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

sitnam · February 22, 2016

I know its the wrong topic and wrong day of the week, but I decided to throw my R&H story out to give the mortals of chaos some more love. For those curious this is about the Fiends of the Apocalypse, my warband I made for the Liber challenge. Sorry if its a big long winded, I had a lot of fun writing this

The Spawn Sentinel

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The armored column of half-tracks, armored cars, and tanks twisted through the forest path. The rough terrain of Eulexus X was a quagmire for mecanized forces, and the heretics were learning this with bitter results. Dozens of infantrymen stalked along either side of the column, finding it far more efficient to walk then ride in their traditional fashion.

Suddenly the lead vehicle burst into a huge fireball, the explosion eviscerating nearby infantry and sending others off their feet. In a split second the woods erupted in the sound of lasfire from both flanks of the column, slaying men and leaving their mechanized companions as burning hulks. The gas-masked heretics returned sporadic fire, one armored car blindly firing its multilaser before a missile put it out of action.

Despite the bright streaks of red lasfire emanating from the trees the traitors could not identify who was engaging them, the smoke of burnt hulks and mass of suppresing fire cloaking their attackers from effective retaliation. After ten minutes the few survivors broke, a few raising their hands in surrender whilst other tried to make a break for the forrest; all were cut down with no quarter given.

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As the few runaways were being hunted down, their attackers slowly came out of the Forrest. Lieutenant Cade of the 22^nd Eulexun Skirmishers led his platoon through the ruined convoy. His men rummaged through the remains, looting ammo and weapons from the dead. The 22^nd was war-worn by the 4-month conflict, just like the other elements of the Eulexun Planetary Defense Forces. These heretics, which field reports suggest go by the name 'Fiends of the Apocalypse', had shredded the majority of Eulexun reigments two months ago. Their mechanized forces had encircled and decimated two whole army corps of line infantry and armored regiments. Only the Skirmisher regiments in the forests and hills, as well as the Mountaineer troops in other regions, had been able to stall the invasion.

“Only vital supplies private, no war-trophies!” Cade scolded a young infantrymen who was eyeing a strange flame sigil around a dead traitors neck. “Yes sir!” The soldier responded, leaving the dead man to scavenge from other sources. Cade turned as he heard the mechanical whirs and stomping steps of a Sentinel walker behind him. In the drivers seat of the walker was first sergeant Sten, commander of the squadron attached to his platoon.

“Once again your men did good work locating this column first sergeant. The blood of heretics is finite, and with each cut we are one step closer to liberation.”

“Agreed sir. One of my pilots marked a suitable hilltop to setup camp two clicks northeast. It seems like a good place to make camp before we return to the regiment”

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Sten's eyes were watering from the agony of being awake. Despite his fatigue he could not rest, for reasons he couldn't quite point out. He took over one of his pilots patrols, not seeing any point in lying in his bag wide awake. The 22^nd had a doctrine of constant patrol, even in the dead of night. The scout sentinel squadrons were the backbone of the Skirmisher regiments, their forms highly suitable for the rough areas of Eulexus X. The pilots were all taxed though, the constant long range patrols and ambushes leaving few respites.

Thirty meters east another scout sentinel scanned the treeline with its searchlight, it's multilaser sweeping the outer perimeter of their patrol area. I wish Cade would use some of his danm infantry for these patrols. My men haven't had a good night sleep in days. Lieutenant Cade was a decent commander, and fair at most times. But every sentinel squadron in the 22^nd Eulexun Skirmishers hated assignment to his platoon, for he made maximum use of their assets when available. It was effective in fighting this guerilla war, but extremely taxing for the pilots.

“First Sergeant Sten, I have movement to the east. Something large, I just barely got a glimpse of its shadow.”

“Are you sure our not confusing forest ukkids for enemy infantry again Private Stills?” Sten joked, bringing up a comical night patrol from two weeks prior.

“No sir, but those ukkid steaks were the best danm meal we've had and you kno...what the h..” The junior pilots sentence was cut short and seconds later Sten heard a loud crash of crunching metal and the staccato of multilas fire. He swung his walker around to see Stills' mount locked in combat with a large humanoid shape. He could hardly make out the creatures features in the pitch black. Stills swung his Sentinels chainblade back and forth, lashing at the beast and hitting it several times with lasfire. The intruder shrugged off its wounds and closed the gap, grappling with the walker and pummeling it with its arms. One blow of its arms cut through the open cockpit and Sten heard the sickening crunch of bone and skin with the blow, his pilots frantic screams silenced.

Finally his searchlight focused on the beast, and Sten let out a gasp of horror. This monster had the basic size and shape of the abhuman Ogryn, which were used as menial labor across Eulexus X. But this monster was mutated to an unimaginable extent. The Eulexun PDF had often scoured the mutant slums of the cities to cull the population and for live fire training. But this beast was mutated that would make even the ugliest slum-dwellers wretch. It's arms no longer ended in hands but multiple tentacles, razor sharp bones at every end. Where only two eyes should have been were nine, each seemingly moving independent of its brethren. It was covered in dented and scorched metal plates, a crude reproduction of carapace armor.

The Ogryn-beast let out an inhumane roar and charged at Sten. Backing up his sentinel he held down his multilaser, a torrent of lasfire bombarding its metal plates. A trio of red lasbolts strucks it square in the face, snapping its head back and abruptly stopping its charge. Sten reached for his long range voxcaster to radio the platoon, but a jolt of force sent his walker toppling over face first and his world became darkness.

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When Sten came to he found himself back in his Sentinels cockpit, which was seemingly intact despite his vague memory of crunching metal. He attempted to reach for the controls, but his hands were bound with heavy iron chains to the sides of the cockpit, with little slack to afford his arms movement. On the chain were strange runic symbols, a strange flame like rune prominent among the inscription.

“Calm yourself my vessel. Soon you will be sharing that seat with one of the Great Changers neverborn.” Sten popped his head up to see where the voice came from, and five meters infront of his walker was a creature even more abhorrent then the Ogryn-beast. It had the basic shape of a man, wearing a long skirt around its lower, with its bare grey skin visible on its topless half. It's head though belonged to no man, mutant or purebred. It was as if a cephalapod had grown in place of its head, tentacles hanging down to its chest.

The man-thing turned, and Sten now noticed the figures in the shadows. As his eyes focused he saw several foot soldiers of the heretics in their gas-masked uniforms; among them were a far greater number of crudely armed and armored mutants, who gazed at the Sentinel pilot with spiteful intent. Sten had no doubt there were the same mutants he helped slaughter. The squid-man's voice rang out again, though Sten now noticed that his voice did not seem to resonate from its tentacled mouth but felt like it was from inside his head.

The words coming from the leader were not in imperial gothic. Indeed, it seemed like no language ever uttered by man, the sounds impossible for Sten to replicate. As the chant continued Sten felt a burning at his wrist and noticed the runes inscribed to his chains were glowing an iridescent blue. The pain became unbearable, and Sten let out ghastly shrieks. Slowly his cries began to twist and distort, now mirroring the man-things chant. As the chanting and screaming began to sychronize in pitch and tone, two mutants came forward. One doused Sten in prometheium and the other threw a torch into his cockpit, engulfing the Sentinel in flame. The last thing Stens mind registered was the laughter of a thousand voices.

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“Lieutenant, movement on the treeline. It looks like First Sergant Cade sir.” The watch called over the vox. Cade went to the watchpost, and spotted the familiar form of Stens walker approaching at top speed.

“Somethings wrong here..” Cade noted out loud, noticing the absent second Sentinel and the high speed Sten was approaching. “Sound the alarm, I think somethings following him.” The watch signalled over the platoon vox, and the infantry began frantically readying in the shallow trenches and foxholes the dug last night

As Sten reached the camp, Cade noted wear and tear the sentinel had not had the night before. The upper canop had significant burn marks, but the pilot appeared fine. “First Sergeant, where is your other pilot? Why didnt you vox us?”

“They're coming.” The pilot screamed, his voice resonating with a strange echo. “The Mind King will take us all!” Before Cade could respond, an infatryman interrupted “Contact!” Cade turned and saw a mass of heresy charging out of the treeline. A horde of mutants were screaming towards their position, atleast two hundred by Cade's estimation. At the back of the horde were three horrifcally mutated Ogryn, covered in metal plates.

Not a second later the Eulexun infantry began laying fire into the mob. Lasfire crisscrossed down the battle line, the characteristic thump and boom of Grenade Launchers interspersed. The opening salvo cut down two dozen mutants, but on the invaders came. The three surviving Sentinels under his command came forward, their multilasers taking a great toll on the opposition.

Cade turned to question Sten, but he reeled in horror at the sight of his Sentinel commander. In the half a minute his back was turned, the pilots walker had began a monstrous transformation. Stens flesh seemed as if was twisting and contorting, his eyes changing into a multitude of shapes while his mouth was set into a silent scream. Scythe like protrusions grew out of the walkers hind legs, a giant eyeball was now set in place of the lens of the searchlight, and a monstrous pincer claw popped out of the walkers right side. Before Cade could respond or give orders, the daemon machine turned its multilaser toward him and spewed out a torrent of flame, engulfing the officer.

The Spawn Sentinel then turned towards its closet counterpart and rammed in on the side, its claw severing its right leg while the chainsword reached into the cockpit and mutilated the pilot. The chainsword did not clang with its distinctive mechanical whir but instead sounded as if a thousand laughing voices were emanating from the blade. A few guardsmen noticed the new threat and attempted to respond, but their lasbolts bounced off its hull and even a krak grenade seemed to barely phase the beast. One lasbolt snapped Stens head back but it didnt stop the rampage. The mutants and Ogryn then reached the trenchlines and systematically slaughtered the Eulexun infantry, with the last sentinel being torn down by an Ogryns clawed firsts.

As the mutants began ritually mutilating the corpses of the dead, both mutant and Imperial, the Mind Kind came forward to Sten. As the Mind King drew closer the Spawn Sentinel began shifting back into its original guise, the hideous mutations vanishing in ethereal fire. “You did well my vessel. Now go, and hunt. Find the corpse-worshipers and lead them to us. Burn them to a cinder for the Great Changer.”

The thing that wore Stens skin did not respond but simply turned and headed towards the forest, his eyes still locked in horror.

MyD4rkPassenger · February 23, 2016

I'll throw my attempt at the space wolf one even though it's really late

Red Ones

"Hold him down!"

The unarmored warrior thrashed wildly as the members of 4th claw held him in place, his long hair draped over his enraged features. His struggle was fruitless, his gene-enhanced might was no match for the armor enhanced version of theirs. He was bare from the waist up, except for his gauntlets, and cuts and gashes coated his body. Another member of fourth claw brought a vat of what smelled like blood forth and set it below the Space Wolf. The leader of the claw waited by the door, he stared at the wolf with his bottomless black eyes. The Wolf finally relaxed from his struggle and met the Nostroman's gaze. In the darkness of the torture chamber, both of their natural low light vision allowed the exchange.

"Pale filth! You were never warriors!"

"Quiet"

"You cannot order me traitor"

"I am in a position to do whatever I want Fenrisian. You'll wait for the flaymaster in silence."

The wolf fumed as the Night Lords tightened their grips on his arms and the sergeant punched him in the face. He vowed to gather all their heads in retribution. As he plotted his escape the doors opened. From the blackness of the hallway emerged a warrior in ancient mark five plate, a narthecium attached to his left arm and an array of surgical tools on robotic limbs emanating from his power pack. A cloak of skin covered the right half of his body, obscuring it to the wolf.

The newcomer hissed in delight, "You've brought in a good specimen Zadak." He walked forth and grabbed the wolf's face, turning it left and right. The wolf spat in his armored helm, the paint quietly sizzling from the acid. "His fury will be readily accepted in 8th claw". He tapped some buttons on his narthecium and injected the wolf with an unknown concoction in his neck. The wolf howled in pain.

"Dunk his head in, follow with his gloves, then dump him with the rest of the 8th."

The flaymaster stalked out of the room and Zadak stepped forth. The wolf's vision narrowed to a pinpoint as his adrenal system went into overdrive. He began thrashing and biting at Zadak in an uncontrollable rage. Zadak grabbed his hair and looked in the yellow eyes of the wolf.

"Welcome to the Eighth traitor."

Zadak dunked his head in the blood and the wolf's muffled roar was heard as they branded the symbol of the eighth in his left arm. They raised him out of the blood and then dunked his gauntlets in. An old tradition marking traitors and criminals with red gloves for eventual execution by the primarch.

Fourth claw then dragged the howling warrior through the darkness of the cruiser. They reached a bloodstained door with an 8 painted on, and Zadak opened it and ordered his men to toss the wolf into the darkness.

EesiOh · February 23, 2016

On 2/23/2016 at 8:13 PM, MyD4rkPassenger said:

I'll throw my attempt at the space wolf one even though it's really late

Red Ones

"Hold him down!"

The unarmored warrior thrashed wildly as the members of 4th claw held him in place, his long hair draped over his enraged features. His struggle was fruitless, his gene-enhanced might was no match for the armor enhanced version of theirs. He was bare from the waist up, except for his gauntlets, and cuts and gashes coated his body. Another member of fourth claw brought a vat of what smelled like blood forth and set it below the Space Wolf. The leader of the claw waited by the door, he stared at the wolf with his bottomless black eyes. The Wolf finally relaxed from his struggle and met the Nostroman's gaze. In the darkness of the torture chamber, both of their natural low light vision allowed the exchange.

"Pale filth! You were never warriors!"

"Quiet"

"You cannot order me traitor"

"I am in a position to do whatever I want Fenrisian. You'll wait for the flaymaster in silence."

The wolf fumed as the Night Lords tightened their grips on his arms and the sergeant punched him in the face. He vowed to gather all their heads in retribution. As he plotted his escape the doors opened. From the blackness of the hallway emerged a warrior in ancient mark five plate, a narthecium attached to his left arm and an array of surgical tools on robotic limbs emanating from his power pack. A cloak of skin covered the right half of his body, obscuring it to the wolf.

The newcomer hissed in delight, "You've brought in a good specimen Zadak." He walked forth and grabbed the wolf's face, turning it left and right. The wolf spat in his armored helm, the paint quietly sizzling from the acid. "His fury will be readily accepted in 8th claw". He tapped some buttons on his narthecium and injected the wolf with an unknown concoction in his neck. The wolf howled in pain.

"Dunk his head in, follow with his gloves, then dump him with the rest of the 8th."

The flaymaster stalked out of the room and Zadak stepped forth. The wolf's vision narrowed to a pinpoint as his adrenal system went into overdrive. He began thrashing and biting at Zadak in an uncontrollable rage. Zadak grabbed his hair and looked in the yellow eyes of the wolf.

"Welcome to the Eighth traitor."

Zadak dunked his head in the blood and the wolf's muffled roar was heard as they branded the symbol of the eighth in his left arm. They raised him out of the blood and then dunked his gauntlets in. An old tradition marking traitors and criminals with red gloves for eventual execution by the primarch.

Fourth claw then dragged the howling warrior through the darkness of the cruiser. They reached a bloodstained door with an 8 painted on, and Zadak opened it and ordered his men to toss the wolf into the darkness.

welcome brother. Glad you decided to join us

Carrack · February 25, 2016

Since I already submitted one story, consider this out of competition, it's better than my first one though.

Hunters

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The hunter ripped open the veil of reality and penetrated once more into the realm of man. Ripples of light played across the hunter's prow and flanks before being pulled back into the closing wound in the void. The hunter fired every engine to drive deeper into territory yet unspoiled by its presence. Patrol boats and small defense stations fired into the hunter, massive cannons flailing away at the shields and armor of the predator. In spite of their fury and defiance, they left nothing more then scratches across the hunter's armored skin. The defenders were helpless against the assault, for the hunter was the Blood Eye, a terrible weapon forged in the ancient past, and tempered in the blood of the Imperium's birth. The Blood Eye was an Adeptus Astartes Strike Cruiser whose own innocence was lost above the burning worlds of Istvaan, and had spent far too long in hell, denied its only pleasure, despoiling the worlds of the False Emperor.

The world below collectively moaned in despair, as the night sky lit with the coming of a new star. A harbinger of the apocalypse that grew larger with each dwindling moment. Hellfire erupted from the iris of the Blood Eye, tearing into the capital city, trying to burn its way to the very core. The heat from the lance spread across the region, sparking fires and fear across its fertile soil. The Blood Eye finally discharged its most lethal weapon into the screaming world. Dreadclaws poured out of assault bays to fall upon the doomed planet.

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Edvard watched the captain of his ship slam his fist with rage into the back of the lectern as the atrocity played out across the monitors of the bridge. They could do nothing to stop it. They were too far away, it would be 31 hours before they would be in range of the heretics. The Dew Claw, Edvard's Gladius Frigate, had been almost to the edge of the system, readying to make a safe translation into the warp away from the gravity of Cenrita's star when the enemy had arrived. They had turned back immediately, honor demanded no less, even though they were hopelessly outclassed by the much larger strike cruiser. No true son of Fenris would do any different.

Edvard calmed the captain with a few simple questions before leaving the bridge, "Are the torpedo tubes loaded?" Of course they were, they were the Dew Claw's best chance at actually inflicting damage on the Black Legion warship. He asked, "Has a message been sent to the Fang?" He knew this to be true as well. The captain may have the fire of Fenris, as demonstrated with his rage, but he had the ice of Fenris as well, he could remain cool in the most trying of times. Edvard saw calm purpose replace the captain's blind rage, and asked the question he was truly interested in, "Can you configure number 1 tube for a boarding torpedo, and still fire the other five with Icebreaker warheads?" The captain paused and looked at his master with incredibility. Incredibility, but also respect, shown in the ice blue eyes of the captain. The only way Dew Claw's torpedoes could harm the traitors was with a volley of all six tubes firing at once. He answered, "I can, and it will be done in under 30 minutes, but do you know what will happen if we launch such a volley?" With a look, Edvard told him that he knew exactly what would likely happen, and then turned away to gather his pack, and the pack of blood claws also aboard Dew Claw, and headed for their arming den.

******

Edvard laughed at a particularly raunchy jest from one of his pack mates behind him in the boarding torpedo. Such was the way of the Vilka Fenryka, to laugh in the face of death, knowing that the worst that could happen this day is that they die fighting the enemy, and go on to the halls of the Allfather. The yellow rune lit up and he put his helm on, the warriors behind him following suit. Now they waited in silence, with the same resolve. The red rune lit up and the tube opened out to the void. A Blood Claw in the back shouted out over his vox amp, "For Russ, for the Wolftime!" Their bodies jolted back in their restraints as the boarding torpedo launched.

