Inspiration Friday 2016: Thousand Sons (until 1/13)

[Kierdale]

I thank you all for your excellent entries in Campaign – Opening moves over the last week.

I must admit I have not yet had chance to read them all but will do as soon as I can.

I hereby close that topic for the purposes of rewards (though, as always, if you have more tales to tell feel free to post them at any time. The next part of the campaign will be coming in a month or two so there’s still time to catch up).

And here begins our seventh challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Interview with a Daemon Prince

Following the tradition we set in interviews with our Chaos lords, sorcerers, warp smiths and dark apostles now comes a champion of Chaos who has attained that which so many strive for: Apotheosis. Who were they before they fell? What did they sacrifice, what did they lose and what did they gain? Does one so powerful regret anything? What are the ambitions and goals of one so close to their patron power? And why do these elevated beings deign to fight alongside mortals, perhaps kneeling to a mortal (albeit post-human) warlord? (Or is your Prince the leader of your war band, in which case how do they view their minions?) Were they originally a member of the warband or were they dispatched from their patron deity?

For those Daemonic armies, what roles does your prince play in the army? Is it the leader or is it subservient to a greater daemon? And what are its ambitions?

Inspirational Friday: Interview with a Daemon Prince runs until the 18th of March.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Carrack. And to the victor chosen by Carrack, step forward to claim your Octed Amulet:

Let us be inspired.

[Teetengee]

BONUS ROUND!!!!

 

I wrote this almost a year ago near the end of ETL V, so I am not submitting it for scoring, I'll be back later for that.

 

 

Marn, the Rustmad, the Blind Prophet of Decay

 

Hidden Content

http://i.imgur.com/rCkXSJ8.jpg

 

Hidden Content

Marn was of the line of the Iron Hands, though none now can say precisely when or where his fall occurred. The nature of his fall, however, is far better known, to those who dare listen to his ravings. When cleansing a world of the cult of the Green Spiral, Marn was severely injured in the final battles. Both of his eyes had to be replaced with bionics. However, Marn noticed after a few months that a layer of tarnish began to cloud them, no matter how long or hard he scrubbed, he could do little but slow their decay. Eventually they began to give faulty readings. Accordingly he had them replaced, hoping that something wrong with their construction had caused all of his problems.

 

He was wrong. Days after their replacement, not only did they tarnish, but so too began the rest of Marn’s bionic replacements. He took to wearing robes at all times to cover his rapidly increasing deterioration, abandoning any hope of keeping himself clean. Still, his ability to fight seemed undiminished, and Marn’s brothers tolerated his deviance for the time being. But then the visions returned.

 

Struck by a vision of daemons and betrayal during a jump through warpspace, Marn took up his blade and stalked through his clan, rooting out the what he believed were monsters attempting to possess his brothers. Yet his blade grew slick not with the blood of traitors, but of those very souls he sought to save. When the vision ended, and Marn looked out upon the death his fury had wrought, the grim tally that his arms, with strength he had never known, had taken, he broke. Something deep within his mind snapped, echoing deep into the warp, and the grandfather laughed.

 

Marn’s sorrow engulfed him, he sat on his knees and stopped fighting, stopped caring, stopped everything. The death and despair he had brought to bear weakened the already tenuous Gellar fields of the clanship and a tide of nurglings and plaguebearers rushed through the thousand cracks that had formed. Great flies choked out the air exchange and though first there was shouting and noise, all became silent and still.

 

Then Marn, mind unshackled from reason and purpose, began to laugh. His laughter rang and rang for longer than any being’s laughter should. His body wracked and twisted with the bone splintering cackles. When at long last Marn stopped, he was changed. Grown in size and strength, his body pushed out at the confines of his bionic limbs, till they too stretched with him. Great rotting pinions laced with rusted metal bones sprouted from a broken and protruding metal spine. Crawling to his feet, Marn picked up his combat blade, now grown magnificent and terrible, steeped in the souls of his dead brothers.

 

Now Marn stalks the universe, unhinged and always ahead of a host of daemons made of metal and rust. What sights are presented to his insane mind are perhaps best left unguessed, but he seems to slip from maniacal roaring clowning to slow methodical murder to even moments approaching lucidity. It is in those moments that he is most dangerous, for it seems that even now his eyes still tell tales, as his cries deriding the weakness of the flesh are often the last thing heard by the servants of the Emperor arrayed in front of him.

[Carrack]

So I'm left with the difficult task of picking a winner for this challenge. My usual disclaimer about my lack of education, sophistication, and table manners applies. So who wins the Inspirational Friday challenge, and gets the task of picking next week's winner, who should I give the honor?

 

-"To the strongest". -Ancient Terran Warlord

 

But who will that be....

 

 

Equally difficult is offering feedback. I'm a fan of this contest, and look forward to reading every story submitted. I also genuinely liked the stories I read this contest, each and every one of them. Then there is the fact that these are people's labors of love, not job or school assignments, and I feel like criticism of such can easily be taken personally. Yet feedback is important to me, I want tough feedback so I can improve, and I can't expect others to give it to me if I'm not willing to give it myself. So my intention is not to offend, I genuinely liked every story I read, and see my disclaimer about the value of my opinion here.

 

Captain Malachi

 

 

+ I like your take on the round table. I think it is a fitting adaption of the original concept, that aligns better with my view on human, and post human nature.

 

+ The whole council idea is something I wished I had thought of myself. I like the possibilities it provides of shifting leadership of the chapter from time to time without burning the bridge of killing off the former leader.

 

+ The plotting and scheming was in my opinion, just the right amount, not to much that leaves me wondering how the chapter functions as a unit, but enough to portray the power struggles inherent to our faction.

 

- No action whatsoever. I understand that the nature of this challenge doesn't necessarily make for a wall to wall fight scene, but this story ultimately boiled down to a bunch of hardcore chaos marines sitting around a table talking. I'm counting this as a strike against this story.

 

-Tyrranion's character. I understand that he is a bloodthirsty Khorne Lord, but his comments struck me as too tactically unsound to be coming from the mouth of an Astartes commander. He has a small role in this story, and not much time to develop beyond the most basic levels, but he seemed unbelievable.

 

-Maybe too many characters. Everyone had something to say, so it's not as if you introduced characters and left it at that, but some of them had little impact on the story. I got the impression that there was more to the council than the named characters, so some of them could have been left out and used later. Or maybe they will take a greater role in the next parts of the campaign? I'm not really sure about this, but it seemed that the story was a little crowded for its length.

 

 

Sitnam

 

 

+Excellent use of the chaos gods' influences on the characters. The Tzentch Prince has a scheme forming with the pending attack, and betrays his promise to the prisoner, and the Slanneshi marine's distraction at the end is a nice, subtle touch.

 

+The interrogation. I like how this answers the challenge. It provides the information the warband is using to plan their attack, and introduced the players involved in a way that can be built on for the next part, and the scene for the battle.

 

+The alliance. I like how the dynamics for the alliance are laid out. The main force of the Fiends of the Apocalypse, the nature of their alliance with the Kinsmen of Excess, including past betrayal, and the reverent devotion of the Crone Sisters.

 

-Inconsistencies in the prisoner's responses. He is introduced as being broken by three months of torture, but his responses to the questions sound defiant. I'm not sure why this minor detail jumped out at me, it seems trivial writing it down as a detraction, but it was the first thing that did.

 

-Weak narrator. I forgot Clespa was the narrator to the story. Maybe include more of her insights or dispense with a narrator altogether.

 

 

 

Carrack. Hey that's me. It's probably unnecessary, but I'll include my self critique here.

 

 

+Portents. I liked this part the best of the three. In particular, the sermon and the Ork Warboss's narrative I consider better than my normal writing.

