep commanded, "Keeper, pull me up." Instead, Keeper grabbed the boltgun barrel of the combi plas, and fired a bolt out of his pistol at point blank range, into Allep's head. Allep fell, bouncing several times at first, until he was thrown out into the center of the ravine, to meet the ravine floor at a speed fast enough, in spite of the low gravity, to finish what Keeper's bolt had started. Keeper made his way back to the squad, and tossed his plasma gun to one of the other Legionnaires, Panith, the most likely to contest, keeping Allep's combi-plas for himself. He announced, "Allep didn't make it, I am now the champion." They looked at him for a moment, each his peers from when they were recently made into Astartes, then went back to work. Panith seeing the chance for greater glory with the potent weapon. Perhaps they would try Keeper later. Keeper's squad found something. Still trailing contrails of warp energy from its recent translation, was a massive warship, lean, deadly, and ancient. A ship from a time when humanity's forges could more easily craft such deadly weapons. A ship covered with litanies and battle honors of both itself, and the Angels of Death it carried to battle. A ship marked across her prow with the icon of a winged sword. A Dark Angels strike cruiser, bent on bringing the wrath of the Emperor to his foes, or perhaps to go to any length to cover up the dark secrets of its chapter's past. Not bothering with recovering the sight, only taking a moment to spike its lenses with a krak grenade, Keeper took his new squad racing down the ravine to the Bitter Revenge. Perhaps this discovery, when personally delivered to Lord Carrack, would be enough for the Doom of Callerebra Hive to sanction Keeper's position as champion of his squad. His squad said nothing as they passed the broken body of Allep on the ice of the ravine's floor. ************* Lord Carrack, was contacted by his equerry shortly after the thinblood champion reported the sighting of the Dark Angels strike cruiser. Lythane the Black had found the Wanderer. He was on Odeanta below, in the city of Magurn. The southern most city of the polar continent that served as the trading port for the timber industry with the more populous equatorial continents, during the few summer months the harbors were free enough from ice to allow shipping. He gave the order to the Chain Maker, after appraising him of the situation, to destroy the Occultis Chartis to draw the attention of the loyalist Dark Angels, telepathically via his warp seer. Lythane was too taxed to do so after reading his damned book. ************* The Chain Maker mounted his rhino, the last to leave the Occultis Chartis, just as her engines fired up, melting the rubble burying her aft. As he sped his armored carrier back to the Bitter Revenge, he watched as the ancient ship launched from the ravine floor. The mass of frozen hydrogen and quartz scraping its way clean as the strike cruiser unearthed herself from the tomb Lord Carrack had interred her in. Auspex, vox arrays, Geller field projectors, and even some of her cannons were ripped off with the shedding rubble. The damage was extensive, but not enough to halt her final voyage. She made her way to the planet below. An Astartes strike cruiser much too massive to land on a planet with normal gravity. They weren't designed to, instead they relied on drop pods and attack craft to assault a world's surface. The Occultis Chartis burned her way into the atmosphere of polar Odeanta, anyway, following the delayed commands of the Chain Maker. The ventral armor of the Fallen Angels ship burned away on entry, as did the bottom two decks. The mutant crew, still teeming throughout the decks after the Black Maw assault, grew maddened with panic as the ship started to shake apart with the gravitational forces of the planet below, and catch fire with the frictional heat of atmospheric entry. The ship crash landed. Another pair of decks ripping away as she slid and skipped across the snowy ground towards the city. Most of a fifth deck was destroyed as well. When the ship skidded to a halt, roughly in the center of the city of Magurn, only seven decks worth of mutants were spared from the Ocultis Chartis's terminal voyage. Tens of thousands of enraged mutants poured into the burning city in a murderous rampage. Cries for help screamed across the vox to the Imperial authorities of Odeanta. Cries that were heard by listening ears at the system's edge. Cries that would never be answered in time. The Doom of Magurn was spelt with the blood of its burning subjects. 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Carrack Posted December 29, 2015 Author Share Posted December 29, 2015 Edited. I'm back, and in black! Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4263273 Share on other sites More sharing options...