They sailed through the void, dangerously close to the other torpedoes loaded with atomics. Very carefully, Edvard grabbed the rudimentary steering column of their one way ride, and edged it ever so slightly away from the volley. The wash of the torpedo's engine could potentially set off the volley prematurely. Once he was safely away, he began steering the torpedo in a zigzag pattern behind the rest of the volley, gradually increasing the distance between his torpedo and the others. Up ahead, the heretic ship turned its flank to the volley and unleashed a wild barrage from its port broadsides. The sheer amount of fire coming their way might bring down the volley, but the torpedoes easily slipped through the wild shots, there was too much area to cover for such a tactic to have a decent chance of succeeding. The Space Wolves closed, howling their anger, stirring up their passion for vengeance. In the midst of the howling and the barrage, Edvard paused a moment and told his pack, "I remember worse storms as a child fishing in the bay!" The howls turned to roars of hearty laughter, then boasting as each Space Wolf recanted their most impressive tale of surviving the weather of Fenris. Then the real storm hit.

The broadside barrage was but a countermeasure employed by the enemy with a slight chance of success. The real countermeasure came from much smaller guns. Quad mounted autocannon turrets designed specifically to shoot down small, fast moving targets like torpedoes. These turrets took their first ranging shots, then opened fire in earnest. They scored their first hit, striking the engine of the number 4 torpedo, causing it to veer wildly off course, and passing dangerously close to number 5. Their second hit struck the warhead of number 3. It detonated, taking number 2 with it. The explosive force knocked Edvard off course, and a tiny fragment pierced through the boarding torpedo's shell, going straight through a blood claw's helmet and out the other side to zip through the arm of another, before exiting out the opposite side of the torpedo. Edvard struggled to steer them back towards the enemy but the steering column was being unresponsive. No one was laughing anymore. He did everything he could, but all he could manage was a vague shift towards the aft of the heretic's ship. He did see number 5, still speeding at the enemy. They still had a chance.

Number 5 struck the port side of the enemy near the stern. A great burning hole was rent into the armor of the traitor's ship, exposing the decks beneath it. Bodies, equipment, fuel, and debris were sucked out into the pitiless void. The damage looked significant, but not fatal. Edvard cursed as it appeared that his torpedo was going to pass by the enemy, then drew his frost sword and rammed it down the steering column, and yanked it in the direction of the enemy. The Allfather was watching, the boarding torpedo corrected itself.

The Space Wolves slammed into the port side of the ship, just aft of the wound in its side. The melta ram burned through armor to breech into the hull. The impact would have killed ordinary men. Edvard and his warriors blew the top hatch, and leapt out before the torpedo came to a rest, the young Blood Claws going one way, Edvard and the more experienced wolves another.

******

Edvard's eyes misted at the sound of multiple grenades detonating behind him. His last pack mate had lost both legs, and after giving Edvard the last of his ammo and a smile, pulled the pins on his remaining grenades, clutching their spoon triggers close to his chest. Edvard was alone now, and would surely die that way. The sorrow was almost unbearable, it stirred something deep inside Edvard, something feral.

Another mob of mutant crew had formed up in front of the last door. The hunter didn't pause, and charged headlong into them, casting aside his empty bolt pistol after firing his last shot. He tore into them, hacking about with his frost sword and catching up a crude axe from a mutant he disarmed at the elbow. Solid shots pinged off his blue-grey armor, but also tore off an ear and part of his grey scalp. Blows from axe and mace rained off his blade and pauldrons, but also cut into the tendons through the weaker armor behind the knee, and closed an eye with a massively swelling bruise. The hunter abandoned his recently acquired axe in the horned skull of a mutant, and began dropping his own grenades at his feet. Nothing mattered to the hunter any more but to take down his prey. Fragments blew apart the mob, but cut into his groin, slicing his femoral artery, and blinded his remaining eye.

The hunter would die soon, but not before he avenged his pack. He felt for the seems of the last door and mag locked his remaining krak grenades to them. Diving away, he heard the doors blow open. An awful stench came from behind the last door. A burning smell, a foul stench, the stench of corruption and fire in equal measures. He limped towards the source of the smell, fending off attacks with wild swings in the general direction of his assailants. They smelt of daemons and blood. He was close to the source of the stench, the engine, his head swimming from the blood loss and the dump of chemicals from his Astartes physiology. He felt the heat of a red hot blade slice through his wrist dropping his frost blade to the unseen deck. A follow up strike was sure to come, but not before he launched the melta bomb at the source of the stench with his remaining hand. The next strike took the hunter's head from his shoulders.

Kierdale · February 27, 2016

I thank you all for your excellent entries in The Primordial Annihilator versus the Vlka Fenryka over the last two weeks.

I’ll leave proper commentary to our judge Teetengee, but a few comments on entries which struck me...

Captain Malachi I particularly liked your entry, though I’m sure that daemonette’s intentions weren’t entirely kind. I look forward to reading more about Aeolus.

Scourged, I was glad to see the omophagea in use! I loved that the Blood Claw, shall we say, `bit off more than he could chew`?

Carrack. On your first piece: Damn that was good. Really good. I want to read more of Paimun. More!

Warsmith Aznable that too was fantastic and completely unexpected. Outstanding work. I even felt sad at the end.

I hereby close that topic for the purposes of rewards (though, as always, if you have more tales to tell about the Space Wolves and the forces of Chaos, feel free to post them at any time).

And here begins our sixth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Chaos Campaign: Opening Moves

Today begins the first part of a new series in Inspirational Friday. A campaign. Over the years that IF has been running in its various incarnations we have seen many groups of renegades and traitors waging war. In this series I want us to focus on one war. From its initial stages through to its climax. The setting, foe, forces, purpose, all are up to you. I plan to have four episodes in the campaign (though might increase it depending on how it goes), spread throughout 2016.

And we begin with...

I – Opening Moves

Your warband is preparing for a large-scale engagement. The deployment of almost if not actually all of its forces.

Whether this initial step is reconnaissance of the enemy positions, infiltration, sabotage, kidnapping or some other sneaky, nefarious deeds...an engagement in orbit or an all-out bombardment...is up to you.

Inspirational Friday: Chaos Campaign - Opening Moves runs until the 4th of March.

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

Let us be inspired.

Teetengee · February 27, 2016

Stand forth and be judged, aspirants!

Son of Carnelian: A Wolf’s Luck
A good story of chaos hubris, perhaps a bit predictable, but well done.

Thedarkprincesnun: A wolf and the Plague Lord

A foolish witch relying too much on his force sword. I think it might have been better served by just telling the story of the dual. Perhaps including some of what they said, insults and such thrown back and forth.

Kierdale: Blood on the shoulder of Orion

Great scenery as always. The descriptions were great, but the pacing of the battle just felt not quite right. Maybe more back and forth was necessary. Also, it seemed like too many wolves died getting to the walls to have put up such a large threat once reaching them.

Captain Malachi: [untitled]

Possessed are fun! I wish there was a bit more though, still, well done with the space you used, lots of different emotions.

Scourged: Red Snow

But what happened to the other!?

Carrack: For the Throne
The Emperor Protects Indeed!

EesiOh: Silence of the Lambs(in wolves clothing)

The good old black and white. I found some of the action hard to follow though, and it overall seemed a bit rushed.

Warsmith Aznable: [a different kind of battle]

Every week I dread reading yours due to length, but I know I will regret it if I don’t, curse you foul temptor! I liked this one, although I am unsure as to why Hakon (of the Hounds) let it get to that point, when he knew what was coming.

MyD4rkPassenger: Red Ones

I think I know where this is going, but I feel it needs just a bit more to really solidfy it.

Carrack: Hunters (You sly dog you)
The ending seemed abrupt, but I liked the fighting. I wish I had seen more of the chaos bits though.

Winner is Carrack with For the Throne. I liked how it made use of the differing combat strategies of the factions involved while also hinting at Paimun’s issue. In fact, on second reading I noticed some foreshadowing I had at first missed. Well done.

EesiOh · February 27, 2016

On 2/27/2016 at 4:39 AM, Teetengee said:

Stand forth and be judged, aspirants!

Son of Carnelian: A Wolf’s Luck

A good story of chaos hubris, perhaps a bit predictable, but well done.

Thedarkprincesnun: A wolf and the Plague Lord

A foolish witch relying too much on his force sword. I think it might have been better served by just telling the story of the dual. Perhaps including some of what they said, insults and such thrown back and forth.

Kierdale: Blood on the shoulder of Orion

Great scenery as always. The descriptions were great, but the pacing of the battle just felt not quite right. Maybe more back and forth was necessary. Also, it seemed like too many wolves died getting to the walls to have put up such a large threat once reaching them.

Captain Malachi: [untitled]

Possessed are fun! I wish there was a bit more though, still, well done with the space you used, lots of different emotions.

Scourged: Red Snow

But what happened to the other!?

Carrack: For the Throne

The Emperor Protects Indeed!

EesiOh: Silence of the Lambs(in wolves clothing)

The good old black and white. I found some of the action hard to follow though, and it overall seemed a bit rushed.

Warsmith Aznable: [a different kind of battle]

Every week I dread reading yours due to length, but I know I will regret it if I don’t, curse you foul temptor! I liked this one, although I am unsure as to why Hakon (of the Hounds) let it get to that point, when he knew what was coming.

MyD4rkPassenger: Red Ones

I think I know where this is going, but I feel it needs just a bit more to really solidfy it.

Carrack: Hunters (You sly dog you)

The ending seemed abrupt, but I liked the fighting. I wish I had seen more of the chaos bits though.

Winner is Carrack with For the Throne. I liked how it made use of the differing combat strategies of the factions involved while also hinting at Paimun’s issue. In fact, on second reading I noticed some foreshadowing I had at first missed. Well done.

teetengee not pulling any punches ;) . I can only speak for myself on this but your comments seemed pretty fair. I'll go ahead and reread my submission now and see if i find the same problems. I agree with the rushed bit. Everyweek I keep thinking the challange only runs until the next week not two weeks, so i normally rush and do it on the single friday. However I also find it enjoyable doing it in such a way. Thank you for the comment anyway, next week i will attempt to give myself more time and maybe pace it a little better to. Any other advice on improving the overall quality would be much appreciated if you have the time

Carrack · February 27, 2016

I'm humbled, I thought Warsmith or Scourged would win for sure. Thanks.

Teetengee · February 27, 2016

Warsmith's was a cool story, but I think it slightly missed some of the opportunity to show the contrast between the two factions (although them being so similar was cool in and of itself) but mainly it was because it seemed a bit off how Hakon walked into that, there wasn't enough for me to justify his dying in the bombardment. Definitely a nice story though.

In Scourged's story I wanted to know what happened to the other brother, recruited? dead? insane? I just felt it needed a touch more.

Both were close to it as well. (And kierdale's too, that was mainly because I felt that fighting the wolves would have had more back and forth, and it wasn't clear how two flyers carried enough to threaten the sizeable Psychopomp presence, particularly with so much firepower. Some reference to scouting may have been warranted.)

EesiOh, by rushed I didn't mean your working on the story, I meant that the story itself seemed like it was rushing, the pace was off. Sorry about the confusion.

Scourged · February 27, 2016

On 2/27/2016 at 2:59 PM, Teetengee said:
In Scourged's story I wanted to know what happened to the other brother, recruited? dead? insane? I just felt it needed a touch more.

Oh, come on now... you all should realize I enjoy my use of open-ended cliffhangers. The fate of Edvard is for you to decide, not me. Maybe he did get recruited. Or maybe his mind broke from the assault and he was left to die. Or maybe the sorcerer put a mass-reactive round in his skull to end the misery. Or he found the resolute strength to overcome the mental assault and fight back. I've got my own conclusions about his fate (and I'm not tellin').

Regardless, congrats to Carrack.

sitnam · February 27, 2016

@Kierdale: Any chance we can know what the other steps to this campaign challenge will be? For planning purposes really as I assume everyone is gonna follow the same warband throughout the campaign

Love the idea though, think I might cover a story of fighting Eldar pirates

I didnt read all stories this week but I really enjoyed the Warsmiths. The Iron Hounds are a pretty interesting force as far as warbands go

Captain Malachi · February 27, 2016

First off, congrats to Carrack.

Second, I agree that my last entry really should have been longer, but sadly the words just weren't coming, I'm sure we've all experienced that once or twice. Hopefully this entry makes up for it.

Not entirely sure this is quite what Kierdale had in mind, since he seemed to be aiming more at the initial engagement of the war, but then again, war begins long before the armies meet. Plus this is the idea I had so it's what I wrote. Anyway, my first few entries were focussed on troop level characters, and while they're fun to write about, I wanted to show more about the leadership of my warband.

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Council

Sitting in his chair at the round table used by the council of Lykaes, Xeuxis mused over the shape. In theory, the round table, with no head, was to show that all the members of the council were equal, with no one lord as ruler. In practice, each lord's seat was chosen by the power, both political and physical, that they wield, with the strongest seated furthest from the doorway with a view of the whole room and any potential avenues of attack, while the weakest was sat opposite them with their back to the door, a position no follower of Chaos wants to find themselves in. Nobody had ever actually been assassinated during a council meeting, it wasn't exactly subtle after all, but it still served as a powerful reminder of how precarious the position of each Chaos follower truly was. Xeuxis' seat was on the left of the table from the viewpoint of the doorway, slightly more than halfway up, letting him see the door and therefore anyone who enters without having to twist himself. He was not the most powerful lord on the council, not even the most powerful follower of Tzeentch, but he was far from the weakest as well.

A noise brought him back from his musing, as Tyrtaeus, the strongest follower of Nurgle on the council, entered and took his seat only one place from the theoretical 'head' of the table. Tyrtaeus was only the second to enter the room for this meeting, after Xeuxis himself, as Xeuxis had been the one to call the meeting this time. It wasn't long before more councillors entered though, Tyrannion the Khorne lord, perhaps the largest marine on the council even without his wings adding to his size. Rhianus, a sorcerer of Tzeentch and long time rival of Xeuxis came next, followed shortly by Procles, sorcerer of Slaanesh. Xeuxis suspected the two were conspiring together, though for what purpose he had no idea. He shook off the thought as more came through the doorway though, since the plans of his lessers were not the purpose of today's meeting.

Once everyone had arrived, Xeuxis stood and told his counterparts why we had called the meeting. "One of my spies in the Aegaean system has informed me that, as of eleven days ago, nearly all of the Sons of Aegaea have left the planet to deal with a variety of xenos attacks throughout the sub-sector. As a result, the defences around the fortress monastery are much weaker than usual, and so I believe this is the perfect time for us to attack them." He knew he had been slightly blunt, but news such as this was perhaps best delivered in such a manner. All around the table, the other councillors started muttering amongst themselves, the noise blending together so that Xeuxis couldn't pick out what any one person was saying.

Tyrtaeus, not generally one for talking more than necessary, leant forward and spoke next. "While I support attacking our loyalist brothers at any opportunity, I find it difficult to believe that they would leave their fortress monastery so unguarded that we could actually take it, even with all our combined might."

Xeuxis nodded in agreement. "It's true, we could not actually take the fortress even with how few marines remain. However, the fact that so much of their chapter has left at once tells me that they and we have grown lax. They no longer fear us as they should, and we should take the opportunity to remind them of why we are their greatest enemy. We need not actually destroy the fortress or even take it from them, my plan instead calls for a raid. We get in, destroy or steal what we can, kill as many of the remaining defenders as possible, and then get out before they can respond. The Sons take a powerful blow and are reminded of our power, while we get away relatively unharmed."

"Have you informed the Conduit of this?" Epicharmus, one of the more powerful Slaaneshi lords, spoke up suddenly.

"Not yet, I wanted a more solid plan and the agreement of the rest of you before bothering our masters with this." Epicharmus sat back and nodded at that, apparently satisfied.

Tyrranion spoke next, his voice loud and grating as usual. "Hmph, I say we wait until the rest of the chapter gets back, make the fight more interesting!"

Xeuxis could only roll his eyes at that. "When I say there are fewer defenders than usual, it's relative, there will be plenty of loyalist marines and guardsmen for you to sate your bloodlust on." For a moment he was sure that Tyrannion was going to jump across the table and attack, the Khornate lord always only a hair's breadth from snapping, but eventually he seemed to decide it wasn't worth it and sat back down.

"Speaking of the Guard, you mentioned that the Sons were largely gone, but they are not the only defenders of that place." It was Dienekes this time, another Khorne lord, although thankfully much more stable than Tyrannion.

"The Guard defences are as strong as ever, but I believe we can bypass their main armies via drop pod insertion or daemon portal travel. We do need to keep the Guard busy however, or they'll attack us from behind." He turned to Hermaeus, a Nurgle sorcerer and one of the older members of the council. Not an ally as such, there were no allies on the council of Lykaes, but Xeuxis and Hermaeus were mutually useful to each other, and so had called a truce long ago, despite their gods being opposites. Occasionally, Xeuxis would muse that their relationship was a rather good example of the purpose of the council, putting aside religious differences to work together for a greater purpose. "An attack of Nurgle daemons, perhaps? Even after they repel the attack, they'd be too busy with clean up to do anything to stop us."

Hermaeus took a moment to think before replying. "Summoning an army of daemons is not as easy as you seem to think, but I think my coven could do it. Once, and I'd need a lot of sacrifices. You'd need to find another method for dealing with the other divisions."

Lucian, follower of Slaanesh and the only dark apostle on the council, was the next to speak up. "Aegaea is very well defended. I doubt I could get more than a few demagogues planetside, and even if I could we wouldn't have enough time to convert enough cultists to support us in battle. If this attack happens it'll need to happen without cult support." Xeuxis nodded in agreement at that, he had expected as much, but Procles spoke before he could respond.

"How do you plan to get past the orbital defences without anyone planetside to sabotage them?" Xeuxis shot a glare at the Slaaneshi sorcerer, he could just imagine the smug grin on his face beneath the helmet.

"I haven't planned everything Procles, I only came by this information this morning. That's why I called this meeting in the first place. The Sons will be away from Aegaea for some time though, we have time to come up with more detailed battle plans, the purpose of this meeting was simply to suggest the attack. So, who agrees that we should go through with this?" A moment of thought passed before nearly all the lords in the room raised their hands. "Then the attack will proceed. Unless there is anything further to be said now, I suggest we reconvene in a week to discuss more detailed battle plans." Seeing that nobody had anything more to say or disagreed with his suggestion to meet again later, Xeuxis allowed himself a small smile. Surely, this campaign would bring him greater glory and favour with Tzeentch. He had his eye on that chair opposite the doorway, after all.

Teetengee · February 28, 2016

On 2/27/2016 at 6:23 PM, Scourged said:

On 2/27/2016 at 2:59 PM, Teetengee said:
In Scourged's story I wanted to know what happened to the other brother, recruited? dead? insane? I just felt it needed a touch more.

Oh, come on now... you all should realize I enjoy my use of open-ended cliffhangers. The fate of Edvard is for you to decide, not me. Maybe he did get recruited. Or maybe his mind broke from the assault and he was left to die. Or maybe the sorcerer put a mass-reactive round in his skull to end the misery. Or he found the resolute strength to overcome the mental assault and fight back. I've got my own conclusions about his fate (and I'm not tellin').

Regardless, congrats to Carrack.

To be fair, that was a very slight drawback to your story, but I can only choose one winner. It wasn't so much the open ended ending, it was that it didn't feel to me that you had hinted enough at what might occur to make it feel intentional. Idk, at that point I was picking apart hairs to decide who should win.

sitnam · February 28, 2016

I had kind of the same idea as you did Captain Malachi. More the initial planning of an operation.