 

+Sorcery. I think my descriptions on how it works is better than simply "he cast a spell" or "the force of his mind caused X to happen." In my view, sorcery is cooler than psychic powers, and I think I showed that.

 

+Madness of the warp. So in game terms, Lythane rolled doubles on malefic. I think I portrayed his losing it pretty well.

 

-Rehash. The stories I submitted were less than a week old, but not original for the contest. This strikes me as being against the spirit of the contest.

 

-Length. Sometimes I write long, well most of the time I do. But this one seemed like it could have been made a more readable length, without taking away from the story.

 

-Action. I struggle with writing action. Especially with Astartes vrs mortals, I tend to write one sided slaughters, as I did here.

 

 

 

Diabolist

 

 

+Contrasting the views of the Templars and the Word Bearers. This was ingenious. Both have very similar ideologies, just directed at different ends of the spectrum, although neither would admit it, yet you did more than just show this. You showed how the Word Bearers denied the similarities and reinforced their ideology as superior. That sounds confusing to me, I hope you understand what I'm trying to say, it was well done.

 

+Motivation. The reason for the coming attack is complex, not just "Let's go take their stuff". It's more believable that way.

 

+The Plan. The plan is well thought out, limited in scope, and understanding of the difficulties that the force will face. This professionalism is refreshing.

 

-The Plan. I think the intricate plan I just commended may be a drawback as well. In a sense, you have already laid out what will mostly happen. No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy, but if you invalidate the plan too much, you take away the competency of the Coryphaus. It's not an insurmountable problem, but I'm counting it as a strike against the story.

 

-Line Captain Zekion. He speaks out of turn and gets himself a, presumedly, really bad punishment over saying, "Preposterous". Seems like a rookie move rather than a line captain's, maybe you could have had a rookie on hand to show how evil the Word Bearers are in punishing minor transgressions of decorum.

 

 

Kierdale

 

 

+Awesome shock attack. I'm guessing the Erinyes are warp talons, whose method of slicing open reality to strike is already pretty much awesome. You made it better, way better.

 

+Intelligence. I feel smarter having read this. I've finally been able to put a finger on what I like about Kierdale's writing, it's this; I can breeze through this story and read an enjoyable tale, or I can crawl through it and find new things, nuances that I haven't noticed before. I am also including the use of a wide range of historical traditions in this as well.

 

+Prologue. This section was well done, and came at the right time, after some jumps in the timeline. It speaks of planning for your warband's story. It encompasses the major events that have happened so far in a clear and concise way.

 

-Quarasion. In the end of the prologue she was mortally wounded, then banished in the next paragraph. This is a little confusing, especially for me and the way I just visually recognize, rather than pronounce outlandish names.

 

-Objective of the challenges. Despite how good this story was, I don't see how it clearly meets the criteria of this week's challenge. I don't see a plan for a major campaign forming, and beyond the awesomeness of the assault, I don't see how that is the opening stage of an invasion. Are they creating a conduit to attack through Shidheme? Because I didn't see that.

 

 

 

 

 

Scourged

 

 

 

+Grim and Dark. I was just beginning to like Charos and Palamur, foolish me.

 

+Descriptions. Very descriptive. I especially liked the Thousand Sons ship, not only in the detail used to describe it, but how the viewer felt about it.

 

+Sharks with laser beams. There are some intricate and evil plans, an awesomely cool and evil lair in the Deception's Call, an extremely evil death ray, and excessive cruelty to underlings. I love the evilness of the Scourged in this story, it's more than enough to outweigh their tragic circumstances and be true villains.

 

-I'm still unsure of the reason for the alliance, the stated reason anyway. Why do the Thousand Sons say they need the Scourged? They are presented as two warbands on relatively equal footing, it seems to me that the Thousand Sons should be able to handle Ophiuchi on their own, I think this question should have been answered.

 

-The outcome is certain. One of your strengths as a writer is your ability to throw a good twist in the plot, especially at the end. However, the "gift" of the Scourged is what defines them, so whatever happens on Ophiuchi, I can't see how they could succeed in lifting the curse. I think an unattainable goal detracts from the story.

 

 

Teetengee

 

 

+Scale. This campaign seems like it is going to be quite epic in scale. I'm looking forward to next week's story.

 

+Fragment. I read the story and got a feel for Fragment as being an ancient and terrible evil, something apocalyptic.

 

+good set up. There are a lot of possibilities to go with for the next story, you can continue to go with a narrator close to the king, orchestrating the campaign, or pick any number of characters, and go into a narrower, but more in depth story.

 

-I'm confused. “King Escharon, the final continent will be locked into place in 32 plus or minus 2 minutes. By my calculations we should have two hundred and thirty seven days until it closes, with a margin of error of 5%. my best calculations have us coming out coreward in Pacificus Segmentum.”- I have no idea what this means. Is this the length of time the portal will be open? If so, what does the last sentence mean?

 

-Background. Most of the characters and groups I have read about before, either here or in the liber, but a little bit of a refresher, even a sentence or two, on the characters and units mentioned would have made this story better. I'll admit, I don't know what the right balance is on how much background should be given on previous stories, but this seemed too short to me. Maybe it's just my memory.

 

 

 

The winner is Diabolist.

[Warsmith Aznable]

I was too busy to get in on time this week, but I still want to participate in the campaign narrative overall, so here is my out-of-competition entry for “Open Moves.”

I hope you like it.

An Unexpected Party

Hidden Content

Yllalyn slipped past the cordon of Dragon Knights that patrolled the orchards west of her walled village. Once she was certain none of the older warriors had spied her slipping through the protective hedge, she stowed the basket of fruit she had brought as a thin excuse for disobeying the elders orders and took out her grandfather’s hunting knife and held it ready for protection. She wasn’t afraid that carnosaurs or raptors would be hunting this close to the village, especially with all the extra activity, but the world outside the tall, thorny hedges was always dangerous enough to prepare for the unexpected.

Besides, before the Craftworlders arrived nobody had ever worried about her visiting the old temple complex before. If it was safe before, it should be safe now. Another opportunity to see their star-faring cousins might never come again in her lifetime.

A quick morning walk, then back by lunch.

*********

Yllalyn was very good at creeping through shadows and passing through even the thickest of flora without disturbing its natural disposition. Out of all of her peers, she was the best. But the Craftworlders roaming the woods and glens between the orchards and the ancient ruins were swift and cautious.

Several times she believed she had been spotted by the strange off-worlders riding high on their fascinating jetbikes. Far from a quick morning walk, she had been forced to use all of her best hunting and hiding abilities, spending far too much of the day laying still in the tall grass, watching the Craftworlders circle over head.

Far too much time.

The shadows grew long as the star fell toward the horizon. It worried her that she had been absent from the village for so much of the day, but the approaching twilight gave her all the more help. She made the final few kilometers into the thick forest and the outskirts of the old temple complex quickly and easily. The few Craftworlder guards she did eventually see walking the temple’s perimeter barely required any effort to elude.

Even those lowly guards were bizarre and exciting to her, but what she really wanted to see were the Farseers and the nobles the rumours said were meeting the Maiden World’s chiefs and highest warriors in the Temple Plaza.

*********

“Don’t move.”

Yllalyn froze like a Ring-tail catching sight of a Red-wing’s shadow. She felt the edge of the bone knife a bare millimeter from the delicate skin of her throat, but she could still not feel the presence of he who held the blade and whispered into her ear.

“You’ve done well to make it this far, little thing.” The voice belonged to a male of her species. It didn’t sound much older than her own but the words, flowing in their strange dialect, were confident and stern. “What shall I do with the likes of you?”

“Please,” Yllalyn decided to be direct and honest, and hoped it didn’t sound pathetic. “I only wanted to see the off-worlders.”