paulJam Posted December 29, 2015 Share Posted December 29, 2015 perhaps have another crack at it next year. nothing wrong with having a break, it's meant to be enjoyable after all. i tend to find myself cycling through various hobby (and non-hobby) enthusiasms, so you're not alone. plus following straight off callebra was probably a big ask too. p.s. i'll be sure to keep an eye out for next summer's offering Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4263291 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted January 27, 2016 Author Share Posted January 27, 2016 Note: sorry about the length, I got a little carried away with my first DA story. I broke it down into three more manageable portions. The Doom of Magurn In these dark days tragedy knocks on every door and calls out to the young and old, the rich and poor alike. Prophesies of doom are as common as flies over a decaying corpse. Most should be ignored as the ravings of madmen, but some have a kernel of truth that must be heeded at all cost. What befell the snow covered city of Magurn, on the backwater world of Odeanta, may seem insignificant given the scale of the wars fought for the very survival of mankind today, but perhaps they hold greater significance than one would imagine. Certainly their are no known records of what ended all life in that frozen city, and rendered the ground it was founded on uninhabitable. Part 1 The Burning Snow The city was doomed. If the Arch-Enemy didn't destroy it as they tore themselves apart, the fires surly would. The city, Magurn, had been set ablaze within minutes of the Dark Angels entering the Odeanta system. One faction of the warring heritics had crashed its ship into the city, setting the buildings and timber yards alight. Mutant hordes had poured out of the wreckage of the ship in an orgy of bloodshed and began massacring the populace. Inexplicably, a separate faction of heretics, traitor marines wearing the colors of the Black Legion, had assaulted the city from orbit minutes later, not concerned with the human subjects of Magurn, but instead butchered their way trough the mutant hordes from the crashed ship in a frantic search for something or someone. The city, a port on the northern polar continent, was stocked full of timber from the surrounding forest, awaiting a thaw in the harbor's ice to be shipped to the cities of the south. The lumber provided ample fuel for the fire to burn, but the flood of melting snow slowed the spread of the flames. In any event, if the enemy failed to destroy the city, and the fires burnt out, Brother Laviel and the rest of 3rd Company would raze the city instead. The taint of Chaos must not spread any further, or so Brother Laviel had been told. The simple truths of war were always twisted and frayed when battling the Arch-Ememy. Even the most basic of information was obscured by the lies of the heretic. Brother Laviel didn't know for certain, and would never dare to ask, but had assumed his company had deployed to bring the Emperor's Wrath to the disgusting greenskins. The training rites, the frequent intonation of the hymnal, "One Stands Righteous Against Many", and his squad's armament of heavy bolter and flamer, all were indications of upcoming conflict with Orks, not the Arch-Enemy. It wasn't the first time Brother Laviel had been enroute to do battle with some other menace threatening the Imperium, only to be diverted to chase down some heretic, or even the mere rumor of a heretic's passing. In the balance for Brother Laviel, it mattered not, he was made to destroy the enemies of man, be they alien or traitor, and he would do so without question, now, and for as long as he drew breath. He slapped a fresh magazine into the receiving well of his boltgun, and rushed along the wharf. Brother Laviel's squad had broken into teams at the junction of the last major pier that jutted out into the frozen harbor. Brother Carnadine had taken up a position that had multiple lanes of fire for his heavy bolter, and the fire team supported his position. They had taken no effort to find cover, instead taking an open position that would require the mutants to charge them, and expose themselves to heavy fire. A dozen of mutants had just attempted to charge moments ago, but their charge had lost momentum in the face of sustained and accurate fire, and the horde had fallen back, scattering again into the tumultuous city. Brother Laviel was following Brother-Sergeant Fuqua towards the lighthouse tower at the end of the wharf. Their objective for this battle was to take the tower, place Brother Carnadine into a position firing from its battlements, spot targets for Ravenwing strikes, and cut the communications antennas and dishes that sprouted from the roof of the tower like bunches of wire hair and and clusters of barnacles. Part 2 The Lighthouse and the Ship The door to the ground floor of the lighthouse hung precariously on its top hinge, its thick timbers charred and blasted. The remains of the family that operated the beacon lay dead before the door, ripped to pieces by claws and horns, along with a pair of game wardens who were stripped of their weapons and mutilated. One of the game wardens, a rugged and bearded looking man, was pin cushioned with short fat quarrels from a crossbow. The slaughter was evidence of the cultists ferocity, as well as the