Old Allies

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Matriarch Clespa clinched her jaw as her sisters drug in the shackled prisoner. When the Dust Rider clansmen captured the raider he had fought viciously, slaying three before one Dust Rider knocked him unconscious with a cudgel. Now, after three months of torture the prisoner no longer resisted. The Crow Sisters threw down the prisoner at the feet of their lord.

"Can you not feel not their hatred little xenos. My daughters aren't adverse to loss, they grew up on this barren world. Only the strongest clans survive, and it is not uncommon for entire clans to be consumed in the eternal wars here. But your kind do not belong here. These are their wars to fight, not yours."

The eldar pirate looked up at the Chaos Lord and replied with a smile "These stars are my birth right, warp beast. My people ruled these stars before you mon'keigh ever stepped foot off that miserable rock. I think those slaves we took will be excellent playthings for my brethren."

Clespa closed the distance to the prisoner and kicked him square in the jaw. Holding the Eldars head down with her boot she scolded the xenos "You shall address the Hidden Blade as lord, xenos scum." She delivered another kick to the pirates temple, and retook her spot in front of Tomasz throne.

"Matriarch Clespa, my favorite daughter." Tomasz smiled at the commander of the Crow Sisters. Standing up, the robed Astartes walked down the throne steps to the prisoner. "What do you know of Slaanesh Clespa?"

" His followers are decadent, reveling only in pain and pleasure. He is closest to the Great Changer among the Ruinous Four."

"Very good. What our guest forgets to mention is why his kind are now so pathetic. It was the decadence of their ancient empire that birthed the Dark Prince. In an instant billions of his kind were consumed. Even now Slaanesh prefers to feast on their delicate little souls." Tomasz then turned to the prisoner and smiled a wide grin " I have some old friends who worship the Dark Prince. A proud Eldar like you would be a fitting gift for them. Or you can just tell me where to find your kin and I'll kill you cleanly."

The prisoners demeanor had suddenly reversed. He had started trembling when the thing that wore human skin mentioned Slaanesh. " The Meros system...lord. I'm only a raider, I have no idea where our fleets base is located. But I overheard Meros as being our next target after we resupplied."

"Not quite what I wanted, but I think my soldiers can work with that. Clespa, give our prisoner his prize, and let our visitors know I am ready to receive them. The Matriarch pulled a small stone out of her combat vest, attached to a silver chain. The prisoner immediately recognized it as a soul stone of his craftworld kin. Realizing his fate he screamed in horror, kicking and thrashing as the bird-helmed Crow Sisters held him down. Clespa draped the stone over the prisoners neck, and one of her sisters executed him with her laspistol.

Clespa voxed the guards to bring the visitor then turned to give the now glowing stone to her lord, but she stopped as her eyes locked on him. He was undergoing the flesh change, his form twisting and mutating. He was now in his true form as a Daemon Prince of Tzeentch. His his skin was now a light blue, and his head was now that of a monstrous, similar to the beaked helms of the Crow Sisters. Great feathered wings stretched as the transformation ended, nearly touching the walls of the vast chambers. His true form was a common and holy sight for Clespa, though it always unnerved her to witness the flesh change.

On the opposite side of the chamber a large frame door swung open. Three astartes entered, two terminators in light blue and dull copper of the Fiends of the Apocalypse, flanking a power armored marine in neon green and sunburst orange. "Ah, Tomasz. I see the rumors of your ascension are true." Stated the newcomer. His voice was unlike that of the astartes Clespa knew. It was almost musical in pitch and tone, delivered with perfect precision.

"The Changer of Ways has made me one of his sacred champions, this is true Savius. Does not mean I can no longer consort with old allies." Tomasz voice was the same as in his mortal form, though it was unsettling to hear human words out of a beaked mouth.

"Allies? The last time we fought together my warband was nearly overrun by Imperials due to your men not holding position."

"Savius, you asked for my help in gaining lordship of the Kinsmen of Excess. And if memory serves me correctly you were on the opposite side of the battlefield when your old warlord and his loyalists were slain."

Savius smiled, "Ah true. I guess that’s the price we pay when colluding with your kind. Now what is of this message I received from those mutant sorcerers of yours. Great offerings for the Dark Prince?"

Tomasz nodded to Clespa, and the beak-helmed warrior handed the glowing soul stone to Savius. Savius found the presence of mortal warriors among a gathering of his astartes strange, but the thought exited his mind when he felt the stone. Inside he could feel the panic of the Eldar raiders soul, and Savius relished the torment.

"I have had a complication with some Eldar pirates. Help me hunt them down and you will get a true feast of souls. Consider the stone payment in advance."

It took several long seconds for Savius to register those words, his eyes locked with the soul stone. Finally the marine answered , "Let the hunting begin."

Kierdale · February 28, 2016

The first part of the campaign is 'Opening Moves'...think planning, recon and laying the path. Initial sabotage and strikes too if you wish.

The second part will be 'Assault'. How you read this is entirely up to you.

When we do the second part I'll reveal the theme for the third part.

Is that okay? :)

EDIT: on second thought, I'm not going to reveal the 3rd part until it comes up. I want it to be a surprise.

sitnam · February 28, 2016

On 2/28/2016 at 8:39 AM, Kierdale said:

The first part of the campaign is 'Opening Moves'...think planning, recon and laying the path. Initial sabotage and strikes too if you wish.

The second part will be 'Assault'. How you read this is entirely up to you.

When we do the second part I'll reveal the theme for the third part.

Is that okay?

EDIT: on second thought, I'm not going to reveal the 3rd part until it comes up. I want it to be a surprise.

Sounds great to me, love this idea!

Carrack · February 28, 2016

Pilum

Author note: I recently started a new campaign in the fan fiction section of this board. It's called the Shield, and it is about an invasion of a sub-sector. I intend for it to be epic in length, if not quality. I wrote one before, The assault on Calebra Hive, that ended up being 81 pages (and killed 22 named characters :) ) I don't think I can handle writing two campaigns at a time, so I'm going to try to use stories from The Shield for these challenges, only edited down for length. This week's is still going to be long though, so I broke it into three parts. I suggest reading it one part at a time if your interested, but whatever works for you.

Signs and Portents

Part 1.

The Eye Will Blink

Aspis, sub-sector seat

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I see it coming. The eye will blink open and terror will come to those who meet its gaze. The eye will be black. Not just dark in color, but the blackness of a sinful soul, the blackness that blinds our vision, the blackness that we feared as children, and if we are honest, sometimes fear even as grown men and women, the blackness of death separated from eternity at His side. The eye has blinked before, and we think we are prepared for it to happen again, brave men stand ready for it, yet they are not prepared for this. The eye will gaze at us hungrily. We will be devoured by a beastly maw of darkness and teeth. We will be devoured! Repent! Beg forgiveness for your many sins. Let us at least face our deaths with clean souls, filled with nothing but hate for the enemies of mankind.

Yet perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps He will deliver us from the coming blackness with the light of his holy angels. It is our only hope. Perhaps, but as we live today, never. We must cast aside all wickedness. We must erase all evidence of sloth in our workplaces and work harder than ever before. Take the extra shift, skip your breaks. Work is its own reward. We must purge the unclean from our midsts! The unclean in body, the mutant who has twisted the sacred form of man, must be expunged from our congregation. With Fire! The witch, the witch, the witch will hasten our doom like no other! His Angels will not bother saving those who harbor the witch. Mothers, watch your children, foremen, watch your workers. If you see witchcraft, don't hesitate for a moment, even if it's your cherished child. To the flames with the Witch! Save their soul as well as ours. Give all to Him. Give your sweat, your blood, your soul. Give your alms, for what better use is money than what His servants can put it to. Give your attention. Honor Him in all things, be at prayer with the God-Emperor more than you converse with your fellow man. Do these things. Do what the Emperor expects of you, and perhaps he will take mercy on us all. Perhaps he will intervene with His most righteous Angels of Death and save us from this maw of blackness that will come when the Eye next blinks.

-Sermon by Joshua Mosso

Ready

Calimyr, Aspis sub-sector

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Right and Proper

Morber, Aspis sub-sector

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Carrack

Judgment's End, Aspis Sub-Sector

Excerpt from the Narrative Section (Section C) of incident report 16-888-G46

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The Triple Spear

Part 2.

Pillars of Fortitude, Aspis Sub-Sector

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Lythane the Black studied the lord of the Black Maw Warband. Lord Carrack, scion of the Black Legion, was playing the role of the consummate commander again. Was he playing a role, or was this his true nature? Lythane had no idea. Lord Carrack stood hulking in his ancient terminator plate, directing his fleet and his legionnaires once more into war with the slaves of the False Emperor. Simultaneously while taking in a rushing stream of data on ship positions, auspex returns, troop reediness levels, and a myriad of other tactical information, he was also playing along with the teasing of his junior most chosen. Was it a leader's display of confidence when so much was being risked with the opening gambit of this campaign? Possibly, but just as likely it could have been the joyous anticipation of upcoming battle. Lord Carrack had earned the title "Slayer of Multitudes" by doing what he loved most. Lythane had yet to figure out the true nature of the lord he was equerry to.

First and foremost of Lythane's concerns on what was being gambled, was his own life. If the assault proceeded as planned, a long range teleport was about to be conducted by Lythane. Never an endeavor to be taken lightly. Both Lord Carrack and himself would teleport to different defense stations, while Garafuk One-Eye was even now making a long range void jump with his raptors to strike a third station. Lythane was already going through the preliminary rites of the ritual, reciting the focusing stanzas and preparing the sacrifices. The range was too great for an ordinary teleport. The formidable orbital defenses of the Pillars of Fortitude prevented a closer approach by the fleet of the Black Maw. That was the problem they would attempt to solve by launching a triple spear tip assault on three orbital defense stations, and then open a pathway for the invasion.

Lythane gave up on studying Lord Carrack and began the more complicated second act of the ritual. Instead of his preferred method of using a carefully prepared focus circle, he had dabbed the runes of translocation upon the control lectern of the teleporter in blood. He would amplify the archeotech device, rather than make the teleport through sorcery alone. He was using the finest ingredients for this ritual, the blood came from the former Cardinal of Fewood. He began reciting the Stanzas of Harbor, that carefully described the precise location for his and his lord's teleportation to arrive. Once he had gotten through the stanzas enough times to feel comfortable repeating them, he made the final preparations of the sacrifices. He could have forgone the sacrifices, and forced the teleport with his considerable willpower alone, but that risked draining his Ki to the point of making further use of his sorcery more dangerous, and he may have need of it during the assault. So Lythane circled the sacrifices, young maidens and boys with a latent psychic potential yet to have manifested. He needed to get their heart rates up, so their blood would flow more freely, but they had been chemically constrained, less their powers manifest at an inopportune time. He made small, controlled slashes with the blades of his force staff and the spikes of his own terminator plate. Their blood started flowing, and in spite of their dazed states, their adrenaline glands kicked in and their heart rates rose to peak levels. Satisfied, Lythane swept his staff through a broad arc, cutting the throats of 3 sacrifices, and his backswing took out the fourth as well. Their blood flowed through channeled grooves to the control lectern and the ritual was fully powered. Lythane looked once again to Lord Carrack, he could control the power of the ritual, but not indefinitely, it was now or never. The brutish lord merely made a cutting gesture with his great axe and Lythane let loose the power of the ritual through the lectern, sending him and Lord Carrack, along with their terminator retinues and a few squads of Legionaries each, into the hellish mindscape of the warp.

Fortunately, at least for Lythane, the time in the warp was short. He materialized on a gun deck of orbital fortress 27B. His retinue of terminator elite in a tight circle around him. A squad of power armored legionnaires were off to one side in a separate circle beside a macrocannon, on their knees wrenching and writhing in pain. It would take some time for them to recover, if they could. Lythane the Black's spear tip had struck the intended target. Now could he complete his assault's objectives, and what of the other two spear tips?

Horror

Part 3

The Pillars of Fortitude, Aspis Sub-Sector

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Lythane the Black charged forward along the ammo rail. He had to reach the magazine of the station's guns before the defenders decided to detonate it. In the long run it wouldn't matter, he might have to blow it himself even. Better to not have the guns fire at all, then to have them firing at the invasion force. But that mattered very little in the face of losing his own life in a spectacular explosion. So he raced to the magazine, alone, his terminator retinue blasting their way into the operations deck as he ran. Another squad had secured the generatorum. The magazine was the only place left that could self destruct the ship. He had to get there. He had to rig the tons of shells to blow, then trap his demolitions against tampering, then trap the trap, and trap that, and trap the trap that trapped the trap nine times, and then lay nine wards and summon more horrors, more horrors, more horrors.

Lythane the Black had been forced to pull daemons into reality to help with his invasion. The strike had been bogged down by the hit and run and delaying tactics of the guardsmen defending the station. He hadn't counted on them being as competent as they were. Instead of risking losing his spear tip's momentum, he had to perform the riskiest of black sorceries, the summoning of daemons. He had managed to pull nine plus one horrors into the station, and send them off to fight the defenders, but it had cost him in a severe way. They were pulling at the frayed edges of his mind, already weakened and disoriented from the fell sorcery. What was worse, they were trying to call more horrors in on their own. He didn't know if he could control them. He didn't know if he could control himself. He broke his runaway thoughts with the reflexive firing of his combi-bolter into the enemy ahead. The familiar act of shooting down enemies brought him back to himself, at least temporarily.

The enemy was not the guardsmen of the station in this case, it was the naval gun crew. They were advancing to meet him protected by an ammo cart filled with macrocannon shells that weighed a ton a piece in front of them. The rail must have had enough of a charge left in it after the genetorum had cut its supply to get the cart moving, but the crew were having to push it along to keep it rolling. It was an effective means of cover. Lythane had taken out the two men pushing on the sides, but most were directly behind the cart. Worse, the full cart took up almost all the space on the rail's passageway. Lythane, monstrously large in his terminator plate, could not squeeze by the cart. He glanced at the passageway walls, they were designed to carry tons of high explosive shells, and would not be easily breeched. He would have to call on his Ki and cast another sorcery to overcome the rolling obstacle. He didn't know if his mind could take it. Perhaps if he had time to read from the black sharkskin bound book chained to his waste, the dread Liber Apocal, he could do it. That was it, read from the book, so many sorcerers had fallen to the cursed tome by making hasty readings, but they were not Lythane the Black. They did not command the powers that he commanded. He could read nine pages and blast his way into the magazine with warpfire, then he could call more horrors, more horrors, and more horrors.

The cart was getting closer, Lythane began fumbling with the clasp to the Liber Apocal, but then checked his hand. The Liber's curse was simple, any mortal who touched its pages would have his soul sucked into the book, and become imprisoned within for eternity. He had almost done it. He had almost imprisoned himself forever. His mental faltering had allowed the cart to get too close. It slammed into him. Lythane was an Astartes, and his superhuman strength was assisted by the servos of tactical dreadnought armor. He was easily as strong as ten normal men. After picking off two gunners, the gun crew had thirteen naval gunners. Men and women used to hoisting heavy charges, and slamming massive breeches shut, strong men and women fighting for their lives. They began to push him backwards. Lythane looked inward and found his focus. He drew out most of what remained of his Ki to funnel it inward. Pink witch fires began to play across his helm and the top of the cart. It was enough for them to stop pushing momentarily in shock and horror. He needed more horrors, so many more horrors. The pink witch fire was not the actual sorcery howeverr, merely a side effect of the warp power he was manipulating. The sorcery succeeded and invested him with strength, funneling energy through his musculature, from his head to his toes. He caught the cart with his shoulder and arrested its movement. Then he heaved forward and the cart started rolling back at the crew. They tried to stop it. They gave everything they could to stop it, including the lives of two gunners who fell and got caught under the wheels. It wasn't enough. Lythane, with muscles fueled with arcane power, pushed the cart forward. The gunners tried, but quickly realized that they were no match for Lythane, and turned tail and fled back to the magazine. The blast doors were shut, and the defenders within turned a deaf ear to the gunners' pleas to open the doors. Lythane pushed the cart all the way to the doors, crushing the 11 remaining gunners into a composite pulp of flesh and bone before the blast doors. The cart didn't stop. The blast doors were designed to mitigate the damage of a magazine detonation, if every door was closed, and the magazine was down to 14% capacity or less, the station would likely survive a magazine explosion. That's what the doors were rated for anyway. Currently, the magazine was nearly full. In spite of the strength of the doors facing inward, they were not nearly as strong facing outwards towards the ammo rail. Lythane, imbued with sorcerous strength, rammed open the doors with the cart.

The doors opened up to a large chamber, stacked to its vaulted ceilings with shells. At the floor of the chamber, before the breeched doors, was a squad of infantry led by a bolt pistol toting man in a greatcoat and peaked cap, a commissar. They had 14 naval crewmen lined up against a wall. A 15th lay on the floor with his brains spilling out of an exploded skull. The ammo cart Lythane had shoved through the doors continued rolling up the rail, striking the back spring of the rail with too much force. The cart tipped, spilling its shells onto the floor. One shell however, bounced off the floor in a shower of sparks, then landed hard on the capacitor that connected to the middle power rail. For a moment, both the Imperials and Lythane ignored each other, as they stared at the ton of high explosives that had landed on a capacitor that could potentially detonate the shell, and the magazine with it. Curses were said both to the Emperor and the Dark Gods. The shell came to a rest, unexploded, the capacitor wasn't holding a charge.

Lythane was the first to react, shooting down the commissar with his combi-bolter, and laying into the infantry with his force staff. Still empowered by his sorcery, he slammed two of the shotgun toting guardsmen into the wall with enough force to break most of the bones in their bodies. The rest of the guardsmen rushed in with point blank fire from their shotguns. The disarmed naval crew high tailed it down another ammo rail. The loads of flechette fired from the guardsmen's shotguns merely bounced off of the thick plates of Lythane's terminator armor. The few tiny barbs that found perfect angles to strike less armored seems in his armor, were painful, but not debilitating. Lythane the Black swung his charged force staff about, striking with each swing, and killing with each strike. Before long, the squad of guardsmen had dwindled to four, all on the periphery of the melee. They ran off after the naval crew, avoiding the final sweep of Lythane's staff. Lythane began lumbered around the perimeter, manually securing the doors, as the warp fueled strength leaked out of his body, leaving a tremendous soreness in its wake. Now with his body weakened, and his mind exhausted, he was not capable of defending the magazine from counter attack. Not by himself, he needed daemonic assistance, he needed to summon some horrors from the warp to help defend him with the last bit of Ki he had remaining. He started inscribing a circle with the powered blade of his force staff, cutting a shallow groove in the armored deck. He looked inward to his Ki, massaging what little remained to get the most out while taking a few recharging breaths from his practiced lungs.