“You know what they say about curiosity...” The voice mocked her, and she very well did know every single warning and dire, miserable story about too curious children, learned at her stern but careful mother’s knee.

“I won’t tell anyone. Just let me see a little bit and I’ll go back the way I came.” Yllalyn pleaded. She felt a hesitation in the Craftworlder’s tone, and the obvious mockery only made her think of her aggravating but ultimately good-natured older brother.

“I like you, little thing.” The voice told her. “But I think you won’t like me, not after I let you see the off-worlders.”

Yllalyn wanted to be pleased with his relenting, but a cold hand of dread played up her spine and caressed her heart.

“Don’t move; don’t make a sound; just watch.” The voice told her. Ylallyn could feel that the bone knife was no longer at her throat, but she did not dare turn to look at her captor. “When you have seen enough, when you think you might be about to scream, close your eyes and let me know. I will guide you to the edge of the ruins and put you on a path home.”

*********

On the far end of the Temple Plaza one of the huge, stone rings began emitting a low, pulsating hum. After a few moments the hum became faster, and then in a splash of light the view through the ring was replaced by the daylight scenery of another planet.

Closer to Ylallyn’s hiding spot another of the huge, stone rings did the same, but she could only see a strange light, rippling as if a pool of water.

Lining a broad pathway between these two mystic monuments Yllalyn could now see heavy infantry from the Craftworld, several ranks deep. Lances and other strange weapons of all kinds were trained on the far gateway, and the tense vigilance of the soldiers showed this was no mere parade.

Backing the bristling cordon of Craftworld soldiers paced the specially selected Dragon Knights, many different tribes represented in the colourful heraldry. Mingled among those were conclaves of Farseers and other mystics. Here and there perched among the ruins individuals and small teams, armed with advanced Craftworld versions of what Ylallyn perceived to be hunting rifles.

First came the Harlequins. The motley troupe erupted from the gateway and soared gracefully and crazily through the air. More Harlequins than Ylallyn had ever imagined could be in one place. Some cavorted amongst the soldiers lining the path, others disappeared into the high shadows, while the rest flipped down the pathway and tumbled out of sight into the opposite gateway.

Then the prow of a sailing ship edged through the far gate. A black ship with crimson sails soared through the air, followed closely by several more. The black clad sailors stared intently at the assembly as their ships slowly sailed from one end of the Temple Plaza to the other, but none made any move to speak or communicate in any way.

Flitting around the black ships were jetbikes of larger and smaller varieties. These kept strictly to the pathway despite their obvious speed and maneuverability.

Just as Ylallyn was beginning to question the need for the hostile and barely restrained reception of the Exodites, the chill hand that played with her heart tightened its grip. A monotone chanting rumbled along the wind, and from the gateway marching figures emerged. First dozens, then hundreds, the tramping of their boots in rhythmic unison shook the very ground. Ylallyn nearly did scream when they were close enough to see clearly.

Humans.

Many different regiments, each with its own uniform and sometimes wholly of a different substrain of the human species. There were tall and thin humans in blue and steel. There were short and stocky humans in green and grey. There were square jawed and wide shouldered humans in blood red uniforms and burnished iron chest plates.

Blocky, wheeled vehicles belched smoke as they rolled among the squadrons of marching infantry. Many were piled high with supplies, some carried even more human soldiers in the back, and others towed a variety of massive, brutish cannons.

Slab-sided constructs of iron spit gouts of wrong-coloured fire as they clattered on links of metal, cracking the stone pavement of the Plaza.

Mechanical monsters skittered on spindly, clawed legs or marched on blunt, stompy feet. Tearing claws and cutting blades hung on the ends of two, four, or more arms. Grotesque cannons and other esoteric weapons bristled, though all were trained uniformly toward the ground or forward toward the gate.

More infantry, half again as big as the other humans, and clad head to toe in thick, metal armour. The appearance of this variety of the human species caused the front ranks of the Craftworld infantry cordon to shift about, and Ylallyn could not tell if they wanted to flee or charge into the humans in a maddened frenzy.

More vehicles followed through, appropriately scaled to the larger humans. They were even larger, more brutal, and moved with more aggression than the other human vehicles. Among the boxy transports and angry-looking tanks, special trucks hauling flat bed trailers carried winged vehicles, partially disassembled and stowed for travel.

Even more terrifying, each dreadful footstep a resounding crash above the already hellish din, awkward looking monsters of iron and brass a dozen or more meters high and covered in garishly colourful banners and bizarre icons, emerged through the gateway, just barely scraping through. As the first of these behemoths came completely through and rose up to its full height, it blared a long, baleful blast from its warhorn causing several of the Dragon Knights to lose control of their mounts and crash into the gloom of twilight in a wild, panicked flight.

Finally, at the very end of the long, frightening procession, an armoured vehicle like none other. It had a main cannon that was as long as some of the other vehicles in their entirety. Its rumbling tracks were each wide enough to crush another tank by itself. It was more like a mobile fortress than an individual fighting vehicle.

On this apocalyptic weapon’s rear deck was a highly ornate platform, decorated with banners, flags, icons, and weapons. Standing upon this platform were two figures: the largest human Yllalyn had ever seen, which was now a considerable amount even though the day before she had never seen any, and he was clad in chunky, heavy armour and leaned on an oversized, long handled warhammer; the second figure was, shockingly enough, an eldar woman in a strange, yet elegant costume of what Yllalyn could only guess was a human fashion.

The customized Shadowsword slowed in the center of the Temple Plaza. The large human, raised his arms and addressed the assembled warriors of the Maiden World and its Craftworld protectors by way of voxcasters mounted upon the superheavy. It did not astonish her at the time, though later Yllalyn would wonder how the human’s pronounced his Eldar with the same flowing, confident dialect of her unseen captor. She would never believe what her captor later said about the Eldar woman that was by the human’s side...

+++ WE ARE GOING TO SICARUS! +++

*********

EPILOGUE

Hidden Content

“I say I am surprised at you, Little Thing,” Vethratra said to Yllalyn. “But in my heart I am not.”

“Say why.” Yllalyn teased. Exile came with the sorrow of loss, of knowing she would never see her family and friends again, but to be exiled with the Craftworlders gave her the stars, and she was too excited to shed tears just yet. “Am I not the rustic simpleton you believed I was when you put your bone knife to my neck?”

“Rustic aye, simpleton never.” Vethatra helped her gather her few meager possessions from the village home of her parents. “I say I am surprised, but I am not. I knew in my heart you were different. I am sorry that you must leave your tribe, but I am happy that you are coming with me.”

“And that you did not kill me as you should have?” Yllalyn said.

“Aye, that too.” Vethatra smiled.

“Tell me,” Yllalyn suddenly became serious. “Where were those humans going, and why?”

“To die.” Vethatra said, though Yllalyn detected an avoidance of the true answer. “Humans are all mad animals, and it takes a Farseer to look into the future to know what insane actions their diseased imaginations are conjuring. Sometimes not even then.”

“Then why let them pass through?” Yllalyn finished packing her few personal items and put off taking a last look at her childhood home and the room she had grown up in.

“Humans are all mad animals.” Vethatra repeated. He seemed for a moment as if he would continue to avoid the subject, but finally gave her one more clue. “The mad can sometimes see truths that the sane teach themselves to avoid. Think no more of the Worker of Evil and his kind for now.”

Vethatra made a dismissive gesture, and Yllalyn traded her curiosity for the melancholy thrill of trading her birth place forever for the galaxy at large.