poor quality of their arms. Brother Laviel doubted the cultists who were poorly equipped to the point of utilizing such ancient weapons, would deliberately crash their ship, there must be another reason for setting their ship onto a terminal course. Such questions briefly crossed Brother Laviel's mind before being dismissed as irrelevant, as he charged into the lighthouse. The cultists had set a crude ambush inside the ground floor of the lighthouse. They had overturned furniture and stacks of firewood, to make a crude barricade behind which they emplaced a flamer, flanked by mutants holding autoguns stolen from the game wardens, and a few even more poorly armed deviants from the sacred human form. The mutants were counting on the assailants to rush out of the bright burning city, and be momentarily blinded by the dark room. They hadn't counted on the Emperor's Finest, whose eyes and optics automatically adjusted to such extremes without pausing. Brother Laviel hurled a frag over the barricade to bounce around unpredictably in a corner of the room as the rest of the team fired bolt pistols and the team's flamer as they rushed the room. After bursting the rectangular skull of one mutant with a mass reactive bolt, and burning the front half of a feathered freak to charred meat, the mutants responded with a desultory barrage of autogun rounds, a blast of their own flamer, and a pink tentacle ending in a bony hook, which snaked over the barricade and the heads of the Dark Angels to strike the backpack power plant of Brother-Sergeant Fuqua. The wretch with the tentacle planted a leather riding boot into the barricade, and put his whole weight into trying to pull the Astartes into the barricade and his ready cutlass. Brother-Sergeant Fuqua didn't budge. Instead the Dark Angels sergeant took a half step backwards and leaned back on his heels. The mutant was yanked roughly across the barricade, the victim of his own maneuver. Before Brother-Sergeant Fuqua brought his power mace down to smash the mutant into the wood pile, the would be ensnarer, said something to Brother-Sergeant Fuqua. Brother Laviel could not make out what was said, his grenade had detonated at the same time, but his sergeant clearly had, and was overtaken with righteous fury, smashing the mutant repeatedly into pulp, along with the wood beneath him. The frag and the Dark Angels flamer did their work. Brother Laviel and the rest of his team leapt the barricade and laid waste to the shaken mutants. Not one remained standing, and the only damage their team had taken was minor singing of Brother Laviel's armor, and a fused fiber bundle in his left elbow joint, that had negligible effect on performance, from the heretic's flamer. The first level clear, Brother Laviel cooked off another frag for two seconds, then lobbed it up the ladder chute to the next floor, to explode into the room above them. A burst from the team's flamer went up after the grenade to help clear the way for their team's advance. Brother Laviel looked to his sergeant to lead the way up the ladder, but Brother-Sergeant Fuqua was busy communicating on the command vox net, and motioned for Laviel to lead the way. Brother Laviel wondered what the mutant could have said that would cause such rage in his sergeant, and for him to pause mid-mission, to make an unscheduled communication to command, but he led the team up the ladder without pausing. The second floor was clear, so after fragging and flaming the third floor they climbed up to find that floor cleared as well. A spiraled stair led up to the beacon of the lighthouse, which sounds of a stubber firing long bursts, and braying calls of mutants could be heard from below. Brother-Sergeant Fuqua caught up with his team to lead the charge up the stair. The sergeant halted his team just around the last turn of the stair before the top of the lighthouse. He signaled for the flamer to move up and wash the level clean with burning promethium before making the final charge. The flames spread around the corner into the open level, lighting the beacon and the mutants occupying the top of the lighthouse. An exchange of grenades went flying to and from the staircase between the Dark Angels and the surviving mutants. The powered armor of the Emperor's finest was proof against the makeshift pipe bombs of the mutants, although the staircase took rather extensive damage, blowing gaps in the heavy timbers. The Dark Angels were able to avoid the gaps with gene-forged reflexes, and instincts honed on numerous battlefields. The top of the lighthouse went silent. Brother Laviel started to rush up the last steps to secure the top level, along with the rest of the team, but Brother-Sergeant Fuqua checked their advance with a hand signal. He told the team to return to the ground floor and consolidate with the Brother Carnadine's team while he secured the top level himself. Unquestioningly, Brother Laviel obeyed. Once Brother Carnadine had brought his team into the ground floor of the lighthouse, a call came across the company vox. A call to brace for impact for orbital fire. Brother