Just before he started the blackest of sorceries once more, one of the frayed ends of his mind, that had been pulled taut by a summoned horror, slackened, then another, and another after that. The horrors were being sent back to the warp. Soon, all were gone save one, one that was pulling on a specific ambition of his. Pulling on his desire to rule the Black Maw Warband for himself. Somehow, the horror spoke directly into Lythane's mind, telling him, "I like it here, I think I'll stay." Lythane wearily checked in with his retinue and his squad of Legionaries, he would have to deal with the interloper in his mind soon. With power limited to auxiliary generatorums, the guns limited to the few shells stored in each pit, and primary auspex, communications, and targeting down with his retinue's securing of operations, the station was effectively neutralized. He voxed into the Bitter Revenge his own progress, but the transmission would take hours. He would wait till all three spear tips had completed their missions before sending the faster telepathic message. He voxed to the other two commanders. Garaduk One-Eye, who had been assigned the much larger launch bay station, reported that not only had he neutralized 27C, but he had taken it completely, he was even managing to launch attacks at defense stations in 18 sector. How he got the pilots was a mystery. Garaduk One-Eye just might be a worthy ally. Lythane the Black received but the briefest response from his lord, "Hold ten minutes, I am facing unexpected resistance." Lythane resent a vox message to the Bitter Revenge, and the officers of the Black Maw, detailing exactly who was delaying the operation.

Warsmith Aznable · February 29, 2016

On 2/27/2016 at 2:59 PM, Teetengee said:

On 2/27/2016 at 2:59 PM, Teetengee said:
Warsmith's was a cool story, but I think it slightly missed some of the opportunity to show the contrast between the two factions (although them being so similar was cool in and of itself) but mainly it was because it seemed a bit off how Hakon walked into that, there wasn't enough for me to justify his dying in the bombardment. Definitely a nice story though.

Fair enough. I almost included Geirvaldr adding extra comments about either the time table being moved up or their having been wandering in the fog for too long. It's hard to know what to include and what not to when your stories are already notorious for running long. Goodness knows I could always make a story longer; keeping them as short as they are is the challenge. I've also started assuming at least a passing familiarity with the Iron Hounds, not because I expect anybody to actually remember details from earlier entries or to have bothered to read my IA, but because I don't want to restate the same things every time I write about them (which would have been especially awkward in this one where the point of view was an outsiders.)

One of these days I'm going to straight up write an entire novel length story about them.

Carrack · February 29, 2016

On 2/29/2016 at 5:07 PM, Warsmith Aznable said:

On 2/27/2016 at 2:59 PM, Teetengee said:

On 2/27/2016 at 2:59 PM, Teetengee said:
Warsmith's was a cool story, but I think it slightly missed some of the opportunity to show the contrast between the two factions (although them being so similar was cool in and of itself) but mainly it was because it seemed a bit off how Hakon walked into that, there wasn't enough for me to justify his dying in the bombardment. Definitely a nice story though.

Fair enough. I almost included Geirvaldr adding extra comments about either the time table being moved up or their having been wandering in the fog for too long. It's hard to know what to include and what not to when your stories are already notorious for running long. Goodness knows I could always make a story longer; keeping them as short as they are is the challenge. I've also started assuming at least a passing familiarity with the Iron Hounds, not because I expect anybody to actually remember details from earlier entries or to have bothered to read my IA, but because I don't want to restate the same things every time I write about them (which would have been especially awkward in this one where the point of view was an outsiders.)

One of these days I'm going to straight up write an entire novel length story about them.

Your stories might be long, but they are by no means too long, in my opinion. As far as keeping the tale of your Grand Company moving, I'm not sure what the right balance is. For myself, I want my stories to be self contained, but I'm using some of the same characters and there is a progression of the timeline, so I don't want to repeat every aspect of a character's background with every story, not just for the added length, but it's not as much fun to rewrite the same story over and over.

Scourged · February 29, 2016

On 2/28/2016 at 4:07 AM, Teetengee said:

On 2/27/2016 at 6:23 PM, Scourged said:

On 2/27/2016 at 2:59 PM, Teetengee said:

In Scourged's story I wanted to know what happened to the other brother, recruited? dead? insane? I just felt it needed a touch more.

Oh, come on now... you all should realize I enjoy my use of open-ended cliffhangers. The fate of Edvard is for you to decide, not me. Maybe he did get recruited. Or maybe his mind broke from the assault and he was left to die. Or maybe the sorcerer put a mass-reactive round in his skull to end the misery. Or he found the resolute strength to overcome the mental assault and fight back. I've got my own conclusions about his fate (and I'm not tellin').

Regardless, congrats to Carrack.

To be fair, that was a very slight drawback to your story, but I can only choose one winner. It wasn't so much the open ended ending, it was that it didn't feel to me that you had hinted enough at what might occur to make it feel intentional. Idk, at that point I was picking apart hairs to decide who should win.

That's actually a good point. Thanks. I'll keep an eye out for that next time. Split all the hairs you like.

Tenebris · March 1, 2016

Reveal hidden contents

The Battle for Deltoica V

23-278-998 coordinates sidereal – Deltoica V, Adeptus Mechanicus Forge World, Temple Tertius

“Cease brother… it is unbecoming of you…”

The marine steered, lost in his zeal, his gauntlets pounding the face of a fallen Black Templar into bloody ruin. As the pistons of a press his fists came down, and down again, mangling what was left of the proud features of a fallen knight.

A Chaos Terminator was about to step from the circle, to apprehend the kneeling brother marine, but the Dark Apostle barred the path with his crozius.

“No need for, Talrek, I will deal with him. Go to the Coryphaus, he will need your prowess to stop the Templar advance. Go and reap the harvest of flesh for the True Gods, you have my blessing.”

The circle of terminators bowed and moved away from the Dark Apostle, some of them still glancing back, fearing punishment or chastisement should something happen to their holy leader, yet their Champion led them forward into the barking sound of enemy fire. Always forward.

The Dark Apostle kneeled alongside his tormented battle brother and placed a hand on his shoulders. The marine seemed to return from the fugue, as a revenant who breathed its first after being lost in the mists.

“Why master, why do they keep resisting, why do they keep killing us?”

The Apostle saw his battle brother’s face streaked with tears, his face ashen, contrite in a rictus of unfathomable sorrow.

“Seven brothers, my lord, seven brothers I have lost to the Templars. They came at us, out from the storm and they fell upon us as ravenous wolves. Zark and Jur were cut down where they stood, the others fell to enemy bolter fire. We answered, we fought, the enemy died, but my brothers are lost to me, lost to us, lost to the Host! Why do they hate us so much?”

The Dark Apostle helped his brother on his feet and then turned him to look upon the mangled corpse.

“It is not hate that drives them brother Galek, nor is it zeal. When you look into the depths of their eyes you see fear. They fear for they see in us their faces, they see in our warriors the fate which will befall them and this pitiful world. They fear because they have failed their Corpse God and in failing him they failed his people. They never knew the love of a brotherhood, nor the golden spark of faith. They rely on … cruder… feelings and are but children when compared to us. They clad themselves with ignorance and misplaced fury and they deny themselves the virtues of learning and understanding. They are lost in their own ways and it is our role to teach them the wrongness of their path.”

“But brother Apostle, why do we harvest them when they are so lost to the Truth. Why not butcher them and crucify their corpses. Why not mangle their pride and their virtues so that the Corpse Emperor will not recognize his own in the afterlife?”

“Look, brother Galek, look beyond the mangled features of the foe upon whom you have bloodied your fists. Look deeper. In each of the fallen knights lies a seed. The seed, much like the innocent child in which it was implanted, shared neither guilt nor sin before eyes of the True Gods. Even when our foe fires upon us or comes against us with weapons bared they are still innocent, innocent for they are ignorant. We harvest this seed in order to give it an opportunity to bloom, to bloom into a true warrior of faith such as yourself and to deny him to the Corpse Emperor who only seeks slaves and obedient weapons in his cohorts. We owe this to our cousins, we owe them redemption…

… now resume your post battle brother. Line Captain Zekion will be needing your bolter and your fists if we want to deliver our cousins from their slavery to the False Emperor. If you make it alive at battle’s end seek me in the confessional and I will help you to assuage your fears and relieve your burden of sins. You are dismissed.”

86-534-321 coordinates sidereal – Battlecruiser Testamentum Veritas, The Logis Room, three weeks before

“Preposterous!”

Line Captain Zekion raged. Around the cogitator table seven figures turned toward him whilst the eight figure ignored the outrage and played with the ornate chaos star on the mighty maul, a Crozius Arcanum, the weapon of office for a minister of faith in the ranks of the XVIIth Legiones Astartes, the Word Bearers.

“Silence cur or I will personally deliver the punishment this time.”

A figure, clad in an ancient terminator armor was about to rise and strike the astartes who spoke out of turn but before it could a single knock echoed in the room, fingers tapping on the obsidian surface of the great octagonal table around which this lords of war were seated.

“That is enough Coryphaus. Line Captain Zekion you will report to the excruciator at the meeting’s end and he will administer nine mori-cantis sessions. I hope that the next time you will be more prudent when you speak in a council of your superiors.

Now at the matter at hand. We owe a debt to the Black Legion, we cannot and must not deny that. Would it not be for Faraks and his black brethren we would have died on the Ymir Moons and now the Warmaster has sent his herald to collect. I don’t want to remind you what happens if one disappoints the Ezekarion therefore we will go to Deltoica and complete the mission, or we will die in the attempt. My mind is set on the matter. Coryphaus…”

The terminator rose from his obsidian throne and went to the table to activate a hololit. The display showed a planetoid which was wreathed in a nimbus of mists and jagged specks of rock and what appeared to be metal construct hoovered around it.

“Deltoica V, fifth moon in the Deltoica sytem. A Theta-level Forge World under the aegis of the Adeptus Mechanicus ordo, Zabralion Quintus clade. The moon is relatively small and its main features are the adamantium mines and the four Forge Temples, Primus here, Secundus here, Tertius over here and finally Tetrus here. Our target is Forge Temple Tertius, specifically its runebanks on the sixth mezzanine here.

The temple complex is guarded by a demi-cohort of Skitarii and several clades of Kathapracton Servitor battle lines. We suspect the presence of Kastellan conclaves. Fortunately for us Deltoica V is currently undergoing a major invasion of orks, unfortunately for us the scions of Dorn, the chapter designated Black Templars, are fighting alongside the Mechanicus to repel the invaders.”

“What is your plan esteemed Coryphaus? If those are Ork Roks the Testamentum will struggle to break the cordon, less still, to come unheralded into the system. I could use the nebula on quadrant nine to cover my approach but the density of the xeno ships would hinder our possibility to assist the ground elements once deployed.”

Mistress Uxana pointed at the sector on the holo-map. It was a veritable challenge to pass unseen due to the many Ork Roks barring the way and as she pointed the three missile siloes present around Temple Teritus the room fell silent, save a mechanical voice, barely a rasp, answered.

“Xeno.threat.assesed.estimated.chance.of.unimpaired.movement.collated.to.23.3%.

Suggestion.use.astral.body.designtated.Asteroid882.for.temporal.anchor.deploy.close.range.mines.station.counter.boarding.parties.”

The Coryphaus nodded. It was a wise stratagem. The asteroid would cover the mighty battlecruiser on one flank and thus leave only two other vectors of attack for the orks. An enemy boarding actions was inevitable in a zone so saturated with the xenos but at least they will have to run the gauntlet of the many Testamentum Veritas’ mighty guns. The stratagem was feasible, though still the ground troops will be denied support from their ship.

“What about the Black Templars. They are currently engaged with the orks in different sectors around Temple Tertius but nothing is preventing them to turn their guns upon us and use the superior numbers of the Mechanicus drones to pin us down whilst their knights go for the throat.”

This was Line Captain Nur to speak. A proud warrior, high in the esteem of the Youngest God and an officer who has proven to be a master at the difficult art of astartes sky borne warfare.

“We won’t actively engage them brother. The orbital scans from our drones report that Temple Tertius was one of the first targets to be hit by the orks. Most of its complex is in ruins and save the remaining runebanks little is worth defending. The Black Templars have already lost the battle there so they will be elsewhere, trying to stem the rampage of the xenos. Should they reroute some reinforcements to counter us I am confident that our numbers and the defensible nature of the battleground will give us an advantage for a short time window. I estimate that the mission has a parameter of 36 hours sidereal maximum and we will deploy seven cohorts as well as war machines on the ground, Helbrutes are the most viable in this scenario.

Line Captains Nur and Zekion will lead respectively half of their cohorts to create a perimeter and defend Temple Tertius from enemy attackers. Warpsmith Valar will be escorted to the runebanks to conduct data retrieval. We will deploy scramble djinns and info-phages into the system to create havoc with the imperatives of the defending Skitarii and Kathapracton cohorts. Hopefully our Warpsmith will be able to reroute some of the temple defences for our use.

I will personally lead the terminator cohort in a counterassault role should our lines be broken or segments fall into enemy hands. Dark Apostle, would you bless the awakening of Hadion of the Anunnaki, his might would be welcome on the battlefield. As for you commanders, I await your review of the plan and the roster of cohorts you intend to deploy planetside. Line Captain Banu Kar, you are tasked with the defence of the Testamentum Veritas. Deploy your cohorts across the ship and have boarding torpedoes ready for a counter-boarding action.”

The Apostle nodded and a servitor was dispatched to summon the Hands of Hadion, the aid of the Helcult would be much welcome addition to the warband when the enemy will try to defend their prize from the clutching claws of the Host. Then a voice intruded into the mind of every one of the present.

“Why? Why Deltoica V, why not Lokis or Melendor, why the Black Legion herald craves the knowledge of this Forge World in particular?”

It was Chief Sorcerer Kalar, Lord of the Scriptorium, Master of Letters, the oldest and wisest member of the Word Bearers Host. The Dark Apostle simply smiled and answered.

“Questoris or rather parts for the Questoris Houses of Riana, Nemor and Galandrus. Deltoica V provides spare parts for the Imperial Knights of these ancient houses and the Warmaster wishes them out of the game. The Questoris, this Questoris in particular, have routed his legions on a dozen worlds and he recognizes them as a threat to his plans. The runebanks provide hard data for the blueprints and the schematics of these parts and we are to steal them from the enemy. The Dark Council agreed to sanction this mission and thus for us to repay our debt to the Black Legion in return for schematics of their own, and the Black Legion, or rather the emissary of the Warmaster, agreed on this premise. I do not deny it, this operation will cost us much and I also agree that we are not the optimal Host for such missions, yet what the Dark Council wishes, the Dark Council gets and we are the ones to the deliver them this lofty prize. The Dark Council wills it, therefore Lorgar wills it and we obey. Dismissed!”

“For Logar and the Word!” the assembly cried as they saluted, fist on chest, as in the manner of the legions.

Kierdale · March 4, 2016

Campaign: Opening Moves

Hidden Content

Prologue

Hidden Content

It had begun with the farseer Emrana’s vision. A prophesy. He had seen a chapter of the Mon Keigh’s gene-enhanced warriors assaulting a planet enthralled by She Who Must Not Be Named. He had seen their initial forces - the finest of the chapter - fall, overcome with bloodlust, kneeling before the lord of rage upon his throne of skulls. More had come seeking their lost kin only for them to fail against the Dark Prince’s slaves. Doctrines long honed, souls scourged of emotion and all but devotion to duty could not stand against the madness they faced on that world. Old oaths and the foundations of the chapter were broken, whispered lies believed and the enemy’s ways taken as their own.

They eventually fell under the sway of the Great Corruptor.

Emrana had informed the ever-autarch, Qarasion, that fiery warrior queen who bridled against Carth-Lar’s seer council and their conservative ways, and she was quick to launch their fleet. To intercept the Stygian Guard before they set out to the world of cults. A harbinger of doom with a message of salvation.

Alas they had been too late. The Stygian Guard were already the pawns of Slaanesh and, adding insult to injury, they took the autarch’s parting curse as their new name.

Psychopomps.

A number of Eldar had been captured as their fleet had fled the Astartes homeworld and the renegades, having turned from the light of the Master of Mankind, were enlightened by a herald of She Who Must Not Be Named. The herald had already touched their chief librarian and was all too willing to further their corruption. The Eldar captives were experimented upon. Tortured. The Psychopomps learned of the ambrosia of Eldar souls. The exhilarating heights and terrifying depths of the xenos’ emotions, a spectrum far exceeding the sensations experienced by dull human minds. They became addicted. Obsessed. And through their vile acts the Dark Prince was empowered.

Direct confrontation having failed, the wily Qarasion chose subtle paths to counter the renegades, who still wore a veil of loyalty to the Golden Throne. Eldar pathfinders spied upon them and sabotaged the Psychopomps’ efforts whenever possible. Over years a proxy war was fought against these new pawns of Slaanesh, and the aliens attempted to draw the attention of the Imperium to the cancer within the chapter. But human minds are dull and a great many foul acts are dismissed as the most pious of loyal sacrifices.

But in time retribution came. A trident’s strike: agents of the Emperor’s Most Holy Orders gathering those still loyal upon the Astartes homeworld as a fifth column, the elite of the Guard: the Tempestus Scions taking out key sites paving the way for the hammer to fall...the Black Templars.

Fellow sons of Dorn, the Templars had fought alongside the Stygians on countless battlefields, shedding the same blood in the same mud, yet relations had become embittered during the Nantesi Insurrection: the Stygian librarians’ interfering in a climactic duel betwixt the Templar champion and an Enslaver. Years later, after their fall, the Templars suspected the slaying of one of their sword brethren at the hands of the Stygians, and descending upon their homeworld of Fulcrum the Templars at last had their vengeance.

Satisfied that the fates would be righted, Qarasion and craftworld Carth-Lar turned their gaze from the Psychopomps, to their folly for much of the fallen chapter, aided by daemonic allies, escaped.

Like the more famous yet more warlike Biel-Tan, Carth-Lar was dedicated to the rebuilding of the Eldar race and its empire. They seeded worlds across the galaxy, tending them and building paradises for that day when they might once again rise to supremacy. One such world was Mesusid, and it was Mesusid which the Psychopomps first discovered.

Now nomadic reavers, the rogue Astartes fell upon the arcadian maiden world, slaying many of its tenders and taking a terrible number of captives. Thus did the autarch learn that her nemesis, former chapter master and now lord of Chaos Sophusar the Facinorous, had survived.

And so the war continued over the following decades, the Psychopomps chasing any whisper of Eldar settlements and sightings be they of Carth-Lar or other, and the Eldar combating the renegades both directly and indirectly. When raiding forgeworlds for supplies the Psychopomps found themselves facing not only the Skitarii of the Mechanicus but also Striking Scorpions attacking from the shadows, unknown to the warriors of Mars. Eldar ghostships harried the marines’ battleships countless times over the years, appearing from the void unannounced. But in each action autarch Qarasion lost forces and the seer council called impotently for her to step down. Impotent for they knew that she had the loyalty of the Exarchs.

Viarphia.

A twin to Mesusid and the fairest child of Carth-Lar.

An Eden, a Zion, a Shangri-la...betrayed to the renegades by she chosen millennia before as protector of all Carth-Lar’s souls and lands. The most valuable and dangerous gambit Qarasion could make.