[Thedarkprincesnun]

heres my out of time Entry for opening moves it will be a story of a alliance between my Nurgle Warband and my Word Bearers

Assault on Castelax IX

[/spoiler/]

Jurgal stood there his bloodied daemon chain axe in his left hand, he was panting breathing heavily the workout his body had just endured was tiring but alas while he was a first acolyte of the Word Bearers and a captain of his chapter he was also a favoured champion of the Blood God and with that came high expectations. Looking around the room with the exception of the Dark Mechanicus training robots which he had slaughtered mercilessy, leaving leaked oil fluids and their mechanical corpses all over the ground the room was pretty bare. Jurgal shook his head for the Blood god had granted him a vison showing him the future, or part of it anyway. He saw himself slaughtering a combined force of Iron Hands and Ultramarines.

 

Suddenly the door opened a short hooded figure walked in. "My Lord the Dark Apostle requests your presence at the Briefing Chamber. It seems the chapter master has planned a assault and he would like you to lead it." Said the hooded figure. Jurgal sighed "very well i will come." Said Jurgal.

 

[/spoiler/]

[Captain Malachi]

+ I like your take on the round table. I think it is a fitting adaption of the original concept, that aligns better with my view on human, and post human nature.

+ The whole council idea is something I wished I had thought of myself. I like the possibilities it provides of shifting leadership of the chapter from time to time without burning the bridge of killing off the former leader.

+ The plotting and scheming was in my opinion, just the right amount, not to much that leaves me wondering how the chapter functions as a unit, but enough to portray the power struggles inherent to our faction.

Thank you.

- No action whatsoever. I understand that the nature of this challenge doesn't necessarily make for a wall to wall fight scene, but this story ultimately boiled down to a bunch of hardcore chaos marines sitting around a table talking. I'm counting this as a strike against this story.

I'm not disagreeing exactly here, I'm just curious where you think some action could have been included. Other than having Tyrannion go through with his attack, which would have had its own set of problems, any real action I can think of would have felt wholly out of place. Plus I was viewing this as more of a prologue to the next part, which will have plenty of action.

-Tyrranion's character. I understand that he is a bloodthirsty Khorne Lord, but his comments struck me as too tactically unsound to be coming from the mouth of an Astartes commander. He has a small role in this story, and not much time to develop beyond the most basic levels, but he seemed unbelievable.

Fair. I always struggle writing Khorne characters, and he's a perfect example of it.

-Maybe too many characters. Everyone had something to say, so it's not as if you introduced characters and left it at that, but some of them had little impact on the story. I got the impression that there was more to the council than the named characters, so some of them could have been left out and used later. Or maybe they will take a greater role in the next parts of the campaign? I'm not really sure about this, but it seemed that the story was a little crowded for its length.

In retrospect, I agree with this as well. The idea was to give an idea of how big the council is, but there were probably better ways to go about it. Some of them will return in some capacity for the next parts of the campaign, but probably not all of them (or at least not in a notable way, the whole warband is taking part to some extent) since, as you said, there's really too many characters for one story that really isn't going to be all that long at the end of the day, especially since the next part at least will introduce its own set of characters (although it should, in theory, be longer as well, so hopefully it won't feel as crowded).

Also I'm surprised you didn't mention how rushed the ending was, it certainly felt that way to me.

Anyway, as for the current challenge, the only idea that's jumping out at me would 1) make for a really boring story and 2) give away something I don't want to give away yet. So, unless I can think of something else, I'll probably sit this one out.

[Teetengee]

-snip-

Teetengee

 

+Scale. This campaign seems like it is going to be quite epic in scale. I'm looking forward to next week's story.

 

+Fragment. I read the story and got a feel for Fragment as being an ancient and terrible evil, something apocalyptic.

 

+good set up. There are a lot of possibilities to go with for the next story, you can continue to go with a narrator close to the king, orchestrating the campaign, or pick any number of characters, and go into a narrower, but more in depth story.

 

-I'm confused. “King Escharon, the final continent will be locked into place in 32 plus or minus 2 minutes. By my calculations we should have two hundred and thirty seven days until it closes, with a margin of error of 5%. my best calculations have us coming out coreward in Pacificus Segmentum.”- I have no idea what this means. Is this the length of time the portal will be open? If so, what does the last sentence mean?

 

-Background. Most of the characters and groups I have read about before, either here or in the liber, but a little bit of a refresher, even a sentence or two, on the characters and units mentioned would have made this story better. I'll admit, I don't know what the right balance is on how much background should be given on previous stories, but this seemed too short to me. Maybe it's just my memory. 

-snip-

Fair assessments I think. I would be lying if I said I hadn't written it for largely any reason other than the idea of Fragment sounded cool in my head. As for the sentence that confused you, Escharon and his army don't know exactly where the portal will open to or for how long it will remain open; all they know is that it opens somewhere in realspace, somewhere near inhabited planets, every 626 years. So they just plan as best they can an assault with only the knowledge that the enemy is unlikely to expect them and that they are going to be able to deploy a large number of troops. Also, I totally dropped the ball on mentioning that Fragment is inhabited, oh well.

[sitnam]

Thank you for the Carrack, and I can agree with your cons. I wanted to introduce Clespa here primarily because I was invisioning her being the main character of this campaign arc. A big reason for a human being the main character is the Fiends run pretty similar to the Blood Pact, albeit with astartes in high command positions

[Tenebris]

Thank you Carrack for nominating me. I do understand why you pointed the "Preposterous" part and I admit it could be handled better. I needed a line breaker. On the other hand I plan things to go very wrong and use the adaptation of tactics and the evolution of the strategy as a testament to the competency of the Coryphaus. I am a firm believer that no plan survives the contact with the enemy. On the other hand I like what you wrote about the divergent philosophies. I plan for such monologues to be quite important to my narrative so expect even more juicy demagogy. 

[Scourged]

Scourged

+Grim and Dark. I was just beginning to like Charos and Palamur, foolish me.

+Descriptions. Very descriptive. I especially liked the Thousand Sons ship, not only in the detail used to describe it, but how the viewer felt about it.

+Sharks with laser beams. There are some intricate and evil plans, an awesomely cool and evil lair in the Deception's Call, an extremely evil death ray, and excessive cruelty to underlings. I love the evilness of the Scourged in this story, it's more than enough to outweigh their tragic circumstances and be true villains.

-I'm still unsure of the reason for the alliance, the stated reason anyway. Why do the Thousand Sons say they need the Scourged? They are presented as two warbands on relatively equal footing, it seems to me that the Thousand Sons should be able to handle Ophiuchi on their own, I think this question should have been answered.

-The outcome is certain. One of your strengths as a writer is your ability to throw a good twist in the plot, especially at the end. However, the "gift" of the Scourged is what defines them, so whatever happens on Ophiuchi, I can't see how they could succeed in lifting the curse. I think an unattainable goal detracts from the story.

Many thanks for the kind words and positive feedback.

And no worries - the story isn't finished. Just because Charos and Palamur are down doesn't mean they're out. Their fates are not yet sealed.

Reason for the alliance: I guess I should probably illustrate that more, yeah. I touched on it some, but not enough.

Sektoth's reason: based on the Lexicanum and the Wikia, his methods are described as thus: "What happens next has never been the same twice. Sektoth tends to prefer tactics that turn his enemies on themselves." So, he's just using the Scourged for their weapon, as it fits his motives and desire for never repeating tactics.

Scourged's reason: I guess it ended up being only a single line that got lost in the rest, but the key to the "cure" is that it's the combined knowledge of Ophiuchi AND what Sektoth knows. So it's only through collaboration that a solution will be found.