Laviel, and the rest of the squad hit the floor moments before a series of earthshaking explosions struck the city. They came from the direction of the mutants' crashed ship. Eye searing light flashed through the ruined door with each blast, along with raining dust and debris from the ceiling with each blast. After the last of the explosions rocked the city, radiation warnings spiked across Brother Laviel's helm display. With the vox temporarily down following the orbital barrage, an amplified shout came from Brother-Sergeant Fuqua to consolidate upon his position at the top of the tower. Brother Laviel and the rest of the squad carefully made their way up the weakened tower to join their sergeant at the top of the lighthouse. As soon as they crested the stairs, Brother Carnadine opened up with his heavy bolter on a mob of mutants scrambling and skittering further up the wharf. Boltgun fire began picking off survivors of the strafing burst of larger caliber bolts from the heavy weapon. Left out of position on the crowded battlements, Brother Laviel began scanning the burning city below for more targets when his eyes tracked over to the wreckage of the mutant's ship. He beheld the fragments of what once was an Astartes strike cruiser, no doubt stolen by the foul abominations. The burning ruin of a once proud ship bore the stigmata of the warp, same as its mutant crew reaving through the city. Armored plates, at one time made of unyielding adamantine, had crusted over with patches of organic carapace. Portholes had morphed into reptilian eyes. Decks exposed by the crash landing and righteous punishment of orbital fire, revealed a bewildering collection of daemonic gargoyles spitting multihued energy at one another, instead of consecrated cabling and conduits. Brother Laviel had seen such corruption before, the curse of the heretics left its mark on the machine as well as the man, but something else about the wreckage of the ship caught his attention, it was the damage wrought by the guns of his chapter's own ship from orbit. They hadn't struck the less damaged and more viable targets of the ship, but had instead scoured the areas of the prow and flanks of the ship which typically bore the identifying markings of such a vessel. They had risked dangerously close and destructive fire to obliterate the origins of a ship that would never threaten the Imperium again. part 3 Blackened Ends Brother Laviel took advantage of the lull in activity to reload a fresh magazine into his boltgun. The streets had been cleared of enemies within range of the lighthouse, yet fighting continued throughout Magurn. Heavy smoke from the burning city darkened the sky and made visible the afterglow of the orbital bombardment. Fast moving skimmers and aircraft of the chapter's Ravenwing made strafing runs into the center of Magurn, before returning to their circling containment pattern. No one, enemy or civilian, would be allowed to leave or enter the doomed city, the risk of contamination from the taint of the warp-touched heretics was too great. Cracks formed in the thick ice of the frozen harbor beyond the lighthouse, a testament of the heat and violence tearing apart the city. As he scanned for more targets, Brother Laviel saw his first glimpse of the rival heretic faction fighting in the city. His first glimpse of the Black Legion. The ancient enemies from the dawn of the Imperium had made jump pack assisted leaps to the peaked roof of a two story long house, just out of reach of Brother Carnadine's heavy bolter. There were seven of them, in black power armor that was a mismatch of both older marks no longer easily reproduced by the Imperium, and marks that had never seen use by an Astartes who hadn't betrayed his allegiance to the Emperor, who hadn't betrayed humanity. Their armor was in pitiful condition, rusted and pitted, bronze trim, hooks, and spikes given to verdigris, and leaking fluids from joints and jump packs. Yet they had made the jump without malfunction, and apart from their bestial stances, appeared functioning from the lighthouse. One legionnaire, with one eye lens covered by a bolted plate of unpainted armor, jumped along the spine of the long house's roof to spray hellish green flames into an alley behind the building. This vile traitor was surrounded by a cloud of insects, seemingly impervious to the heat and radiation killing the city. The other six raptors engaged their jump packs to make a daring leap behind a bonfire of a lumberyard at the edge of the wharf. Brother Laviel's squad opened fire on the heretics position with a series of alternating shots from each squad member, punctuated by short bursts from the heavy bolter. The angle was not good to engage the enemy effectively, but their suppressive fire would hopefully fix them in place in time for support from the Ravenwing, or another 3rd company position. The enemy would not be so easily pinned. The Black Legion Raptors paused only long enough to briefly cool their jump packs before making another jump to the lighthouse. The Dark Angels made them pay for this last jump through their