She gathered her aspect warriors to her - for the council, in horror at her actions, forbade all the craftworld’s guardians from following her - and upon Viarphia she made her stand against the massed forces of the Psychopomps, their daemonic allies and twisted, braying servants.

But Qarasion had not only taken the craftworld’s elite with her, for she had stolen that most precious and ancient treasure: the incarnation of Kaela Mensha Khaine. The avatar.

While their forces clashed in the flawless city, autarch Qarasion had lured Sophusar to the innermost chambers of the planet’s shrine. Her closest friend and comrade in millennia of war gave her life to awaken the god of war, unleashing its bloody wrath upon the Chaos lord.

Sophusar was lain low, Qarasion mortally wounded and the avatar, the spirit of Carth Lar, destroyed.

Months later

The farseer shed no tears at their parting for he had no more to shed. While the Psychopomps had been driven from Viarphia, the price had been devastating. The theft of the avatar’s cask had been discovered too late, when Qarasion’s ships had already departed into the webway for Viarphia and the council had beaten themselves, torn at their robes and faces in anguish and fury at her actions. And now it was gone, never to rise again.

How many of their aspect warriors had been lost? The best of a handful of the craftworld’s shines had been lost and with them the knowledge of techniques handed down from master to master since before the Fall. The craftworld’s blades had been blunted and she who might have honed them once more had been exiled upon her recovery. As soon as she had been able to walk she had been stripped of her armour, weapons and her title. Only now, when she was too frail in body and still reeling with the mental shock of how events had unfolded, only now had the seer council succeeded in removing her from power.

Emrana himself had approved his beloved’s banishment.

Carth-Lar would finally follow a course entirely plotted by the seer council. A course of evading the warlike races of the galaxy. Biding their time and tending their worlds. Rebuilding.

Perhaps Qarasion would find...what? Peace? That was not what she sought...retribution, then...and welcome upon one of their fellow craftworlds. Biel Tan, perhaps, or Ulthwé circling so close to the Eye and the center of their race’s old empire. Yes. By her will she would have seen Carth-Lar fight and rule as their race once had. And perhaps so close to the graveyard of their species she might learn temperance.

Perhaps then they might meet once again.

Emrana turned his thought from the exiled autarch and departed from the houses of healing, tired in both body and mind from endless hours lending what aid he could to the butchered and maimed warriors of Carth-Lar.

Holusiax, the Naga Lord, chief librarian and first blessed of the Psychopomps watched smoke curling from the sticks of incense before him, watching the shapes forming in the wisps as they rose and coiled. He ignored the sounds of preparation about him but the smell of ozone, growing in intensity and drowning out the sweet scent of the incense, was impossible to ignore.

The incense sticks wavered as the surface beneath them moved. The six-times-six sticks were each stood in individual silver holders, balanced upon the naked, prone form of an Eldar laid upon the deck. Slimmer and longer of limb than a human, with high, sharp features and almond eyes – now shut tight in a pained visage – the alien appeared pathetically weak in comparison to the gene-bulked and power armoued astartes. Holusiax pushed deeper into the alien’s will and the tremors faded. He exerted his mind over that of the Eldar, paralyzing her, a task which was growing easier with each attempt both due to his growing power and the tortures which had eroded this one’s will since her capture on Viarphia. This banshee had screamed until she could scream no more. Her psyche, her very existence, everything from her birth to the moment she had been taken alive on the maidenworld, had been laid bare by him. And through her, through the bond she shared with her kin, forged over centuries of combat and training, the fall of craftworld Carth-Lar would begin.

He took his eyes from the Sahasrara tattoo upon her shaved crown to look over her body, checking the incense sticks had not shifted from their positions over the lines of nadi confluence where he had tattooed. Over the Ajna, the Vishuddha at her throat, the jade Anahata -all markings he had carefully inscribed upon her- and down to the six-petalled orange Svadhishthana. A meeting of several meridians. Here, over her abdomen he had not balanced an incense stick but rather a severed hand lay over it. A trophy from Viarphia. The right hand of this banshee’s own exarch.

The reek of ozone grew as actinic arcs lapped between the claws of those stood about the sorcerer and his sacrifice. The Erinyes, the warp-hunters, breathed more rapidly as they felt the ritual gathering power. A relatively new sect of the Psychopomps, drawn from the elite of the old companies, the Erinyes were sensitive to the ebb and flow of the sea of souls in a way no common astartes could be. This boon had been bought via various pacts master Sophusar had forged with the neverborn. Their first outing had been an act of vengeance on the dark apostle’s part, their second a failure…and this third a chance for redemption. And more than that, this would be the opening move of an all-out assault upon the Eldar craftworld. The Eryines would pave the way for the rest of the Psychopomps, so Holusiax and Angra had decided.

Master Sophusar would not be the one to dispatch them on this mission.

In the time following their retreat from Viarphia, the Psychopomps were led by both the dark apostle Angra and the sorcerer Holusiax, for lord Sophusar lay in his chambers attended only by the herald Nal’eru and the Keeper of Secrets Ki’ma’gureh. None knew if he would rise once again, transformed as Angra and Holusiax had been...or he would perish and the chapter would likely go to war, marines flocking to the personal banners of the chapter’s strongest: Chief librarian Holusiax, Master of Sanctity Angra, senior captains Castor and Dophesia...the first was serpentine in form and complex in mind; the second as devious as a snake and all too often his personality was split, like his face, between his astartes and his daemonette self; and the two captains bitter rivals. Castor the cold, calculating killer, Dophesia the peacock duelist. Who would side with who? If Angra opposed the sorcerer then likely each would attract a captain and the chapter would be plunged into war, half against half, if they allied then it would mean the death of Castor or Dophesia, whichever made their move too late. The lesser captains would move with the balance of power.

Until the gates of the master’s chamber opened there was the semblance of harmony.

The Erinyes in their twisted armour and bulky, barbed jump packs knelt around the Eldar, the five of them taking up positions the sorcerer had marked out for them, carved into the deckplates of their arming chamber with his crimson-bladed force daggers. With him they were six. The divine number.

The assault on Viarphia, despite having ended in a bloody retreat, had been far from fruitless: the Eldar’s avatar had been destroyed. This alone was a monumental feat and a terrible blow to the xenos. Sadly the Psychopomps had been unable to take many of the Eldar alive; the aspect warriors fighting to the very death, but a great many had been maimed. The familiar Trinehorn Smutgrind and a dozen of the Exalted Fecund’s cultists had been tasked with the gathering of limbs during the battle, for these trophies -this flesh- would be the key to the downfall of craftworld Carth-Lar...

At a signal from Holusiax the Erinyes’ champion carefully took the severed hand from atop the alien’s belly. Alecto was now his name; not that which he had been born with but that which Angra had given him upon his elevation. The dark apostle had explained their names as being those of the furies their unit was named for, a bastardisation of ancient legends. That those mythical beings were female mattered not. The astartes, asexual in all but form, had since their fall learned the ways of Slaanesh: form and indeed gender was mutable. Like so many other shackles, such ideas had been cast off lest they restrict the Psychopomps in their exploration of debauchery and sensation.

Alecto raised one of his lightning claws and with a dexterity one would not expect possible with such a large blade, he sliced the fingers from the hand, dropping one into the open maws of each of his brothers.

The 8th implant an Astartes received was the omophagea, which enabled him to essentially learn via eating: via the ingestion and absorbing of genetic matter. The 15th was the neuroglottis, which heightened his sense of taste so such a degree that he could identify many chemicals, and even track targets by taste. In the Psychopomps these two implants had been enhanced further, by the work of chief apothecary Podalir and the arts of the herald, Nal’eru. And in the Eryines this twisted, diabolical genengineering was combined with their preternatural hunting instincts. While the assassin Jinx could with her athame and extreme concentration cut the very fabric of existence, chief librarian Holusiax had trained the Erinyes to traverse the warp with greater ease. To traverse it seeking their quarry...

Shidheme opened her eyes slowly at the growing ache. A veteran of centuries of combat, she immediately recognized that the numbness in her limbs was not that of paralysation and surmised it had to be the result of medication. That she was alive was a great relief. She was a Banshee exarch and had no desire to awaken within a body of wraithbone as one of the craftworld’s constructs seldom roused from their timeless slumber.

She found she was sat relined in a bed within the craftworld’s houses of healing. Never had she seen the houses so full. Every visible bed, table and even floorspace had injured Eldar laid upon it. The extent of the injuries she could see with even a cursory glance at the nearest fellow patients shocked her and quickened her breathing with a growing rage. Such was the way with warriors of her Aspect. She attempted to sit up but her body all but refused to respond and she felt the ache turn to a pain growing within her chest. She reluctantly relented and lay back upon the soft cushions, fearing she might undo what good work the healers had managed since their return to the craftworld, though her blood still raced. She was incensed.

And how long ago had it been that she had returned to the craftworld? How long had she lain here? How many of her comrades had perished in the beds and upon the floor about her whilst she had lain unconscious? She knew not.

Had Carth-Lar been victorious on Viarphia? Dare she dream that they had wiped out the Psychopomps? She knew that Iuseri, exarch of the rival temple of the Riving Wail, had given her life to awaken the Avatar...surely Iuseri’s sacrifice had not been in vain? How could the pawns of She Who Must Not Be Named have stood against the might of Kaela Mensha Khaine?

And what of her own sacrifice?

It was then that she noticed the extent of the damage to her own body. Bandages crisscrossed her torso, but more shocking than this was that both her arms terminated in stumps at the wrists. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound escaped. She hoarsely roared her anguish and, despite the sluggishness of her limbs, she thrashed upon the bed. The pain in her chest grew acute, recently set ribs breaking once more but she cared not. Mantras to calm the spirit were the art of the Scorpions and the Dire Avengers. Not the Banshees. She wept and attempted to scream again and again, remembering the legend of her aspect’s origins: the Crone Goddess Morai-Heg’s desire for the knowledge within her own divine blood. Her sending her daughters to torment the war god Khaine, he being the only of their pantheon capable of harming another. His eventual severing of her hand to end his own torture and her subsequent supping of her own blood from the severed limb. In her delirious state Shidheme began gnawing upon the stumps of her arms, worrying the scarred flesh with her teeth like a maddened animal. The pain within her began to flood from her torso through her limbs, her blood ran hot as it spurted from her wrists as her teeth tore at them.

Healers cried out as they spotted her writhing upon her bed and raced to her side, hands trying to hold her down, calming words falling on deaf ears.

Even in her crazed state she could see the sorrow and exhaustion in their eyes. How many deaths had they seen? She could see how deeply their spirits were traumatized. There had been no victory on Viarphia. This sole fact made it through her hysteria. And fed it.

She felt the calming presence of their minds touching upon her own and then as one they reeled back away from her.

At the same time blood jetted from her sternum as arcing blades punched out from between fractured ribs. With a grunt of post-human exertion the lightning claws scythed outwards, opening Shidheme from chest to pelvis. But within her body the healers saw not the gory innards of an eviscerated comrade but the madness of the sea of souls. The mad empyrean realm of Chaos.

The Banshee’s body widened impossibly, layer upon layer of flesh peeling back as the portal expanded and five armoured figures decanted once more into the mortal realm upon pinions of baleful green fire. All who saw their arrival turned their faces from the aberration of the Warp and screamed as they felt as much as heard the hungry call of Slaanesh, come for their souls.

With a psychotic roar the warp talons, the Erinyes set upon all those within the houses of healing.

Scourged · March 4, 2016

So, um... hey. I kinda feel like I should apologize because this is... long. Now, in my defense, this was a concept I've been wanting to make into a novella anyway. And the four-part structure of this topic is making that a much easier pill to swallow. So yeah... this week and the subsequent weeks will be lengthy from me this time around. But hey, it's good! Plus, I took the liberty of cutting it up into chapters. The whole narrative doesn't have a title yet (seeing as it's only 1/4 done), so I present:

Ophiuchi Campaign Part I - Opening Moves

I:

Reveal hidden contents

“I can honestly say that I did not expect you to accept my invitation.”

Large fingers grasped the ornate stonework carving of a diminutive garnet obelisk, repositioning it two squares forward on the gaming board. Those fingers lingered for a moment, not yet ready to abandon both the garnet obelisk and the decision to move it. Opening gambits always required the most forethought - seemingly innocuous beginnings can ultimately lead to catastrophic ends. Only those able to calculate the probabilities of the future with any degree of certainty can afford to take risks. Soon enough, the oversized thumb and fingers released the piece, the decision as resolute as the polished crystalline board of opposing colors and squares resting on the utilitarian metal table.

“Don’t ruin this with your chatter, brother. I’m here to alleviate boredom - nothing more.”

An equally large hand from a different man reached out to the stonework figurines on the opposing edge of the crystalline board. Each of these pieces in this opposing army were crafted from a rich translucent sapphire. An obelisk was selected - identical in every way to that of the first piece moved, save for color - and aggressively repositioned two squares forward. The small pillar was charging ahead of its identical linemates, eager to engage the similar-but-different foe opposing it. Casual observation would write off the hasty selection as a brash reactionary move, like that of a simpleton. But to a more brilliant mind, it was a clear and obvious choice to make, needing no deliberation beyond the simple action to move the figurine.

“You know full well that the chatter is the primary reason you are here. Our game is just an entertaining means of having that discussion. You simply have no patience to enjoy anything except your preferred direct methods.”

With the opening moves completed, the game was under way. Once again his turn, the Sorcerer Lord let his fingers linger across the tops of all his garnet pieces. Back and forth, languidly darting among them as he seemingly could not decide which path to take. His apprehension was false, of course, as the lord knew which piece and positioning was instantly necessary. The lingering of his fingers was an old habit that never died, a way to make the game longer and enjoy it more. The recreational company of his sibling was a rare treat since their fall, and that time need be well spent. Another small obelisk was finally selected and moved to join the row with its twin.

“I tend to be more patient when I know why I’m forced to endure such long stretches of inactivity.”

The sapphire general’s actions were aggressive and instant once again. And, again, they were nearly a mirror to the preceding moves. The Martial Champion did not share the lord’s penchant for lingering moves and delaying tactics. His actions were clear and left no room to be second guessed, thus hesitation was not necessary. Analyzing every potential circumstance and outcome from a singular decision was a lesson in madness - no soul, mortal or otherwise, could perfectly divine the future. A blue obelisk slid diagonally to capture its red foe.

“Except you do know, Scindus: Sektoth and his warband are coming, and terms are to be arranged. And until they arrive, we are left waiting for them here. It’s not like that news is a secret.”

Freed of the obelisk obstructions in front of it, a garnet carving of an ornate chalice slowly slid on a long diagonal, lining up in the same rank as the only other pieces in play. This move was an immediate threat to nothing, and yet the champion decided to quickly unleash the most powerful piece of his sapphire arsenal - a tall bird with wings outstretched, its angry beak cawing out. It fell in line with all the other pieces, all four now resting in the center of the board.

“But none of that explains why we are waiting in the first place. Your decision is based on, what, his vague offer of partnership and empty promises? You know as well as I do who Sektoth really is. Nothing he can offer us is worth the ruination we will suffer in his wake.”

“Yes. I’ve heard the stories of the ‘False Whisper’ just as you have. But you also know - all too well - that we’ll be made aware of any falsehood before Sektoth can even speak it to our faces. And he no doubt knows this too. To double-cross the Scourged is the impossible dream of a fool.”

“And attempting to manipulate a Thousand Son is even more foolish, brother.”

The sorcerer was not intimidated by aggressive actions of the sapphire raven, yet his fingertips wasted no time in securing the pivotal leader of his army and sliding it one square to the right. It was a stonework carving of a hooded man leaning on a tall staff - a priest - and the security of this piece mattered more than all else. But in spite of this importance, he chose to expose his leader early, as its repositioning would no doubt affect the later outcome of events.

As the game continued, a sapphire obelisk slid forward, with the garnet chalice quickly racing up to capture it and remove the piece from play. It was a minor exchange, but still brought a teasing smile to the sorcerer’s lips. Leaping over the azure ranks came the carved athame, joining the fray once finished with its irregular L-shaped trajectory. Its leap over the waiting ranks was then mirrored by the crimson athame opposing it.

“There will be no manipulation, Scindus. I have not yet committed our forces to this campaign. At this point I am simply meeting with the man to hear what he offers, and why he sought us out. But it is more than that! We have been tracking the Legion for millennia and found nothing. And now, one of their chosen knocks on our door. Should I just let this opportunity slip us by? We could learn so much from the Legion to aid us and our cause.”

“And you don’t find that surprisingly coincidental? The sudden and convenient arrival of that whom we seek, in possession of a tempting offer no less?”

The sapphire raven retreated, and a garnet obelisk advanced. The blue athame sprang out to the side, and the red blade mirrored it once again. As each piece moved and changed the theater of war upon the crystalline board, neither man looked down at their actions. Each brother focused on his counterpart at the table, letting his hands act separate from their focused conversation. A sidestep from the blue raven, and advancement from the red athame. Slide one obelisk forward, and then slide another forward. Retreat the sapphire athame; reposition a garnet pentacle to the side of the red priest.

“The True Master does not do coincidences, Scindus. This skein of Fate has been woven long before we swore our allegiance. Sektoth has found us now because that is what is supposed to happen. That we cannot change or influence. All we can do is decide how to accept our Fate.”

A small pillar of blue removes the nuisance chalice from the board, and then a red pillar tucked in the corner finally makes its way forward. The sapphire raven retreats from it, but an obelisk advances again, attempting to corner the valuable piece. But the bait fails to entice or trick the Martial Champion, and the stonework bird moves forward, free of any threat of danger any longer. The Sorcerer Lord offers a playful harrumph, feigning disappointment at being so easily outwitted.

Back and forth the pieces move, one attacks to retreat the very next turn. Back and forth, the two brothers duel upon the miniature battlefield, yet neither has victory in sight quite yet. The garnet army’s raven advances at an angle and a sapphire athame retreats. The remaining red chalice approaches, taking an obelisk and threatening the sapphire bird once more, which once again falls back.

“Fine. I still don’t see why we need them at all, brother. Are they not just as driven by duplicitous sin like all the rest? Their legacy screams of their lies, just like all the rest. Have we not been raining vengeance across the galaxy well enough on our own? We need no allies. Your irrational quest to seek out the XV Legion’s aid does not change this.”

The pace of the game was moving faster. With this much progression, the paths of possibility had dwindled, leaving fewer and fewer outcomes with each piece position and captures. Second garnet athame forward, sapphire chalice diagonal to board’s edge. Place the athame beside the chalice, and propel the raven across to the penultimate row to the Sorcerer Lord’s edge. Slide a chalice in rebuttal, and then sapphire raven captures garnet pentacle and threatens the priest. A conclusion was beginning to brew, but neither player dared acknowledge that they knew it.

“I am unsure, Scindus. If the stories can be believed, the Imperium forsook them much as it did us. They were used and betrayed, slaughtered by the Wolves, and avoided obliteration only thanks to the True Master. The Cyclops of Prospero looked to the Warp to chase the truth and found his Legion in ruins for it. Does that not sound familiar, brother? Of all of mankind, within the Eye or without, they may be the closest we have to kin. Think of all that we can gain. Think of all that we can learn from them!”