Outcome: You make a good point. Going into it as a reader, yeah, I can see what you mean. But that's kind of a statement you could make about ALL of the 40k fiction that exists, at least to me. When I pick up a Horus Heresy novel, I already know what's going to happen. We all do. So for me, it's not so much about the conclusion as to how we get there. I know Horus falls, I know Fulgrim turns, I know there's a slaughter as Istvaan, and I know the Eisenstein escapes... but I enjoy reading how it all happens and why it all happens. And please don't take this as I mean to say you're wrong - goodness no! I'm just stating my perspective is all.

[Kierdale]

Carrack, thank you very much for the feedback.

I’ve actually gone back and edited my Opening Moves entry a little. Hopefully this clears up some of the points you made (I added a bit more about Qarasion’s recovery and exile being months after the attack on the maiden world and a bit more about the Eryines – yes, they’re Warp Talons – and their assault being the opening move of a campaign. I haven’t gone into more detail about that though as I want to keep the details of what they do on the craftworld for Part II).

[Carrack]

@Captain Malachi

 

As far as where to put action into the story, I'm not sure. Perhaps a flashback scene of a previous engagement with the enemy, but that may or may not be appropriate. Maybe a duel in the hall before the meeting, that the council stops, leaving the tension between two members. It was a great story, like the rest, but I was looking for ways that I thought the story could be improved upon. I'm by no means an expert, I was just offering my perspective.

 

I didn't think the ending was rushed, or more accurately, I thought it was rushed, but that didn't detract from the story. It just pointed to the council being a decisive body, not just a debate club.

 

I wouldn't give up on this challenge just because you don't want to throw off your warband's narrative. You can always pick a different warband, and do a one off story, and then have a character that may come in to play later. Another option would be to jump back in time for your warband and tell of a significant player in the background, either as a memory of one of the current members, or not.

[Captain Malachi]

As far as where to put action into the story, I'm not sure. Perhaps a flashback scene of a previous engagement with the enemy, but that may or may not be appropriate. Maybe a duel in the hall before the meeting, that the council stops, leaving the tension between two members. It was a great story, like the rest, but I was looking for ways that I thought the story could be improved upon. I'm by no means an expert, I was just offering my perspective.

Hmm, a duel before the meeting could have worked, yeah. Or perhaps more of a physical argument rather than an official duel, anyway. I'll bear that it mind in the future.

 

I didn't think the ending was rushed, or more accurately, I thought it was rushed, but that didn't detract from the story. It just pointed to the council being a decisive body, not just a debate club.

Heh, fair enough.

 

I wouldn't give up on this challenge just because you don't want to throw off your warband's narrative. You can always pick a different warband, and do a one off story, and then have a character that may come in to play later. Another option would be to jump back in time for your warband and tell of a significant player in the background, either as a memory of one of the current members, or not.

I actually did come up with an idea, but the words aren't flowing so I'm having a lot of trouble with it. With luck I'll be able to get it out at some point, we'll see. Or I might just leave that for another time and do a silly humour piece, who knows.

[Kierdale]

Bear in mind you have two weeks to do the current challenges. That should be plenty of time for an idea to brew. :)

[sitnam]

Bear in mind you have two weeks to do the current challenges. That should be plenty of time for an idea to brew. :)

Awesome, vecause i have like three ideas brewing for my bio of Tomasz and I cant fricking pick one yet. Hell I just came up with a new warband idea completely unrelated to my Fiends. Chaos Marines who still hold to the Imperial Truth. So they hate everyone.

 

if I can poll my fellow writers,what seems more interesting: Tomasz simply telling his story to Clespa, a conclave of Imperials detailing what they know of him, or a kinda omniprescent overview? Option 3 will give me the ability to tell stuff without worrying about character interactions, Option 1 lets me develop existing characters, and option 2 gives an outside perspective but wont let me realistically develop some of the secrets I'm shooting for

[Teetengee]

Prince of Eyes

Hidden Content

Interrogation Transcript of Zhad Szoke, Radical Inquisitor, so-called Torture-King of Yarad, declared Excommunicatus M39

The eye is not a just the window to the soul, but a door through which danger may pass.

Z: “Tell me your name, servant of deceit.”

K: “Kalthedor, Scribe of Imanet of Three, Serf-Vessel of Harkate, the Left of Dinthan, Seventh among Eyes.”

Z: “And what in the Emperor’s Name does that mean.”
 

(a single scream):

K: “I keep a record for Imanet. The Sorcerer Imanet serves Harkate. The Magi Harkate serves the Seer Dinthan. Dinthan sits at the last position among the Prince’s vessels, though not the final one.”

Z: “Cease your circuituity, heretic.” (Scream) “Tell me of this Prince. Don’t make me ask again.”

(panting)

K: “Yes King of Yarad. I speak of the Prince of Eyes, the Many Sighted Master, the Lord Observant, They Who Glimpse At Time, Piefingers. My readings have told me that the Prince of Eyes was once a mortal, though one whose name has been lost to time. That being lead a vast whispernet in some ancient hive. Its need to know more and more of all that happened in that world grew with each passing year. First, it turned to more conventional means; eves-droppers, street urchins. Second, it used its secrets as leverage to purchase an army of voxes and vidcap machines, eventually buying small servitors. But ultimately, it could only gain second hand knowledge, and it lacked watchers for its own watchers, though it added layer after layer with each passing year.”

Z: “Continue, or I shall remove another finger.”

K: “Finally this being turned to sorcery, sacrificing navigators to work spells of observations. But it was never satisfied, each layer of observers needed itself to be observed, and no matter how nested it became, the future prince never had sufficient senses itself. So it experimented, grafting eyes and ears from many sacrifices into its own body by sorcerous means. The being added more and more, even the Great Changer itself took notice of a being so dedicated to knowledge it would continuously remake its own form to better acquire it. But as it knew more, the more it knew it did not know, and the further its purpose grew. Eventually a whole planet served purely to bring other places to its attention, and with the stopping of tithes, the Imperium took note.”

Z: “And the filth was purged, so how does this Prince survive, you are trying my patience talespinner.”

(Coughing)

K: “It was unsurprisingly forewarned of the attack. Enraged that it had taken so long to reveal such betrayal, the future Prince devised a new spell that would allow it to see any attempt on itself from within its organization. The spell was complex, however, it required this being to go through all the records it had once had and double them, and change the doubles, and do the same again and again; nine times were the hive records split and shifted, and in the end no true story of its hall would be visible to the Imperial forces come to find it. At the conclusion of such great deception, having long since abandoned its own memory of the truth, and at the end of a war fought down to its last chamber against the Imperial Inquisitor, it heard a call, [REDACTED] itself spoke and told it to let the inquisitor destroy it, and scatter it to the winds.”
 

(Scream)

Z: “Never again shall you utter that name, are we quite clear?”

K: “As the crystal fortress. The inquistor’s henchmen came across the being, now quite dissimilar from the human form, studded with lidless eyeballs and with wings made of ears. In their hasty disgust they blew the being apart; reporting back that the taint had been destroyed. But in their foolishness they had offered ascension. Nine eyeballs remained, and those formed the mortal body of a new immortal servant of the Great Changer. With time these dark orbs found new owners. They spoke to the owners, tempting rituals and rites in dreams and in waking. Each owner fell in time, the sorcerous might offered by symbiosis well worth the control of their powers and a third eye in the middle of their foreheads. Each of these first of Threes met, and in time decided they too needed followers. They discovered that just as they could give power to each other and to They Who Glimpse the Future, they could take power from those who had their eyes. Each of them found others, further gifting their natural eyes to such psychic followers they deemed worthy.”
 

Z: “Did not the removal of their eyes render them blind, and easy prey to such followers?”