fields of fire. Countless hours honing their marksmanship, superhuman reflexes, and most importantly, a stoic sense of duty in spite of whatever the enemy brought to bear against them, allowed Brother Laviel and the rest of his squad to maintain uncompromising discipline with their defensive fire against the jump assisted charge of the Raptors. Two Raptors were shot out of the sky, one bearing a spiked meltagun, and the other a wicked chainsword and bolt pistol. The remaining four took hits from mass reactive bolts, or were sprayed with burning promethium, but kept coming, but the object of their charge was not Brother Laviel's squad at the top of the lighthouse, instead, they landed at the base of the spiral stair on the third floor. The Raptors had no intention of assaulting the lighthouse's defenders, instead they attacked the lighthouse itself. The enemy leader, obvious because of his more ornate armor and crackling lightning claw, rammed a melta bomb into a split in a support beam while the other members of his flock threw krak grenades into similar openings and rifts in the battle damaged tower. The lighthouse, structurally weakened by the damage it had sustained thus far, could not withstand an attack by weapons designed to destroy armored vehicles and began to topple. Brother-Sergeant Fuqua, closest to the enemy, chose not to ride the top of the tower to the ground, and leapt down off the battlements as the tower teetered before collapsing. He leapt into the Raptor Champion swinging his power mace in a wild overhand arc, adding as much leverage as possible from his downward leap. The mace struck the traitor at the base of the neck and shoulder, jerking the foe's head violently to the side and cracking several vertebrates in his neck. The traitor's body followed the movement of his head, and careened over sideways head over heels before the Raptor's jump pack fired and sent the Champion rocketing into the slushy ground below. What happened to the rest of the enemy would remain a mystery to Brother Laviel, he saw no sign of them as he picked himself out of the burning timbers of the ruined lighthouse. He dismissed a flash of pride that he hadn't lost his boltgun in the collapse, it was expected of him to keep track of his weapon no matter the circumstances, and wrong to feel pride in such a basic accomplishment. It did leave him crestfallen when the first sign of the rest of his squad was the bent barrel of Brother Carnadine's heavy bolter. Sure enough, the crushed helm of his brother was not far from the barrel, beneath a thick timber beam, the grip of his weapon inches from his gauntlet. Only in death does duty end. As Brother Laviel made his way through the ruin, searching for his brothers, his dismay deepened as another tragedy was discovered, the fate of Brother-Sergeant Fuqua. Brother-Sergeant Fuqua had unsealed his helm, probably to silence the damage icons flashing across his helm. Their warnings were pointless, his situation was hopeless. He had been impaled upon a protruding timber after his leap, and even his enhanced physiology had no hope of overcoming the trauma of a log ripping through his abdomen and lower chest. Perhaps if the company's apothecary was at hand, enough of the sergeant might be preserved for interment in a dreadnought sarcophagus, but the company command was fighting deeper in the city. Brother Laviel solemnly walked over to the sergeant, placing his non-firing hand upon his shoulder. The dying sergeant wheezed out his last words, "Brother Laviel, you are the ranking survivor of my squad, you will assume command. My last order is the most important one I will ever give." Brother-Sergeant Fuqua paused for a moment, partly from the overwhelming pain, but mostly from a moment of uncharacteristic indecision, before continuing, "You must keep the nature of the enemy we fight a secret from everyone, even from your own men." Stunned, Brother Laviel asked, "The enemy we fight here?" His sergeant spit out blood before answering, "The enemy we fight everywhere." Brother Laviel asked, "What is the nature of the enemy I must keep secret?" Brother-Sergeant Fuqua merely looked at Brother Laviel, still able to utter a few more words, but refusing to do so. Then the life faded from his eyes. After consolidating the remains of his squad, Brother Sergeant Laviel received word from command that the Dark Angels objectives had been reached, and to commence the purging of Magurn. There would be nothing left of the city but the blackened remains of its burnt out buildings. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4286544 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted January 28, 2016 Author Share Posted January 28, 2016 The Path to Power As the strike force reassembled in the assault bay, awaiting Lord Carrack, who would be the last to return from the world below if he made it, tensions ran high. They always did when the fate of the lord of the Black Maw was in question. The officers, Lythane the Black, Lavam the Voice of the Black Maw, Captain Garraduk One-Eye, the Warpsmith Chain Maker, and Vinno the Champion of the Chosen, all eyed one another warily, a new lord would not be selected peacefully. But Keeper, the first time experiencing this oft repeated ritual, noticed that the tensions ran high amongst every legionnaire of the warband, not just the top echelon. If a battle for succession occurred, undoubtedly vacancies would appear that each member would try to fulfill. For the sake of the Black Maw, it could prove disastrous, but each Astartes had a chance to improve his lot, except for Keeper. Keeper was a thinblood, a newly made Astartes only recently made champion of a small squad of other thinbloods, and being a thinblood mattered in a warband where the leaders had all fought the Long War since its beginning. From what he had seen, he knew he was at the peak of his possible standing in the warband. The only thing left for him was to ensure his squad members didn't usurp his position, something he was all too familiar with considering the way he had taken control of his squad. But perhaps there was a way. The Black Maw respected the legacies of their ancient warriors, but they respected power more. Such was the Will of the Gods that was enforced upon any who had called the Eye of Terror home. Keeper had heard of a way to possibly gain such power without having to prove his worth over ten Millenia of war. As the tense minutes dragged on, Keeper eased himself closer to the apostle Lavam. Something of a stand off was brewing between Vinno, the Chosen Champion, and the former Captain Garaduk One-Eye. Space had cleared between the two as they stared each other down. Vinno's helm was slightly inclined, presenting his horns forward in a subtly challenging gesture, not so bold as it couldn't be ignored, but obvious enough for all to know its meaning. For his part, the cyclopian captain stood in a relaxed stance that could either be a resting position, or a loose fighting stance. He had also neglected to extinguish the pilot light on his ensorcelled flamer, an omission which fooled no one. The stand off attracted enough attention to allow Keeper to slide up to Lavam unnoticed. Not truly unnoticed, everyone in the assault bay was hyper alert, but the actions of a thinblood champion were a less interesting side show to the main event that could occur at a moment's notice. Lavam didn't deign to look in Keeper's direction or verbally acknowledge him, but tellingly, he opened a private vox channel between the two. Keeper made his case, "Your teachings are still fresh in my mind, Voice of the Black Maw. You taught us all, of the potential blessings of the gods for those faithful in their devotion. My squad may be young, but we are fervent in our devotion. We wish to show our allegiance to the gods by hosting their emissaries." Keeper could not see the knowing expression of Lavam behind his helm, nor the glance towards Keeper's squad that confirmed their ignorance of their champion's request. Lavam replied, "I see that I have taught you and your squad well when you were naught but aspirants just a few years ago. Perhaps if I had recognized your wisdom then, I would have taken you under my tutelage. Nevertheless, I can see that you have grown worthy of such an honor quicker than anyone else suspects, and I will guide you in your quest to be born again with the power of those who never were born....For a price. You must pledge your service to me. You must come to my aid, should I call upon it. You must be at my side, even against our brothers, should I call. But I warn you, the path you seek is not an easy one, you will be asked to make sacrifices to achieve the power I can grant you." Keeper merely nodded his assent. Confusion filled the assault bay, and weapons were drawn. The main engines of Bitter Revenge had begun powering up. The ship was getting ready to move. Just at the brink of blood being shed on the deck of Assault Bay 4, the booming voice of Lord Carrack thundered over the ship's all stations vox from the teleportation chamber. Lord Carrack, the Doom of Calebra Hive, addressed his forces, "Our mission was successful, I have recovered the Wanderer. Prepare for void war, we will be fighting our way out of this system. The tension eased, as first the rank and file, than the officers of the Black Maw left the assault bay to prepare for boarding operations. The moment to seize a better position in the warband had passed. Keeper wondered if he should have rushed into his decision so quickly, and if he would have done so if the chance for advancement wasn't dangled in front of every legionnaire while they waited in the assault bay. If he knew what he was in store for, he certainly wouldn't have agreed to take this fool's route to power. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4286845 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted February 11, 2016 Author Share Posted February 11, 2016 The Wanderer Unraveling my curse could have meant the salvation of man. The enemy believed this to be so, why couldn't you, my estranged brothers. I came so close. When the events that brought about the end of fair Caliban came, I stood with the damned, yet I had no part in there revolt. My only blame was that I failed to stop them. I should have died trying. For my failure, I was cast into the hells of the Eye of Terror, and laid at the feet of the Great Schemer. Yet he could not have me, due to my sinless soul. Instead, the Architect of Fate cursed me. He bound my soul to the Eye of Terror, forever damned to its hells unless I could find the Secret Path. The one and only path out of the changing miasma of hell that was predictable and stable. The Gate was barred to me by the cursed pylons. So I wandered. I traveled the hells ceaselessly, ever searching for this Secret Path. With it, I would return to the realms of Men with a map that could be used by the Emperor to launch an invasion of the Eye, and cleanse the galaxy of its stain forever. From time to time I was able to venture outside the Eye, but these trips were short, both in distance and time. I was still tethered to the hells I was cursed to, yet able to slip some of my bonds through methods too esoteric to explain. I paid dearly when these forays were brought to an end. My captor was not pleased with me testing the limits of his leash. I learned to make the most of such carefully orchestrated attempts. This last foray was the culmination of centuries of planning. I believed I would finally have achieved success if I had been allowed to complete it unhindered. The strange radiation of the moon of Odeanta provided a lens to view the Eye of Terror and discern a pattern to its fluctuations. I was so close. My map was almost complete. Yet the warden of my eternal imprisonment must have realized how near I was to truly escaping. The Great Schemer knew I would bring knowledge of the Secret Path to the righteous defenders of humanity. The foes of Tzeentch. He sent the dogs of his favorite, or rather from all the gods' favorite, the Black Legion for me. They are about to overtake me now. I send this message to you my brothers, the first time I have communicated with you in 10,000 years, along with my almost complete map, in the hope that you can forgive me for my failings, and complete my work so my efforts will not have been in vain. As ever, For the Lion! -message scarred into the soul of the mayor of Magurn, by The Wanderer, Fallen Angel and Daemon Prince of Tzeentch. It is unknown if the message was received before the Dark Angels purging of Magurn. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4302663 Share on other sites More sharing options...
EesiOh Posted February 17, 2016 Share Posted February 17, 2016 DAAAAAAAM. that is some JUST AS PLANNED right there. Love it. Im assuming this is the conclusion of the wanderer? Or will it go for a bit longer? Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4309289 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Carrack Posted February 17, 2016 Author Share Posted February 17, 2016 Yes, that's it for The Wanderer. Not the most climatic finish, even the capture of The Wanderer wasn't depicted, but it sure beats the ending I gave it earlier when I caught a case of writer's block from someone. :) Here are my take aways from this story -A more planned plot kills my motivation. I think it adds quite a bit as far as having a more sensible plot, and I had zero false starts , where I would write for a while and then not like it and start over. So in a sense, the planned plot did what I intended it to, and worked better than the looser system of just writing and seeing where the story went, that I used with Callebra Hive, but it wasn't nearly as much fun for me knowing what I was going to write about weeks ahead of time. -Mystery; I can't handle it as a major part of a story. Bits and pieces are fine, but not a whole story. -Two thirds blues. I threw this story in the cyberspace trash two thirds the way through it. To a much lesser extent, my motivation lagged at the same time for Callebra Hive. -Realism Hang ups. I don't commonly have this problem with 40K. I have no problem with starships traveling through hell at the guidance of a three eyed mutant to do battle with sentient fungus that behaves like barroom brawlers, yeah I can go with that. Yet I got hung up on how gravity works on the moon, and whether frozen hydrogen would be found next to quartz. Honestly, I never expected this problem. +The frozen pole of Odeanta. I loved that setting, it was like Call of the Wild, but with 10,000 year old genetically engineered psychopaths instead of sled dogs. :) +The Chosen of Lord Carrack. My favorite characters. Also the first models and background I have made in the hobby. But they are tired and worn out, I think I will reward them with a simple green hot tub party and a fresh paint job this ETL. +The Dark Angels. They have a rich and compelling background that I learned a little about. If I went loyalist, I would go Unforgiven. That will never happen though. Death to the False Emperor! Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/#findComment-4309605 Share on other sites More sharing options...
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