With the pressure of conquest directed toward the crimson priest, it moves on a singular diagonal out of harm’s way. The chalice strikes, removing the lone pentacle defending the army’s leader, and putting further pressure on the garnet board edge. But the lord does not overreact to this insurgence. The priest is not touched, and a harmless obelisk is pushed one square forward. A second sapphire athame pushes into the fight now, no doubt eager to join the choking grasp on the garnet’s leader.

“To what end, Raha? They are slaves: slaves to the True Master, slaves to the Warp, slaves to their own vengeance and ambitions. They hide on their daemon world until the Cyclops commands they lash out against the wolves, and then sulk away when their efforts accomplish little. They devour eldritch lore in all facets but have yet to restore their brotherhood from the ash and dust it has become. I fail to see how allying with them could prove any benefit to us, assuming they would even entertain our pleas. We are naught but lowly upstarts in their eyes.”

The garnet army chose this moment to unleash an assault of its own. An athame lashes at an unmoved obelisk and threatens the opposing priest’s safety, forcing the champion to push him away a single space. The red raven inches directly forward, and once again the sapphire man with the staff is forced to relocate or accept destruction. Or so it would seem, at least. The champion observes the weakness of his opponent’s gambit and strikes, athame leaping over the ranks once more to capture the raven, weakening the lord’s army significantly.

“That may be true. But we are slaves to the same forces, Scindus. Our motives and our weaknesses may differ, but we are slaves nonetheless. We’ve all been alone, distrust sealing our isolation. Perhaps it’s time for that to change. And I do not know that this path will solve our problems - I am not skilled in divination. But this is our path, and I intend for us to see it through.”

Rahaund’ul Dhelmas started to reach for a piece but hesitated, eyes closing to a half-lid. It was the odd gesture that so many Astartes would wear when a foreign voice invaded their mind to speak. Scindus could never understand why his brother chose that for his preferred method of communication. A vox worked equally as well, and devoid of the intrusion that another soul’s voice in your mind creates. When the Sorcerer Lord’s eyes reopened, Scindus knew that the game was over.

“Thank you. Debating with you is always a fruitful discussion… I just wish you could find the forgiveness to indulge me with it more often. Sektoth is here. Go and gather three of the Maalik and then join me in the hangar bay. You four will be my retinue for this meeting.”

“The Maalik? Our resources are growing thin enough as it is, lord. It was not that long ago that we replenished our veteran armor supplies, thanks to the Praetors. And you wish to utilize them for this folly? Not to mention that the Maalik have never been known to be the most… diplomatic. If this meeting turns out to be a false flag, I doubt we can spare four complete sets of armor for such fruitless gains.”

“Five sets of armor, Scindus - you all will not be the only ones in full battle gear. And it is precisely because of the risk of betrayal that you and the Maalik are coming with me. Tradition demands that we present a show of force with these clandestine meetings, and pragmatism demands that we be prepared to use it. Go, now, and meet me at my transport.”

The Sorcerer Lord stood from the table and turned to leave, despite the chambers being his own. Pausing, he reached backward and repositioned the remaining garnet chalice by a single square. The motion was minor, just a single diagonal move, and yet it mattered more than any other decision made throughout the game. The leader of the Scourged grinned at his brother then hastily left the room.

Scindus sighed. He did not like any of this one bit. But, the decision was not his to make. And he had his orders. The Martial Champion stood and made his way out of his brother’s chambers. Before leaving, he grabbed the sapphire priest in his fingers one last time, shook his head disapprovingly for his own lack of foresight in the game, and rested the figurine on its side. One day he would outwit his crimson foe, but not this day.

II:

Reveal hidden contents

The location of their meeting was chosen specifically for its presumed insignificance. If one was to scour through vast collections of charts and data to research these particular coordinates, all they would find would be an anecdotal reference to a system with a single planet orbiting a red giant star. Somewhere amidst the furor of the Great Crusade the star had gone nova, violently rending the planet asunder from the wake of the star’s dying explosion. Now the system consisted of nothing more than a rapidly spinning neutron star and a vast cloud of gas and debris around it, heavily charged by the pulsing magnetics of the reborn star. It was, however, the pulsar and occluding cloud of this system that created an ideal location when co-conspirators needed to meet in secret.

Beset in the void of the abandoned system sat two warships, each staring down the other. The exteriors had been calm and motionless for hours, though undoubtedly the contents within were alive, excited by the preparations necessary for the awaited meeting. Weapons were not armed, though targeting solutions had no doubt been calculated in the event of a disaster. And while each stood out proudly as boastful capital ships, they did not come alone. Subsequent other vessels of size and scope accompanied the two main vessels: multiple escort ships and buzzing attack craft. But all focus was heeded to these two at the forefront.

One sat massive in scope to all other vehicles in this otherwise unoccupied parcel of space. Even if alone in the void it would be a threat to any fleet it would encounter, but smaller frigates and escort craft lined its flanks as both protection and additional offensive payload. Under Imperial designation, it was a battleship-class vessel, specifically a battle barge. This was a warship that could belong only to a chapter of Adeptus Astartes, and at one time had been just that. But those days were gone, and old names and designations were forgotten. Imperial Aquilas and scrolls of valor gave way to eight-pointed stars and declarations of desecration. This was Deception’s Call, and contained within it and the remainder of the fleet was the entirety of the Scourged warband.

Across from the massive battle barge sat the fleet of the opposing warband participating in the clandestine meeting. Though the fleet’s flagship could not compete in size with Deception’s Call, it more than well made up for its size with the vast scope of supporting vessels around it. The flagship was but one frigate amongst scores of others, each dangerous on their own but lethal in great numbers. If Deception’s Call was a massive shark swimming in the black ocean of the galaxy as a silent hunter, then the opposing fleet was a school of piranha twitching and eager to devour everything in their path. And in this pack of swimming predators, The Unyielding was their alpha.

Weeks ago, each of the warlords upon their respective ships agreed to meet in this tomb of a system. Given the nature of their discussion, the obfuscation of the star and shattered planet were necessary. However, that desired occlusion also makes standard communications between vessels inconveniently impossible. Were it not for Astropathic communication both fleets would be lost in the void. Thus, when meeting in the Blind Eye, tradition demanded that all negotiations and communications happen in person, aboard the host’s flagship. In this case, that meant Rahaund’ul Dhelmas and his bodyguards had to cross the empty space between the fleets and board The Unyielding. Waiting for them there would be an escort with a retinue of his own, though vastly different in stature than five Astartes in Terminator armor.

As soon as the doors opened at the rear of the Thunderhawk, Scindus saw the men awaiting their arrival. The emissary stood in front of four other Astartes, all five wearing baroque plating of royal blue and polished gold. Each of them wore a helmet adorned with a tall striped headdress, a signature fixture of the Prospero-born. The four marines at the rear were armed with ornate boltguns and wore small tabards of simple cloth. The central figure chose instead to wear a ceremonial robe of the same khaki material. This robed man was silently indicating his status above the other four. And though he was obviously of a higher rank than his guards, this man was not the warlord. Sektoth would not demean himself to meet the Scourged in person.

The Sorcerer Lord and his Maalik retinue stepped out of the Thunderhawk and approached the welcoming party. This, however, was easier said than done while wearing full Terminator combat plating. The armor was bulky and cumbersome, where even taking a single step forward required a clumsy, lumbering movement. This was not the manner in which Scindus preferred to move. His normal armor of mixed marks and origin was a second flesh after so many years. Any motions or actions he would perform in his typical armor afforded him an effortless grace as if he were nude. But this tactical dreadnought armor - a stolen relic repurposed from their Praetors of Orpheus recruits - was alien upon his body. And to make matters worse, though he still armed himself with his preferred arsenal of fist and claws, it was still not the same as wearing Vymazach and Vypatroshich.

Still, Lord Dhelmas had insisted on including the Maalik, the Hellfire Guardians, for his retinue. In truth, neither Dhelmas brother preferred to wear Terminator plate in battle. But even here, Rahaund’ul adorned himself to match the imposing figures of the Maalik, complete with a helmet stylized with four tall horns and a large golden staff. Scindus understood the motives, of course. It was a show of power: four Astartes dressed in Terminator armor, shoulders adorned with racks of skulls and trophies, ceramite feet thudding heavily on the floor, with weapons powered and at the ready can be an intimidating sight for anyone. Add to this presence the Sorcerer Lord in ceremonial armor of his own, and it crafts an introduction that leaves an impression. With one final heavy step out of the Thunderhawk, the Scourged warriors closed the gap and stood before Sektoth’s chosen envoys.

“Welcome to The Unyielding. I am Sefu, and I represent Lord Sektoth. If you’ll follow me, I will take you to the Lord and our meeting can begin.”

With a subtle gesture from Sefu, the four armed guards at his flanks turned and walked in unison, leading the collected parties out of the hangar bay. Scindus and the three Maalik walked in a box around their lord, escorting him through the occupied frigate as their envoy led the way. The halls of the ship were nothing like that of Deception’s Call. The surfaces surrounding them were still the plain plasteel metal as they day they were forged, and not the corpuscular fleshmetal of warp-taint. Their path was lit not by glowing eyes of various size and color, but with sconces and chandeliers flickering with flames that had no candles for fuel. Every step through the angular hallways did not scream of ever-present change and mutation that had become so commonplace. The irony was that after so much time spent living on the Call untainted environments always felt the most unsettling.

How was it that the two ships, both so alike in many respects, end up so different? It was no secret to any of those who frequented the Immaterium that Sektoth’s warband and the rest of the XV Legion had sworn themselves to the service of the True Master, just like the Scourged. Change was part and parcel for the Architect of Fate. Was his influence not the same for all of his scions? Apparently not, Scindus surmised, having passed through a second bulkhead door that contained no teeth or tongues. To look upon the interior of The Unyielding was to look at the past through an unfiltered lens. This is how this ship would have appeared in the halcyon days of the Great Crusade, and here it sat unchanged since then.

“Can any of you remember when the Call last looked like this?” questioned Charos over the Maalik’s private vox.

“The Call has never once looked like this.” answered Duschel in his scolding tones. “Even in our days of enslavement to the False Emperor our ships never resembled any of this… whatever this is. We have never been so needlessly pompous.”

“You know what I meant, Duschel. I meant if any of us remembered when the floors were floors and the walls were walls. I meant did any of you remember when the Call felt like an actual ship, and not a beast that swallowed the warband whole.”

“He knew full well what you meant, schopa,” chimed in the last of the Maalik, Palamur. “But look around – these piskas are just as bad as the Inquisition, decadent ornamentation all over the place, wasting resources on appearances over function. They celebrate their legacies and glories simply because they came first. Hah, just like all other Legion-born. And it’s all ugly as jhut, too.”

“Enough. You’re not here to sightsee and play critic. Guard the Sorcerer Lord, and shut your mouths.”

Every time. They would do this every time, no matter the mission. Every single member of the Maalik, regardless of age or tenure or origin, became consumed with an annoying bravado. Each one had to out-do the other, out-insult the other and otherwise judge and demean anything that wasn’t in Terminator armor. Everything was a joke to them, even at death’s door. If it wasn’t for their absolutely brutal effectiveness when needed Scindus would have disbanded the lot of them long ago and rebuild with fresh stock. And at moments like these, the Martial Champion was all the more tempted to cull the lot of them and start anew.

But they weren’t wrong. The deeper they were escorted into the frigate by Sefu and his guardians, the more the opulence of The Unyielding’s design annoyed Scindus. It was all so frivolous. Yes, at one time Deception’s Call had carried mural and trophy, but there was a purpose to them all. They were relics of campaigns past, all reminders to the conquests and victories of the chapter. But the difference was that any such trophies or glories were hoisted and displayed in moderation. Conversely, The Unyielding felt more like a museum or artists’ guild than an actual ship of the line. The more Scindus studied the pieces the less they looked like spoils of war and more like mediums of self-aggrandization. The Call may be a mutated abomination housing a warband of Astartes twice damned by their patron deity, but at least it was utilitarian in design and function.

The entrance to what must be a great hall or some other equally large bastion was the worst offender yet. Arched doorways of stained and carved wood rose twenty meters to the ceiling. The look and grain of the wood was one unfamiliar to Scindus, but the quality was no doubt very rich. Tiny imperfections in the carved relief within the doors – a scene of vast pyramids on a planet with a sprawling city at their base, haloed with a giant ouroboros – were evidence that all was sculpted by hand. Grooves and filigree were cut throughout the elaborate borders, with wood of different origins and stains offering diversity to the monochromatic hues. And if that was not enough, the doors were opened by two sets of five mortal thralls – all in blue and golden robes – expending great effort pulling on silken ropes. What a terrible waste of resources.

The intended message was clear to any that approached the elaborate entranceway: Sektoth was royalty, and this was his palace.

On a throne crafted from more artisanal carved wood and lush fabric the self-appointed noble sat, his fingers steepled beneath the vox-grill of his helm, elbows on velveteen cushions of the armrests. To Scindus, the armor of Sektoth the False Whisper looked no different than that of his servant Sefu: it was the same tall headdress, the same robes, all the same colors. Yes, the armor of this warband’s chosen leader was filled with far more delicate trim of gold and adorned with more polished gems of various colors, but it was just more of the same. It was the skilled labor of an artificer, but Scindus was decidedly underwhelmed. As was apparently Palamur, who struggled to stifle his chuckles over the vox.

Finally in the presence of Lord Sektoth, the two groups took up their respective positions in the room accordingly. Sefu and his silent guardians moved to stand on the right side of their lord, facing the guests. The four lesser servants continued to move in unison tandem, turning and holstering their boltguns with maglocks to their sides, resting their arms in front of them, left hand gripping the right wrist. Sefu chose a more defensive posture, a hand resting on both the bejeweled pommel of his sheathed blade and the silver hilt of the pistol at his side. Meanwhile, the five visitors in Terminator armor fanned out into an open arc with Lord Dhelmas at the center, all facing the seated Sektoth in the center of the room.

“Lord Sektoth, might I present Rahaund’ul Dhelmas, the Voice of the Specter, and Sorcerer Lord of the Scourged. And to you all, might I present Lord Sektoth the False Whisper, leader of our warband.”

Not a soul moved. Despite the casual air of Sefu’s tone with his introductions, the fate of this meeting was resting on a needle’s point. With the wrong gesture, or motion, or choice of phrase it could erupt into a mutual bloodbath. Silently, everyone in the room was anticipating the start of the meeting and planning their reactions accordingly. The silence grew with each chronometer’s tick, sixty-eight of those ticks passing before the Lord of the Scourged spoke first.

“So. We’re here.”

“Yes, indeed you are,” eventually spoke Sektoth over his steepled hands. “And dressed to kill, no less. This is a meeting of diplomats and you bring warriors. I’d be offended... if I actually felt threatened by your preening.”

“You are infamous for your deceptions and betrayals. Every tale that mentions your involvement with another warband ends the same way: with their assets in ruin. It’s how you’ve come to earn your prized moniker. In light of all of this, you’ll understand that I’ve taken precautions which are most assuredly necessary.”

“I can’t argue that, no.”

Unexpected. The hosting warlord did not attempt to deny his exploitative nature. That did not bode well. Scindus watched the sorcerer carefully once he slowly stood up from his throne and descend the three carpeted steps toward the five Scourged marines. Sektoth may have surrounded himself with enough resplendent wealth to overshadow his origins, but there was no denying that his practiced movements were that of a soldier. He walked with a measured gate, hands never straying far from the weapons cold at his side. No doubt he had already scanned each of the five sapphire warriors in the arc and calculated plans of reaction in the event of an attack. And there, as he stood facing them all, center of the room, Scindus knew that any factor of intimidation from their behemoth armor plating was lost on this man.

“But from what I hear, any of my usual tricks and schemes would not work on you anyway, Lord Dhelmas. Your little warband has become almost a legend amongst the rumor mills in the Eye. ‘The Scourged hear the lies of all men.’ You and your little warband hunt those loyal and those traitor alike and punish them for their wicked falsehoods. I will say, it sounds like one mighty good blessing to possess.”

“Feel free to try it some time, if you truly believe that.”

“Oh, I’ll pass, thank you. But you’ll be the first to know if I change my mind. But anyway, thanks to your… to use your own terms, Gift, there’s is zero incentive to act in any way but to speak plainly. So, Lord Dhelmas, you and your bodyguards can relax. This is not an ambush hiding behind false welcomes; it is an offer of isolated partnership. I do not mean to deceive, and if I did you’d already know.”

“Be that as it may, Sektoth-”

“That’s Lord Sektoth, renegade. You’ll show respect to a member of the legendary Thousand Sons, further revered within his own brotherhood!”

The tense silence again returned to the room. The Maalik were stirring within their armor, delicately readying themselves to strike if necessary. The four guardians standing behind Sefu had abandoned their casual stance and were all resting hands upon their weapons. An underling interrupting a warband’s leader when speaking was a terrible insult. Some warlords would consider that reason enough to slay the offender then and there, and few would judge his actions. But Sefu also felt the need to insult the attending guests for their supposed lack of noble heredity. Legionnaires were always so obsessed with their origins. For what reason did serving in the failure at Terra give them the authority over those not Legion-bred? It’s not as if their rebellion was successful, after all.

Thankfully the leader of the Scourged did not feel the need to assert himself violently when faced with such insults. Lord Dhelmas turned to look at Sefu, green eyes glowing brightly and staring through the red lenses of the subordinate envoy. Carefully and slowly, to indicate it was a non-threatening gesture, he took his carried staff and swung it around his side, letting it maglock and rest out of the way. His reaction to the affront was calm and metered, but no less threatening.

“He may be your lord, but he is not mine. Your lineage and heritage mean nothing to me and those who follow my lead. I serve only the True Master. Whom is the very same entity that spared your Legion from extinction, I might add. So do not dare correct me or my choice of nominative titles, underling. The only one here serving Sektoth is you, and your amusing automaton guard. Insult me again, and I will obliterate your soul into so many foul shreds that even the ghouls starving for sustenance in the Warp won’t dare to touch them.”

Every weapon was now powered and drawn in the room, save for those of the two lords. Sefu and his guardians were quick to point all blades and barrels at Dhelmas the instant he threatened their lives. After all, how dare some lowly renegades denigrate his status? The Maalik responded quickly to the envoy’s aggressions, their weapons brought to bear at the very visible threat in the room, powerful energy crackling on the orange blades of the axes. And there they all stayed, the room heavy with tension once more, until a dismissive wave from Sektoth urged the men to relax.

“He’s right, Sefu. Stand down. And if you speak out of turn again, I will let our guest make good on his offer, and worse. There’s no more need for this amusing posturing, from either of us. Now then, if you’ll forgive my attendant, I believe you and I were about to discuss the terms of our arrangement, Dhelmas. I know you have your own agendas, and I do not wish to interfere. But trust me when I say this will be mutually beneficial.”

“Fine then. Tell me of your plans for Ophiuchi.”