K: “No, for they still saw from the faces of those that might betray them, even if from their own face only that which the Prince deemed fit for them to witness might be revealed. But the Prince could see far beyond mortal ken, to plots not even yet known to to their hatchers. Such Sight was better than any mortal vision to these seers. Each of the Seers’s servants further gave up an eye to a defender. These lowest level sorcerers were often quite powerful in their own right, but their masters could draw upon these serfs for power, should the need arise. The double vision of self and other was useful to them for engaging their plots throughout the galaxy. I serve one of these three eyed savants, occasionally empowered by above, but always watching for the opportunity to rise.”

Z: “Rise, but how would they if their masters know all that they do?”

K: “Usually it is simple, one servant dies, and those down the chain find further servants to bless in order to rise. If a Seer should die, the Seers shall move forward in succession, though not in power, and the last seer shall choose the new Seer from the Eyes that Seer left behind. The loss of the immortal eyes of the Prince are little worry, 1 year and a day is sufficient to replenish them, as only a portion of the Prince can be banished at any given time.”

Z: “You have been more than usually helpful for such a heretic, such knowledge of your organization will be instrumental in destroying it, I might just kill you cleanly in thanks.”

K: “Destroying it? No, you did not even capture me, I volunteered to meet you, as Dinthan’s Right has recently been lost. The late Magi’s of Three has successfully been transmuted, but is in need of his own. Your inquisitive interests align well with Lord Observant’s. The seed has been sewn, because there is just so much more you could know…”

RECORD ENDS

 

Format was weird and my thoughts were a bit scattered on this one, whatever, it should be weird enough.

[Scourged]

Turns out I came up with an idea after all. Besides, this thread always needs some Tzeentch love. Check it out.

 

 

 

The Final Gem

All of them were kneeled in supplication. The collected dregs fully-clad in their blood-soaked armor of scarlet and brass circled his dais in concentric rings, all heads bowed. Their lord stood at his side, but with even his head bowed in reverence to the power on display here and now. Pitiful. What would their god think of them now, reallocating their faith to a sorcerer? It amused him to no end.

They called him The Marrow; it was a name that suited him fine. He had traded one moniker for the next through centuries of moving through various warbands. For these devotees of axe and blood, he cast on the robe of the noble shaman: tossing bones to scry the future, and sucking the marrow from the limbs of fallen adversaries. The grotesque displays were necessary to earn their devotion. Skulls and blood were all that these fools knew.

He clutched the charred carpal bones of some local fauna and shook them in his ornate gauntlets. He spoke in a rhythmic chant that was nothing but gibberish, yet it impressed the warband to no end. It was all a grand spectacle for their sake. The bones were tossed, bouncing and spinning on the red-stained marble plinth. The foolish Astartes all held their breath as he pretended to concentrate, “reading” the bones as the “elders” had taught him. Then, as usual, it was the faked seizure, and the lord tending to his weakened state, and the whispering of their next objective. All by rote, all a wonderful game to achieve the goals of The Marrow.

***

The rubes fought blindly in a screaming melee. They were convinced that a relic of their patron deity sat waiting in the provincial home of some backworld bureaucrat. He had called it the Axe of Chorchal, and had spoken of a vast and lofty history attached to the blade. After all, with this relic in hand, their lord would finally achieve apotheosis and serve the skull throne properly. Their fervent and blind adherence to the lie only made this attack more amusing.

They believed his lies, just like the eight previous warbands had. With a convincing story and a show of his power, they had all fallen to their knees to beg for his aid. Each of them willingly walked the paths to their own demise, each of them playing their part in the game. Only now did he finally stand amidst the end of it all, his goal so very close. These savages will be handing him his ultimate prize on a gilded platter.

A group of three scarlet brutes guarded The Marrow while he walked through the estate, firing mass-reactive rounds into anything not wearing ceramite plating. The warband must protect The Marrow at all costs! Truly, they worshipped him. Now was the perfect time. The ruse could finally end, and he would take for himself that which he needed. He was so close. So close to the end of his goals. The Whisper assured him of this. Just this one last time, and the Whisper would ascend him.

***

The lord of the motley crew was finally found, interrogating and torturing the estate’s proprietor for the location of the relic. The painful confusion on the poor mortal’s face was priceless. Of course he didn’t know where the axe was - it didn’t exist! It was a ruse, a facade, like everything else The Marrow had promised. Even his name was just as false, a temporary identity until he finally learned his True Name.

The lord welcomed him, as soon as the bloodlust drained from his eyes. He complained and complained that the mortal was lying and hiding his treasure. Such a fool. The lord wanted answers, and The Marrow would get them out of the weakling chained and broken on the floor. Cut him with the Boneblade, Marrow! Do it! Such a rudimentary understanding of interrogation, the poor lord had. But, yes, he would use the Boneblade.

Another false title, another hidden purpose. His blade truly was a beautiful weapon: a long scimitar with a blade that shimmered in colors the mortals could not understand, a handle of carved ivory with golden filigree large enough to fit both hands if needed, and a line of spherical gems of all makes and colors beset along the length of the blade. He told the scarlet fools it was the Boneblade, a relic from his shaman ancestry. But he knew the truth of the blade: it was Drake’s Hoard. The game was finally over.

***

The bodies of any and all warriors in red and brass were limp on the floor, their flesh still burning away inside their armor with warpflame. There needed to be no interruption. The rainbowed blade of Drake’s Hoard was piercing through the exposed throat and neck of the confused warlord. Why was it that all bloodthirsty despots insisted on wandering the battlefield with no helm? He focused his mind, and the blade came alive with an aura of its own, the berzerker lord withering to ash as his soul vanished into the scimitar.

A new, spherical ruby was added to the many other gems along the length of the blade. The game was finally complete. He had collected them all. And the Whisper spoke to him in that moment, confirming his kill and completion. Finally, he would know his apotheosis.

Taking off his helm, the sorcerer set it down on the table and stared at the bound bureaucrat as it began to happen. The already-warp-infused flesh of his body began to ripple, charging with new energies that poured out and over his armor. Violet lightning arced along his ceramite plating, scathing away any offending red paint and leaving it bone white, the brass trim becoming the same bright violet as the arcing energy. It swelled and grew with him, expanding to fit the redoubling flesh within it.

A pair of draconian wings burst out from his shoulder blades, stretching out and flexing, testing their new limits. The bright blue scales shimmered with unnatural light as they spread along his spine and down to a new serpentine tail. His arms split at the elbows, a pair of forearms attached to each now, with each hand growing into a specialized weapon all its own. Drake’s Hoard had fused to the palm of one hand, with a tentacle-maw spewing flames on the forearm beneath it. On the right, the bottom hand grabbed and fused with a spare plasma pistol while the top grew into an elongated reptilian hand. His head did not grow with the rest of him, however. It diminished and shrank until nothing remained, receding into his large torso. In the joint between the chest armor and hips, a new maw sprouted, filled with nine rows of teeth and three articulated tongues. Eyes sprouted and grew like pockmarks along the bone-white armor, each with the same reptilian pupil.

Tzek’fluum was born.

 

 

[Teetengee]

I like it scourged, but I was kind of expecting the Marrow to further be double crossed and for that to be the apotheosis causing moment for a greater lord. Still, the abuse of khorne worshipers was well done.

[Carrack]

Downcast Eyes

 

 

Garaduk One-Eye walked over to the waiting lighter, the last to leave the defense station he had just taken. Standing in the bay was his daemonic servant, Prince Cancon-Nagashesha, Serpent Lord of Rot, bound to him by the ancient soultech of the fabled Candle of Light. Cancon had been his servant since the beginning of the assault on Calebra Hive. He had led a band of cultist that served as infiltrators for his strike force. The eyes of the gods had been upon the mortal warrior, as had Garaduk's remaining eye. He had seen it before over the years in and out of the Eye of Terror, a warrior would win the attention of the gods, be "blessed" with their gifts, only to not have the will or the fortitude to withstand such terrible blessings. It was rarer, but worse with mortals, they didn't have the skill or the strength that came from being gene forged super humans, bred and trained for the singular purpose of war. As such, they didn't catch the eyes of the gods as often, but when they did, they were less resistant to their influences. Garaduk was sure Cancon was traveling the path to spawndom, and rapidly so.

 

Nagashesha was one such gift of the gods. Garaduk had witnessed Cancon slay an Imperial Sergeant in personal combat, only to be struck down by a chimera's multilaser moments later. Nagashesha, a great daemonic serpent had grown from the gaping hole in Cancon's chest, sealing the wound, but ultimately spelling the demise for the cultist magos. The serpent had gradually taken control of their shared body, anchoring his form into reality with the soul of Cancon.

 

Later, as the hive burned, Garaduk had found the artifact known as the Candle of Light. It was a rune encrusted torch, with a glowing gem ensconced in its pitch well. When he had first grabbed the weapon, a needle had pricked his thumb through his gauntlet, and through the techno-sorcery of some forgotten age, bonded with him as its rightful owner. Moments later, Cancon-Nagashesha, since ascended to be a prince of daemons, had snatched the Candle of Light from his grasp with his fanged mouth, the candle had corrupted upon the touch of the daemon, changing to jet black, and where light once came from the gem, a ball of absolute blackness now emanated. The Candle of Light, prophesied to be a great weapon for man, became the Black Mace, a cursed weapon of daemons. But Garaduk was still its rightful owner, and in the moment of Cancon-Nagashesha's victory, the weapon enslaved the thief who dared to lay its claws upon its masters weapon.

 

Garaduk stopped before his servant, and said, "How is my faithful Cancon this evening?" Nagashesha hissed and turned his rotting scales black, the sign of its desire to kill. Garaduk was no fool, he knew what he was doing, the question was a deliberate goad to the daemon prince, a reminder of Nagashesha's dependance on the soul of Cancon, now bound to the daemon's will, and left a mere passenger in their body, a reminder of this weakness meant to reinforce another hold Garaduk had over the daemon. Nagashesha assumed that Garaduk had some connection to his one time pawn's soul that could be used. By omitting Nagashesha from the name, he reminded him of the weakness.

 

Nagashesha quickly gained control of his rage, and languidly hissed, "Quite fine, I have been calling our Grandfather's minions into the station and sending them down into the world below, securing our Grandfather a foothold." Now it was Garaduk's turn to be goaded in kind. Both he and his servant had another master, Nurgle, and while Garaduk had not expressly defied the god, there was little doubt that Nurgle wanted Nagashesha to have the Black Mace, without strings attached. Nagashesha was reminding him of that, and letting him know that his power and reach was growing. Garaduk had survived the entirety of the Long War, and had as much experience with these battles of words as he had with more violent battles. He retorted, "It is clear that our Grandfather has given me a fitting servant to help me spread his loving touch to this world. I would thank you for your efforts, but I am not in the habit of thanking my slaves."

 

Cancon-Nagashesha raised to his full height, double that of the cyclopian captain, and spread his tattered wings, presenting an intimidating threat display. Garaduk merely shrugged his shoulders, but discreetly flicked on the pilot light to his ensorcelled flamer and flexed his lighting claw. He was not too prideful to admit that in side his armor, he quivered in fear. This was the test. He had provoked the daemon prince as best as he could, would his hold over him remain firm? He waited some of the longest seconds in his long life.

 

Cancon-Nagashesha balked, the hold of the Black Mace was too strong. With cold rage in his reptilian eyes, the daemon bowed his heads, ever so slightly. It was enough. Garaduk boarded the lighter knowing that he was safe leaving the daemon prince in charge of the invasion of the world below. At least for now.

 

 

The story of Cancon and Garaduk is a major theme in my tale of the Assault of Calebra Hive found here

http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/312127-assault-on-calebra-hive/page-4?do=findComment&comment=4223736

[Scourged]

I like it scourged, but I was kind of expecting the Marrow to further be double crossed and for that to be the apotheosis causing moment for a greater lord. Still, the abuse of khorne worshipers was well done.

Damn, yeah... that would have been great... turn it around, and it's that nameless lord who ends up ascending. Or the Whipser in his head was not a daemon, but just a different sorcerer screwin' with him. Ah, well... not all of my stories have to be filled with duplicitous lies and betrayals upon betrayals, heh.

[Warsmith Aznable]

My entry for "Interview with a Daemon Prince" has call-backs to my "Interview with a Chaos Lord" story, "Tales of Hubris", and my much more recent judging of the Possessed entries.

 

Hidden Content

"Sing to me."

 

The voice thrilled me at first. The accent was so tauntingly familiar. For a moment I really believed that my search was over, and that my beloved Warsmith had found me.

 

But that wasn't right; I was looking for Him. Who was I that He should be searching for me? I knew better than that, but deep down I wanted to believe it. The setting was right, after all. I stood in the ruins of a capital city of a wasted planet. Another war had come to a close. The dead lay still and the survivors silently sifted through the remains, while the ashes gently drifted from the blackened sky. When I fantasize about finding my beloved Warsmith it is usually in the heat of the battle. Sometimes I save Him, most often He saves me. I believe that it is more probable that we will meet after a battle, in circumstances exactly as I was experiencing just then when I heard that voice.

 

"The Mercy Song, Irena." The voice continued, and in that moment I knew it was not my Beloved. I wasn't afraid, though. I haven't been afraid since the day I lost Him. "Sing to me the Mercy Song."

 

The creature emerged from the ashen shadows, and I beheld that which sounded so familiar. I thought I understood what the feeling of disgust was, but up until that point I don't believe that I ever truly felt it before. I did not know who it once was, but I knew what it had become and, more importantly, what it had once been. My very soul was sick to look upon it, and I could not help but to vomit.

 

"You have turned your back on mercy." I wanted to attack the creature, but its very presence sapped the strength from my body, and my hatred was overcome by soul-sickened nausea. I vomited again.

 

"MERCY TURNED ITS BACK ON ME!" The creature screamed at me, clutching its hands and throwing its head back. I had touched a nerve. I was glad of it, for I thought it would strike me down in its madness. Or perhaps attract the attention of any of my nearby followers that they might drive it off. My luck that day had run out, and I blacked out as the creature scooped my up in its oversized hands. Just before I lost consciousness I heard angry shouts over the sound of its great wings beating down the wind.

 

+++++++++

 

"I have read your work, Irena." The creature paced back and forth in the abandoned Ecclesiarchal cathedral. It blocked my only means of egress, even if it hadn't broken one of my legs in its clumsy anger. "I know you search for Father. We are kindred spirits in that respect."

 

This angered me.

 

"There is no kinship between us!" I found the strength to yell. I thought I might anger it into attacking, but it had gained control of its emotions and now appeared quietly calm.

 

"We are." It said evenly, and stopped its pacing. "You just don't yet understand."

 

It indicated a notepad and pen sitting on one of the few nearby pews that had not been overturned or burnt. I began to understand its needs, even if I would never understand what had made it fall so far from grace. Though I found the idea repellent, I admit I was curious. Not for its miserable story, but for what it might tell me of the Iron Hounds. I decided to humor it, having nothing better to do while I waited for it to either kill me in a crazed fit of rage, or my followers to locate me and mount a rescue attempt.

 

"Good." The creature said. "We will start with my name."

 

+++++++++

 

I did not want to write the name. It physically forced me to. It could not make me say it, though.

 

I was just glad that it hadn't been anyone I knew.

 

+++++++++

 

What follows is its own words:

 

I was here, on this world, before. This is the second time this system has burned in the name of the Warsmith.