III:

Reveal hidden contents

At last, with the entrance of the Prophet of the False, the invited members of the Scourged’s command had gathered in the dimly-lit strategium. Once through the threshold, the door-maw closed upon itself, sheets of concentric baleen sliding together with the sickening screech of teeth rubbing together. After kicking away one of the many pustuled tongue-tendrils sliding along the floor, Sinschal’ul Bhuramas set his palms on the central hololithic dais, rested his weight forward, and acknowledged all the rest in the room with simple nods from his ever-grinning face.

The time spent by the Sorcerer Lord and his retinue upon The Unyielding was brief, by all accounts of such clandestine meetings. Now, whether or not that brevity was of benefit or detriment remained to be seen. Sinschal’ul was erring on the side of pessimism. It wasn’t that the Prophet was a naturally dour man; he preferred to consider himself pragmatic instead. Given the current situation, pragmatism demanded that he remain guarded when listening to a proposition offered by the False Whisper, and expect the worst.

But despite the ominous implications of the meeting, his curiosity was just as powerful as his pragmatism. Typically, a meeting of the warband’s commanders would involve the doling out of orders, issuing the decrees of the latest campaign to bring the Scourged’s retribution to the Imperium. In those circumstances Sinschal’ul would be just another soldier accepting the orders of a totalitarian leader. But this was not one of those mandatory briefings of the warband’s commanding elite. He found himself a member of a council, all of equal importance, to discuss the situation. For the first time in a long while, Lord Dhelmas had requested the presence of these men, not required it. That alone was enough to intrigue the apostle. How curious.

But more than that, he needed to know what would bring the almighty Sektoth to demand the aid of such lowly renegades as the Scourged. Sektoth was regarded as a warlord of lofty valor and accomplishments to any soul knowledgeable of his exploits. Were his victories and spoils not enough to impress, his tactics and stratagems would take to the task. Even those who viewed Sektoth with the least respect all held a begrudging appreciation for his methods: no techniques were ever repeated, and never had he known defeat, often always at the expense of those foolish enough to follow him. Should all of that leave the audience still unmoved, there was his ever-present clout of being a surviving Legionnaire of the Long War.

So why, then, did the False Whisper seek out the Scourged so specifically, and for what purpose? Surely such a turncoat warband as theirs was unworthy of his distinguished attention. With the Sorcerer Lord finally addressing the room, Sinschal’ul would hopefully find out.

“I’ve decided to skip our normal formalities for this meeting. This is a situation that demands plenty of forethought before action. We have a lot to lose, but plenty to gain. I’ve yet to make a decision regarding Sektoth’s offer, and I want your input.”

“It’s a wonder you’re even bothering to consider his proposition at all, lord,” came the voice of Telioch, speaking what so many were no doubt thinking.

“You’re not wrong, Toren. But considering it I am. Scindus and I spoke at length before calling this meeting with you all. We disagreed at first, but ultimately decided that your input was need. I am convinced that the offer is worthy of our acknowledgement, if nothing more.”

“How, exactly? The man is known as the ‘False Whisper.’ He didn’t earn that name from his loyalty toward those that serve him, lord. His existence is representative of the very filth and sin we have devoted ourselves to exterminating since… since the Gift.”

Hah, the Gift. Sinschal’ul had never liked that affectionate name for the affliction burdening them all. True, the Sorcerer Lord - and many like him - did view their collective condition as a Gift from the True Master. It brought them knowledge, it bestowed them with new power… and it spread like a cancer through every Astartes and human, killing them twice as fast. Those with the strength, like the souls gathered in this room, found the adamantium will to fight the voices and survive, sometimes thrive. But “gift” is not the word Sinschal’ul would have chosen were he to name the phenomenon. And neither would Toren Telioch - his reluctant acceptance of their collective fate was still ever-tainted with his disdain, and quite obvious at his mention of it.

“So then, Toren, imagine my surprise when at no point in our dialogue did the Gift ever alert me, Scindus, or the Maalik to any falsehoods, spoken or thought, by Sektoth. From beginning to end, the man was the eye of a cyclone: calm and still while the world raged around him. He spoke truth to me.”

There was no immediate response to a claim like that. Sinschal’ul did not have one. It was clear that Telioch was silenced for the moment. No one present could process that fact, because it made no sense. In the millennia spent as the apostle for the Scourged, Sinschal’ul Bhuramas had listened to the words and minds of endless scores of human, both mortal and Astartes. The gambit ran from the purest to the most tainted and contained all in between. And with them all, the Prophet had never once found a soul that was devoid of sin. Never once. Yes, sure, in the moments of their capture, many recruits thought and spoke in the purest tones all their lives, but a thin cloud of sin always radiated from their soul. The lies of the past never die.

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, Prophet.”

+What of sorcery? Could you detect any obfuscation from the Warp in his presence?+

With his voice in all their heads, everyone turned to face Khalo, the Keeper of the Pit. And rightfully so, as he made a very good point. It was no secret to anyone in the room - even the Consular from Tachylite - that Warp sorceries were exceptional tools of deception. In his days, Khalo had been among the most adept at those very skills. Confounding the minds and plans of the enemy was a preferred tactic of the sorcerer. On the day Khalo willingly brought himself to the chambers of Sinschal’ul for his conversion, the Prophet learned this and many other things. Rather than fight the Gift, the former Word Bearer accepted it, divining that it would amplify his abilities. Perhaps it did - all the more reason to give his theory credence.

“No. It was suspected, but ultimately ruled out as a possible reason. As Raha spoke with the Whisper, I was consulting with the Maalik over the vox about this and many other things. None of us detected any Warp touch upon Sektoth. I will admit that I am not the most… attuned to such energies, like you are Khalo, but I felt nothing. And neither did the Maalik. When I consulted with Raha on the matter after we left The Unyielding, he confirmed our analysis.”

The testimony of Scindus was enough to convince the room, but it did not make the issue any easier to tolerate. Sektoth was appearing to be quite the anomaly, and such things should never be trusted. No human is untouched by the corruption of their own lies. In the way the Brothers Dhelmas speak of it, it’s as if the False Whisper was the galaxy’s only entity of pure truth.

“We can discuss the issues with Sektoth’s silence later. Something tells me we’ll never know. And I know that is good enough reason to decline his invitation right now, but I do wish to continue. I feel it’s necessary that you all hear what he offers us. Consular, run the program.”

In a snap the small, militant woman, long forgotten about when surrounded by armored giants, began working the keypad on her end of the hololithic dais. In moments, the translucent blue sphere of a planet was hovering in a slow rotation in the center of the room, illuminating the previously dim space. The Changemonger Consular continued to frantically type and input commands, and soon enough the planetary image shifted slightly, pulling away into a higher orbit zoom, with data points appearing on the planet’s surface and facsimiles of two fleets appearing in the skies. Only then did she address the room full of Astartes.

“This is planet Ophiuchi, Calixis Sector, Segmentum Obscurus. It’s Imperium loyal, pays standard tithes, and contains a modest population with zero remarkable resource productions.”

“Oh, I can see why Sektoth wants it so badly…”

“Shut it, Telioch. Consular?”

“Thank you, Lord Dhelmas. According to the data provided by Sektoth’s emissary, Sefu, and in keeping with what the Sorcerer Lord divulged after his meeting with the warlord, it’s clear that the planet’s wealth is not in material assets, but knowledge. Throughout the planet’s largest cities are libraries of grand scope and scale. In truth, most information within is likely redundant to what the warband has already collected. However, the planetary capital Aesclepius contains the Grand Library of Ophiuchi. It is here that Sektoth wishes to raid.”

“And what’s so special about this particular library? On our own we’ve plundered plenty of archives and bastions of knowledge, and seldom have we ever found anything of any value.”

Consular Vhal, unphased and unintimidated in the presence of the immortal demigods as always, turned answer the question directly: “Understood, Lord Telioch. Based on our research, this is entirely due to the Aesclep Dynasty that guided the planet’s actions for millennia, long before the intervention of the Imperium. Those that led the Aesclep coveted arcane lore of all varieties. Using their wealth and influence they collected as much as possible. Based on the data, there is an extremely high probability that the library will contain information that not only reveals secrets of Chaos even you all don’t know, my lords, but lore from the Dark Age of Technology as well.”

As the battle-worn woman spoke, the holographic map turned and zoomed to follow along with her narration. Reams of data confirming her statements scrolled in a mute red on the edges while the wireframe recreation of Aesclepius sat paused above the dais. Thousands of titles of confirmed volumes from the library ran along the screen, cross indexed by age and subject matter. Sinschal’ul’s single eye scanned the titles as the scrolled imperceptibly fast.

It’s true, the subject matters did seem very indicative of forbidden knowledge. Many of the titles listed were familiar to him, and their importance bode well for the lore of the yet unknown volumes. Though he didn’t know as much as his brothers concerning such matters, it was clear to even him that this library was the best chance they’d had yet at learning secrets hidden even from their daemonic overseers in the Warp. Glancing left to spy the reaction of Khalo, the Prophet confirmed his assumptions.

+I see why he picked Ophiuchi, but what I fail to see is why we need bother at all, or why we should join our forces. We could raid the library ourselves and be done with this. A partnership is unnecessary.+

“That’s what I asked of Sektoth while standing upon his ship. The suggested partnership is partially to do with what we can offer him - which I will touch on later - but also how we can be mutually beneficial. His ambitions are for our two warbands to share their collective knowledge. But it’s more than that… Sektoth has claimed that the lore buried in Ophiuchi, combined with the knowledge collected by his warband, will open the secrets to banishing the Gift. He claims to have found us our cure.”

With the exception of Consular Vhal, every present member of the council momentarily forgot how to breathe. Now it was clear what motivated their lord to press the issue. Freedom from the Gift was the temptation that propelled Rahaund’ul Dhelmas to even entertain this awful prospect. Sinschal’ul could not blame him, not for an instant. The few men gathered looked at each other, back and forth, trying to read expressions from their reactions. Telioch’s jaw had lost the strength to remain closed, and a similar lack of strength found him in a collapsed position on the dais. Khalo attempted to hide it by masking his expression, but he was obviously repulsed with the idea of any such remedy. The Dhelmas brothers stood stoic as their respective leadership demanded, but within Scindus’ eyes the Prophet could see the damning glimmer of salvation. And the apostle knew that same look was reflected one hundred times over in his own eye.

Could the secrets to their freedom really be found in this unremarkable library? The idea was too foreign to be true but tempting nonetheless. Never once had escape from the Gift ever felt like a possibility in this reality. Any time Sinschal’ul would consider his life before the Gift, or a possible life without, the Djinni Eye would twitch and stir in its socket, the little teeth and claws tearing at the flesh again and again. It punished him for ever dreaming of a life without the voices in his mind. It did so now, more violently than ever, thrashing beneath a closed eyelid and the thick bandana he wore for a blindfold. But the apostle paid the pain no heed. The prospect of a cure finally felt real, as if the dream was no longer just fallacious imagination. There, in that instant, Sinschal’ul Bhuramas felt the most damning of all emotions: hope.

Oh, how powerful and dangerous hope can be. When a soul is burned to ashes and everything is stripped away save for its own pitiful existence, hope will be the spark that delays the inevitable extinguishment of life’s embers. Time and again Sinschal’ul stood on the precipice of his own personal misery, staring into the dark and lamenting his path through Fate: a slave to a dark god, traitor to a life that betrayed him in kind, tormented by the very powers of knowledge given to them all. But the thought of death brought no solace because the apostle knew better than so many others what waited on the other side of that door. Eons had passed, letting self-contempt and impotent bitterness fester in his mind, albeit locked away from his brothers and his work.

But now, shining through the thick black of that precipice was a new light of hope, and it tempted him like no other. How badly he wanted to throw himself over the edge, give in to the brilliant warmth, and feel the gentle embrace of an optimistic future. This cure would do nothing to alleviate the strain of being a renegade of both the Imperium and Chaos alike. It would not rescue them from the burden of knowledge they have all acquired. But for Sinschal’ul Bhuramas, the hope of this cure would give him freedom from the eternal torture, and that was reason enough to try. And he would have voiced his approval in that instant had bitter Toren not beat him to it.

“No. There is no possible way this is true. I have devoted every waking moment of my new life looking for our cure! I have consumed every scrap of lore and tore to shreds the minds of all the occult-touched dregs we’ve come across. I have studied dead languages and indecipherable runes, translated the nonsensical songs of the Warp, pieced together intangible thoughts of broken minds, and done everything in my power to find our cure. There is no avenue left for me to explore, short of walking straight into the Crystal Labyrinth and demanding answers from the source of our affliction Himself! And now I am to believe the answers are suddenly, magically, here, in this inconceivably insignificant backwater planet not even Imperium cares for?! And that Sektoth, suddenly filled with a philanthropic compassion for our plight, offers us this partnership to help us?!”

+Lucky for you that this is most assuredly a lie.+

“For once we agree, Khalo. Lord Dhelmas, this is all a ploy to exploit us. Sektoth knows of us and our weaknesses, and aims to use them as weapons to manipulate. There is nothing genuine about his request, and absolutely no reason to believe him. We’re being played, and I can promise you that as we’re tearing this library apart that Prospero-born conspirator will have snuck away with his real prize, leaving us to possible ruin.”

+I agree with Telioch, Lord. Despite the impossibility of such a thing, Sektoth has found the means to deceive us. Such power that it can occlude a blessing given handed down from the True Master is not to be trifled with. I do not wish to be made a mockery of as yet another one of the outwitted rubes in Sektoth’s grand scheming. And on behalf of those of us who feel no temptation to be rid of the Gift, I say this campaign holds no value.+

Again the strategium fell into a thoughtful silence. For the moment, Consular Vhal minimized the hololithic display and let the room darken once more. Telioch and Khalo had spoken their piece, and despite their violently diametric opposition regarding the Gift, both found equal fault in the campaign’s proposal. Neither was wrong, either. The claims of Sektoth could not be true. A cure for the Gift did not exist. But even assuming the answers could be found on Ophiuchi, that was not enough to deter the inevitable subterfuge of the opposing warlord. But Sinschal’ul’s hope lingered still, slowly growing in influence with each unsanctioned thought of a life without the voices. Was it still not a chance worth taking?

“I’ll agree on one point,” rebuttaled Scindus quietly, stepping up to the dais and joining the conversation for only the second time, “in that Sektoth means to betray us. At no point in his presentations did he ever give any indication that our services were truly needed. Our participation is but an indulgent luxury. That man did not gain his wealth and power by honoring his debts. However, should we decide to indulge his request, I’ve already worked out our means of protection.”

As if on cue, Consular Vhal stepped back to the dais to address the Astartes gathered around her. She crossed her arms behind her back, stood tall, and spoke with a wealth of pride carried in her thickly accented voice.

“With the liberation of Tachylite from the False Emperor’s oppressive chains, we have sworn our lives and services to the Scourged, in the name of the Zephyr and True Master. Overlord Khal and the Zephyrmaster assigned me to this post, and have assured me that I speak on their behalf regarding all matters. So I say without hesitation that you will have the full support of the entire regimental strength of the Changemongers.

“Lord Scindus approached me after his meeting with Warlord Sektoth. I have since been in contact with Tachylite. All of our forces are withdrawing from any engagements and returning to homeport. No matter what is decided at this meeting, the Changemongers will be ready for you immediately. I’m informed that the full strength of Tachylite will be supplied and en-route to Ophiuchi five days after the anticipated start of the campaign.”

“Five days after? What good is that? No offense, Consular, but if you and your mortals want to help, we’ll need it long before that.”

“I understand, Lord Telioch, but I was assured that this scheduled arrival worked seamlessly with the plans of Lord Scindus. Warlord Sektoth is unaware of Tachylite’s association with the Scourged, and thus unaware of our involvement in the campaign. Our arrival will be a variable that will work in your favor, and prevent any catastrophic losses of the warband.”

If not a perfect plan, it was at least an amusing one. It could work. The involvement of the Changemongers would certainly catch Sektoth by surprise, potentially disrupting any plans of betrayal. The room still seemed decided on refusing the offer from the warlord, but after the Consular’s declaration the decision seemed less resolute. And again, the warmth of hope grew within Senschal’ul’s mind. If the threat of Sektoth and his warband was removed from the situation, then surely there was nothing to lose? At worst, they raid the library and find nothing of note, settling for the planet’s traditional supplies, resources, and slaves instead. But if a cure is found in the library, and if the Gift could be stripped away from their minds… did that chance not make the campaign worth it?

+So your plan is to deceive the deceiver. I fail to see how that will work in any regard.+

“No, Khalo, that is not what my plans hope to achieve,” corrected Scindus, “and you should know better than to think that. Our goal is not to attempt any backstabs of our own against Sektoth. The sum of our machinations is nothing more than prevention. The involvement of the Changemongers, as well as other contingencies in the works, are but insurance against such deceptions. For all intents and purposes, we will be acting as willing partners.”

“Prophet… I’ve yet to hear from you. Khalo and Telioch spoke their minds. Scindus and the Consular have detailed their preventative measures should we choose to accept the offer. And I know my thoughts on the matter. But what do you think?”

What did he think? There was no easy answer to that. For so many reasons, the invasion of Ophiuchi was a terrible idea. Even with preparations to avoid and circumvent any possibilities of subterfuge, the benefits of the campaign still seemed far outweighed by the detriments. And yet, Sinschal’ul could not bring himself to say no. Logically, he should clearly agree that involvement with Sektoth is foolish and they should refuse. Yes, that was the logical response. But frustratingly, those words could not be spoken. He hesitated to speak, again and again, unsure of which voice to listen to: the voice of pragmatism, or the voice of hope? Ultimately, the apostle made his decision, closed his lone human eye, and took a heavy breath to speak:

“Brothers, I do believe it is no secret at all that among us I am the most affected by our Gift. For you, it is the constant voices in the mind, and it is so for me as well. Yet my suffering runs much, much deeper. Beneath this tainted leather strap I house the physical burden of our curse. In the ironies of our True Master, he saw it fit to take a man once the mouthpiece of the Imperial Truth and make me the instrument of lies revealed. I stare into the souls of those yet untouched and become the vessel of our Gift. I feel the torment and pain stronger than any single one of you in this room. It is both blessing and malediction, but so much more of the latter to me. And so, I say to you all, that if anyone among us deserves to speak freely on this matter, it is me.

“For millennia I have suffered. Whether that suffering is just or not is a debate for another time. I have no regrets for all the ways we have brought redemption to the sinners of mankind, both loyalist and traitor. And I, by no means, have any wish to cease our efforts until this galaxy burns with truth. But suffered I have, and suffered have all of you! And why have we suffered? Because Gallus, fool that he was, lacked the wisdom to not send his prayers echoing through the Immaterium? Or is it like the rest of this universe and our Fate was just another knot in the True Master’s web with no discernible purpose? I say that it is time that we, like Telioch, make an active effort to escape our bondage.

“I feel we have served our time, and are due the freedom from our Gift. The task presented to us is filled with portents and omens that say we should abandon it. Sektoth cannot be trusted. He will betray us, leave us to die, or is simply guiding us on a fruitless hunt. But that doesn’t matter. We have a chance, brothers! There is a chance that what is promised to us is true, and I cling to that hope now. We have so much to lose, but think of what we will gain if our minds are freed from this terrible burden! Whether or not absolution will be delivered in the libraries of Ophiuchi remains to be seen… but it is worth that chance.”