 

I was mortal then, but that was the war that I lost my mortal coil. That was when Father rejected me, his favorite son. I was in +REDACTED+ Company, head of +REDACTED+ squad. He was so proud of me. My skin was pure, my arms were strong, and my voice was heard in the mead hall, the sanga hall, and the council chamber. If the Warsmith had fallen in battle I might have taken his place back then.

 

YOU WILL NOT INTERRUPT ME!

 

It was a great battle. Much greater than the one that ended today. You could not imagine it. The Warsmith did nearly die that day. We all nearly died that day, but for what I did, but for what I sacrificed.

 

You think you understand sacrifice, Irena? You know nothing.

 

The mighty 49th Grand Company nearly ceased to be. The infamous Iron Hounds almost wiped from the Galaxy. The Warsmith himself on the verge of defeat. Not since we left Medrengard had our existence been in such doubt.

 

They called to me. Of course they did, they had before. You can't understand, Irena, but they're there all the time. The Ruinous Powers. It wasn't just me, Irena, it's all of us. He probably didn't tell you that, I doubt you were ever let into the Sanga Hall where such things are openly discussed amongst the Astartes.

 

We were dying, Irena, and they called to me.

 

NO! THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED! SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!

 

We fought the +REDACTED+ Chapter of the Imperials. The +REDACTED+ Chapter had weakened us in their vigorous defense of the system, but the +REDACTED+ had followed us through space, waiting for the right moment to take revenge upon us for our past victories against the Imperium. They stood by while we savaged the +REDACTED+ knowing we would expend much of our strength to do so, then they attacked when we were at our weakest.

 

And we were dying, Irena. We all would have died that day, even your beloved Warsmith.

 

But dying is what we live for, isn't that right Irena?

 

I challenged an enemy sergeant of their attack company. I took his head and held it aloft for Khorne to see. He tried to fill me with power and make me his champion, but I controlled my blood lust. I threw down the skull and crushed it beneath my boot, denying it to him as I denied his invitation to be his.

 

A veteran swordsman from the enemy's Command Squad challenged me then, and how could I refuse? He was good, but I was a master with the blade. I made sport with him, showing him what true skill was. I didn't just defeat him, I made a spectacle of his inadequacy slashing him to ribbons with six by six precise strokes. Slaanesh was greedy for my soul, and I felt quite a rush from her attempt to convince me to be his champion. But my mind was a fortress, and I would not be tempted by colours, sights, and sensations.

 

Next a Terminator Assault Squad attempted to regain control of the battle where I was leading and succeeding in the effort to push the +REDACTED+ back. They deepstruck behind our skirmish lines, and their champion took me by surprise. He landed a mighty blow upon my back with his Thunderhammer. It cracked my power pack open and knocked my to my knees. He rained blows down upon me, breaking many bones and leaving me a bloody mess. But I am made of stronger stuff. Seven times I was knocked down, and seven times I stood back up for more. Finally, tired from his effort and in wonder at the strength of my resolve, he paused. I slew him in that moment, the very second he allowed himself to be weary. Nurgle offered to sustain my damaged body, to take away my pain, but I used the pain to fire my anger. I turned my back on the Putrid One, and sought out my next challenge.

 

The enemy Librarius rushed to the salient to stop what their 1st Company could not. I was struck with powerful magicks, and I was very near to death. But when one is near to death, one sees truths that cannot be seen when life, and the hope of it, obscures the mind's eye. I saw the very Warp as the Librarian called it to his purposes. I allowed his magicks into me, and then through me. Through sheer force of will I turned his own magicks against him, and he knew such despair as he died, his soul torn from his body and devoured by the unseen Warp predators that pursue us each all of our lives. Tzeentch showed me an infinite number of futures where I could reign as his powerful and trusted servant. I rejected them all, holding tightly to the reality around me with that same force of will.

 

The tide of the battle had turned, thanks to me. The Iron Hounds would not be wiped from existence that day. The hole I punched through the +REDACTED+ lines allowed our own Attack Company through and into their rear, and not one but TWO Imperial Chapters were destroyed in their entirety during that war.

 

Because of me.

 

My name should not just be heard in the mead hall, the sanga hall, and the council chamber, it should be carved over the doors of each them!

 

But I did it all for the glory of the Warsmith.

 

I had plucked the beards of the False Gods while we destroyed the dogs of the False Emperor! But did he receive me with open arms? Did he praise me for all I had done?

 

HE WOULD NOT EVEN LOOK UPON ME! HE CALLED ME A MONSTER! HE CAST ME FROM HIS SIGHT AND ORDERED HIS MEN, MY BROTHERS, TO ATTACK ME!

 

+++++++++

 

It was quite a while before the creature regained control of itself. By the time it did the Ecclesiarchal cathedral was not only abandoned, but a complete ruin, and I had another broken leg and various other fractured bones.

 

+++++++++

 

"Do you know, Irena, about Malal?" The creature asked me. I had never heard of the name before, but it filled me with an odd emotion to hear the name.

 

"Of course he never told you about Malal." The creature laughed at me. "The Warsmith is a man of many secrets. However many he tells you, there are always a dozen more that he has not. He likes to tell people secrets, Irena. The universe is full of secrets, and the Warsmith owns more than his fair share. It's easy for him to tell people secrets, Irena. He loves to make his followers feel special, Irena. But there is at least one secret that he will never tell anyone, Irena, not even his own children."

 

"But I know, Irena. I know.

 

"I don't hate him for it, Irena. Not anymore. But I still want him to love me, Irena, like he used to when I was still just his child and not his equal."

 

And that is where I finally was overcome by injuries.

 

+++++++++

 

One cannot think too long upon the lies of those fallen from mercy. The Forsaken is now known to me, and I reject his lies as he has rejected my beloved Warsmith and the truth of the Old Dead Gods.

 

The creature was driven off by my elite Ashen Guards, who had tracked the creature down in hastily repaired Valkyries of the defeated PDF. I think, however, that it did not intend to stay and fight.

 

I am certain that I will see this foul beast once more, and if I never find my beloved Warsmith, I hold as my secondary objective of annihilating what is left of this miserable thing's soul. To even lay its head at the feet of my beloved Warsmith would be to acknowledge that it ever existed, and that is not the Way.

 

Excerpts from the forbidden memoirs of Irena the Searcher, Cantrix Misericordiae and Arch-Demagogue of the Second Gefeought Cluster Heresy, Excommunicate Traitorus

 

I was at work and this took longer than I thought it would, so maybe it is not as polished as I would like. I might tweek it later tonight.

 

Anyway, I hope you like it.

[Kierdale]

It has been brought to my attention that Diabolist is excommunicatus. I won't go into the details (IF is not the place) but once a member is banned, they stay banned.

 

Judging of this week's IF reverts to me.

[EesiOh]

It has been brought to my attention that Diabolist is excommunicatus. I won't go into the details (IF is not the place) but once a member is banned, they stay banned.

 

Judging of this week's IF reverts to me.

While this is probably not the place for it, could you elaborate even the tinniest bit upon the reason for his expulsion? From what i've seen B&C is a very chill place and I cant help but wonder how the hell one would maage to get oneself banned 

[Kierdale]

By breaking the forum rules which we all read when we signed up for the forum.

More than that I do not think is our business, nor is Inspiration Friday the place to discuss such matters. :)

[Excessus]

That's enough of that matter. Diabolist is excommunicatus because he completely ignored the rules we all play by.

 

I know people are curious, but be sure us mods are working hard so that everybody that actually follow the rules will have a good experience on these boards.

 

Not to mention it's a completely offtopic...topic... :P

 

 

Now go ahead and continue bringing your awesome inspirations into our world! Though I don't have much time to partake myself, I love to read the stories and fluff. :)