There. It was finally out there. He had spoken his piece, and gave voice to the glimmer of optimism he knew was in them all. The Djinni Eye had been relentless, tearing the soft flesh in the socket apart again and again, forcing it to heal rapidly that it might tear it apart more. Poetically, enough blood began to drain from the lacerated socket it bled into the leather strap like a string of tears. But that didn’t stop Sinschal’ul from speaking. He looked around, watching his fellow Astartes absorbing his grandiose rhetoric. His words were effective. Even Khalo, who held the Gift so beloved in his own malefic pursuits, was swayed to the cause. All that was left was the decision of the Sorcerer Lord.

“The Prophet of the False has spoken. Consular, send word to Tachylite: the Scourged are going to war at Ophiuchi.”

At that command of the Sorcerer Lord, all present in the strategium made their leave. The rest of the warband would need to be informed of their newest campaign, and subsequent preparations would begin. Rahaund’ul would return to the bridge and dictate commands over the vox network, while his brother would collect the Maalik and all other warband elites of various statures. Telioch would return to the halls of the corrupted librarium and gather the aspiring sorcerers within. Khalo would return to his Pit and consort with the daemonic to determine if the deemed it worthy to intervene. And Senschal’ul had his own duties waiting for him - the rousing and inspiring of the various squads and cults throughout the Call - but he lingered. There was one detail undiscussed from this meeting, and he needed to know it.

“Lord, one last thing… you never mentioned why Sektoth gathered us specifically for this raid…”

“Oh, yes, well that is the one flattering element of all of this nonsense,” spoke the sorcerer, curling his lips back with an ego-filled sneer, “he seeks to utilize the Djinn’s Curse.”

Scourged · March 4, 2016

IV:

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“Hey, hey… Charos! Chaaaaaaaroooooooos!”

Just ignore him. Palamur is just bored and wants attention. He does this every time. Why Charos was constantly stuck with him for every single escort mission was beyond his understanding. Why couldn’t he work with Duschel instead? Or Mal’fas? Or Halauhl’ul? No, it always had to be Palamur. Every time. And it was always for the jobs that involved standing idly for the longest time. Charos didn’t spend his entire life in the Maelstrom, beating his way through rank upon rank of combatants, to always be stuck next to an annoying braggart. Granted, had he known before joining this warband that it was filled with psychotics tainted with some Warp-curse, he never would have offered his services in the first place. But that was a different thorn in his side. Right now, he would give anything to be back in the challenge pits to earn the favor of a different warlord, if it got him away from Palamur.

“Charos, you jhutshillam fahvalas-put, answer me!”

“You know I don’t understand that hiver garbage-tongue. Why can’t you just speak in Low-Gothic like the rest of us?”

“Bah! Learn to like it, schopa, ‘cause you and I are stuck together.”

“What does that even mean: schopa?”

“Hah, you really want to know? Well, a schopa is where your ulla takes it when the hellhounds are too busy with-”

Instantly a combi-bolter was pointed at the left eye lense of Palamur’s helm, the plasmic coils already burning with a furious orange, ready to blast a ball of superheated matter straight into the reinforced ceramite of the man’s face. The irreverent young Astartes was quick to end his sentence before the final insulting thoughts were vocalized. Charos may not possess a workable knowledge of the hiver slang of Iishaal, but he learned enough listening to Palamur to know that that ulla meant mother.

“Speak another word, and I’ll make sure your what’s left of your skull is crafted into a chamber pot for the mortals. Then we’ll see whose mother consorts with Chaos spawn.”

After a forceful nudge of the bolter’s muzzle against Palamur’s head, Charos released his grip on the trigger and let the plasmic coils cool and disarm. The weapon was holstered against his hip once more, his arms at his side, and the young Maalik stood in patient wait in the transportarium once again. For once, his annoying compatriot was silent - so that’s what it sounded like! Charos would have to remember to threaten to turn his face into melted slag more often. Though, sadly, the silence was short lived, and Palamur was doubling over in amused laughter. The chains, skulls, and helmets all along the trophy racks shook as he laughed heartily, adding an odd percussive accompaniment to the throaty chuckles deeply amplified by the helm’s vox-grill.

“Oh, Charos, patta, you got me good! ‘...whose mother consorts with Chaos spawn,’ hah!” About time you found your sense of humor. Anyway, Charos, I had a question, a real question, I swear.”

“Fine, Palamur, ask me.”

“Okay. I promise it’s a good one. Why - oh why - are you and I stuck standing here all alone like two bhilio-hara piskas in this disgusting place? Shouldn’t we be off with the other Maalik, getting ready for war below? Shouldn’t we be doing, y’know, something more fun than this?”

Did he ever listen when Lord Scindus spoke?

“Just wait and see.”

Oh, that will no doubt piss him off. Which, Charos would admit, was worth it. It also helped that with a couple blink-clicks in the autosenses display all external and private vox audio were silenced. Palamur could yell and flail all he wanted to get his attention, but Charos wasn’t going to listen anymore. Not for the time being, at least. Soon enough, their guest would be arriving, and he’d have to reactivate the audio. But for now, for however blissfully long it took for the envoy to arrive, he could enjoy the quiet silence.

Palamur was right, though: the room was quite disgusting, which is no small task on a ship this corrupted. Charos had seen all kinds of Warp-taint since he grew bored with his old life and fled to the Maelstrom looking for work. Amongst the fellow Astartes he would see plenty of twisted armor and miscellaneous appendages. The human servants and cultists were ripe with taint, never once coming in the same flavor or variety. He’d seen all manner and form of building and vehicle, twisted from an original shape to meet the specific whims of one of the Dark Gods. But there was something about this place, on Deception’s Call, that just seemed to scream of corruption and mutation like no place else. Change for the sake of change, in a way.

And this transportarium was the one of the worst offenders for it on the Call. Yeah, he’d seen plenty of them in his day, but so few ever resembled the intestines of a guttural spawn-beast from a daemon world. Despite the miraculously unaltered platform for which the room was named, everything and every surface was a twisted amalgamation of flesh and fluids. The door was a mouth, like every other bloody door in the place, but with needle-point fangs in every direction. And then the eyes, tons of them, all throughout the room, all with colors and pupils from every manner of beast and xenos, all staring at him when he moved, and always glowing. And what was with the constant dripping? How could there always be so much fluid leaking everywhere? Was it saliva, or blood, or bile, or… something else? Yes, Charos agreed: this place was disgusting.

He could leave, sure. As off put as he was by this ship and its warband, he could just leave. Charos held no loyalties to these warriors. And they were no different than any other warband strolling through the Maelstrom, employing whomever they could afford in their grand battle against… whatever. It’s not like any of their causes mattered anyway. Charos gave up on any beliefs long ago, living only now for his own satisfaction and glory. But the compensation for staying with the Scourged was just too good to leave. They provided the armor - Terminator armor, and a new set at that - and the upkeep for it, just as long as he fight in their name. In the end, those kinds of benefits were worth his occupancy aboard Deception’s Call.

Finally, the waiting was over. At the mark of twenty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds since silencing Palamur, the air within the transportarium grew very cold, hoarfrost sublimating on the walls instantly. Lights and chimes activated within his display as well as on mutated panels throughout the room. With the lightning and thunder of a seasonal storm a ball of energy concussed into existence upon the central platform. As quickly as it came, it was gone, and five armored figures stood on the platform, all in royal blue and golden plate with tall, striped headdresses upon their helms. Begrudgingly, Charos turned his audio back on.

“-and before you know it, kyada, you’ll be eating the pallaitama fundus off my boot!”

“Shut it. They’re here.”

Surprisingly, Palamur did silence himself. Once the mercenary turned to see the arrival of their guests, his demeanor changed. Whether he remembered their orders or simply understood the context in the moment, the foul-mouthed Maalik adjusted his posture and switched gears completely into the intimidating sound and stature that the Hellfire Guardians were known for. Charos did the same, with both men resting hands on the handles of gun and blade, presenting their guest a quiet assurance that their intentions, while welcoming, could easily turn lethal. Yet, undeterred by the show of force from the two Terminator-bound Astartes, their guest stepped forward.

“I believe we’ve already met, assuming you’re the same men from before. I am Sefu, envoy to Sektoth. I’ve been told you’re expecting me, yes?”

Palamur, the more veteran warrior, was thus afforded the privilege of speaking first: “Yes. Welcome to Deception’s Call. Follow us.”

The two Maalik took their positions, Charos to the left and Palamur to the right, with the emissary and his retinue and began escorting them out of the teleportarium and through the massive battle barge. The guest sorcerer walked calmly between the two giant figures on either side of him, betraying no air of unease while being around them. Why was it that sorcerers always preferred to wear robes? It was a question that always tugged at Charos’ mind, doubly so after joining his current warband. Maybe he would ask Sefu, once this whole affair was over. But until then, he had more important questions to ask.

“And where are your Astropaths, Sefu? This venture will not work without them.”

“They’re already unloaded aboard your ship and awaiting… installation. I had them sent ahead of my arrival. No sense my wasting any more time aboard this… tainted vessel than needed. Having them follow me would just ensure further delays and more time spent amongst your warband. I trust we’re close to the room where you operate your weapon?”

Haughty, just like his warlord. What was it about the veterans of the Long War that filled them with such arrogance? Whether it was this sorcerer and his kind, or a plague champion oddly obsessed with his own filth, or any berzerker who could tear his mind away from murder and skulls long enough for contempt… any Legionnaire always carried an insufferable disregard for anyone who turned to Chaos after the Siege. Why bother with such condescension? One blast of plasma from Charos’ weapon would end the life of this veteran just as quickly as any other living being. All that arrogance would do him no favors then. Still, Lord Scindus made it quite clear that their guest was not be harmed. Charos would just have to endure the sorcerer’s disposition for the time being. He’d let Palamur answer him this time.

“We are close enough. But while we walk, would you indulge my companion and I with some information? He and I, we’re not as knowledgeable as the rest of the warband. We’re phollumos. We’re new recruits, you see. Not one of the original folks who got the Gift or whatever. We don’t quite have all their extensive knowledge on all things sorcerous. So we’re curious.”

Oh. Oh no. No no no. Oh great. He’s going to antagonize him. No, don’t do that. Don’t do that Palamur. Now is not the time. The last thing that’s needed is to upset Sektoth’s envoy and start a feud between the warbands. Without a doubt, this would end up as some long winded insult disguised as humor that would please no one except Palamur. Just shut up, don’t say anything, shut up! Maybe they’ll get lucky and Sefu won’t indulge him.

“I suppose.”

...of course.

“Thank you. So, you and your lord know all about the Scourged, and their little secrets. I won’t ask why. Or how. I guess we’re just that famous amongst the Chaos-bound, right? But you know about the Gift. You know a lot about it. Can’t say we’ve come across that too often.”

“Yes, Scourged one. We - and many others - know full well that you hear the lies of all men. Terrible burden. What of it?”

“Right, nahma. Terrible burden. It’s true. Well, not all of us, but that’s okay. Charos and I don’t. Plus a few more. We just stick around because they’re fun. Anyway. So you know our rumors. And you know they’re true. Knowing that, tell me, then: are the rumors true about you and your… friends back there?”

“I’m… afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s simple, nahma. I want to know if what they say about you Thousand Sons is true. If I take this axe and cleave open one of your guardians back there, will I find a body or dust?”

Actually… Charos had been wondering that himself. When you spend enough time in the domains of Chaos you hear plenty of rumors and tales that boast the glories of some and the defeats of others. The crusades of the Warmaster are sources of endless legend. There are stories of entire worlds purged of all life by disease and pestilence. So many tales tell of loyal Imperials killed or converted to the cause of one warband or another. Cities and governments have crumbled to cults of decadence. The stories are usually true, if greatly exaggerated. But with the Thousand Sons, they were so secluded and secretive, it was hard to ever know for sure. For once, Charos was glad for Palamur’s brusque nature, because he too wanted to know.

“We have more alike than you realize, Scourged one. We have our curse, too. Both of our greatest champions prayed to the aether for salvation, and in return we were both given damnation. So many of our brothers fell victim to the Rubric. I, and a few, were strong enough in mind to benefit, but the rest were not. So, yes, the rumors are true: my four brothers behind me have no bodies of which to speak. Their souls are bound to their Warp-imbued armor.”

“Bah, now that is a wicked Fate! And they only follow your orders, eh? Following around with some kind of mind control?”

“I… yes. In a manner of speaking. Without my link to their souls, they would be lost, unable to function. I am their conduit to the real world, and through my commands they act. They have the means, but I am the will. There, I believe I’ve answered your questions sufficiently, now do me the same in kind. Where is this weapon?”

Sensing the hostility in the envoy’s voice, Charos decided to intervene in the conversation before Palamur agitated him further. No more secrets would be learned from the sorcerer in this moment. They would have to give him a little more time before they could take anything else from him. It wouldn’t be long now before they would reach the Djinn’s Curse and everything would be out of their hands. Their orders were to escort the sorcerer and tell him nothing, and already they were pushing that boundary. The chamber of the Curse couldn’t come soon enough.

“It’s near. Through those doors straight ahead is where we keep the Djinn’s Curse. More than likely that’s where all of your Astropaths have ended up, assuming you did indeed bring them as promised. They’ll make for fine fuel. In fact... we’re close enough now that you can probably hear the Caretaker getting them ready.”

The two Maalik quietly laughed with each other at the shared inside joke, leaving Sefu oblivious as to what was so funny. And yes, as they all walked forward the manic shouting of Ghan Xeras could be heard clear as could be through the thick fleshmetal walls. But as they got closer, Charos noted that it did not sound like the usual giddy voice of the Revenants’ master. The naturally pleasant Xeras sounded very agitated, angry even. Even when muffled through layers of corrupted plasteel the Caretaker’s anger was obvious. Charos and Palamur shared a glance, unsure of what could make the otherwise exuberant Xeras so upset. Once the door-maw to the home of the Curse opened for the approaching group, the reason became quite clear.

“No, Lord Dhelmas, no no no! You ask too much! I’ve told you, too much! I know the Curse, yes, yes! I know what it can, and I know what it can’t! This is too much, too much! You will break us!”

This room was as sickeningly stomach-turning as the transportarium. This room, more than any within Deception’s Call, was tainted beyond all recognition of anything manmade. The floor and walls writhed into and around each other, dissolving any discernible boundary between them. Light fixtures had become bloodshot and yellow eyes that watched everything as their neon pupils illuminated the room.

The poor Astropaths unfortunate enough to be selected for this day’s offering were already fused to the living floor, their bodies and flesh merged and inseparable already from the ship. A steady wailing with voices that no longer sound human echoed impossibly off of the pulsing walls. And occupying nearly a full half of the empty space opposite the door-maw was the collection of bound Astropaths, horrified by what their eyes and minds were forced to witness. Rahaund’ul Dhelmas was standing with them, arguing with Ghan Xeras. He briefly looked toward the doorway at the Maalik and Thousand Sons walking through, then focused on the Caretaker once again.

“And I’m telling you, Xeras, that this is how it is. Lord Sektoth needs the Curse to spread across the planet, and we can’t do that with our usual supply. You will affix them however it is you do it and you will give us the power to meet Lord Sektoth’s demands. He gave us our orders, and we will obey.”

Sefu and his guardian Rubricae had stepped into the chamber now, letting the door-maw close. One of the floor-tongues was exploring the armor plates of a Rubricae, leaving a slick saliva residue where it trailed, but the automaton paid it no mind. Charos and Palamur took position behind the envoys, standing between them and the door-maw. According to Lord Scindus, they were on strict orders to not let Sefu leave the chamber until after the Curse had passed. Not that he would, probably. The order seemed strangely unnecessary.

What was stranger was what the Sorcerer Lord was saying. Or, rather, how he was saying it. Or something. “Lord Sektoth needs…” and “Lord Sektoth demands... “ and “we will obey.” That was unusual. It wasn’t that long ago that Lord Dhelmas was chastising Sefu to his master’s face, and now he was acting like one of the False Whisper’s thralls. Charos tried to look at Palamur and see if he noticed too, but the brash Maalik was intently focused on their guest.

“So… this is the Djinn’s Curse. It’s… certainly original. I fail to see why Lord Sektoth is so enamored with it. Tell me, how does it work?”

“You! Who are you! Why is he here? Why is he in my chamber?! No, there’s already too many! Too many! Get the fancy-hat out of my Curse! Make him take the bodies with him. Too many!”

“Xeras, calm down, or so help me I’ll tell the Maalik to pin you down and strap you into the machine in place of one of the fodder. This is Sefu. A guest, from Lord Sektoth’s warband. I will deal with him, and you will work on putting the Astropaths into place.”

“But-”

“Just do it, Xeras!”

The manic sorcerer was finally silenced. His obedience to Lord Dhelmas ran deeper than any else in the Scourged. For whatever reason, he feared him above all else. All it takes is a forceful tone and Ghan Xeras, caretaker of the Curse, will back down and acquiesce. The very fact that he had resisted the Sorcerer Lord so vehemently for so long tugged at curious threads of concern in Charos’ mind. What did he mean that it’s too much?

“My apologies, Sefu. Forgive Xeras. He is just overly concerned with the wellbeing of the Djinn’s Curse. We have come to calling him Caretaker for a good reason.”

“Yes, I saw. Now, Lord Dhelmas, if you’d please explain what all is happening here?”

“Very well. Some time ago, Xeras and a few others found a way to weaponize the very Gift that haunts us. The key is the Astropaths. Their minds are already so attuned to psychic influence that they provide a wealth of energy and potential. They absorb psychic energy and repay it in spades. Xeras, as you can see, is placing the subjects all throughout the chamber. They then fuse with the ship, and allow Deception’s Call to become one massive psychic capacitor. Once they are all in place and properly fused, Xeras will step upon the dais, connect himself to the web of Astropaths, and feed them the Gift. The psychic backlash it creates has a devastating effect on anyone it touches.”

“Intriguing. And what effect is that?”

“Some simply cannot bear the power and have their minds and souls explode, often in a very literal way. Most endure the pain but lose their sanity. We sit back and watch as an entire city destroy itself in its own madness, the lies in their heads louder than their screams of death. After which there are always some that survive, out of cowardice or pure mental resolve, and that’s when we make our presence known and begin our raid proper.”

The pride in his Lord’s voice was noticeable to Charos, as well as the others. Though most within the warband held an obvious distaste for the use of the Curse - Charos included - Lord Dhelmas held it as a point of pride. Perhaps it was only natural, seeing as how he led the warband that birthed such a potent weapon. Maybe it was because he held a powerful bargaining chip when dealing with conflicting and rival warlords. Or maybe he truly did admire the elegance of the weapon, how it turned the collective weakness of the Scourged into strength. Charos could admit that such a reversal did have a nice, poetic twist to it. But that did not make the usage or effects of it any more tolerable to listen to.

“That’s all well and good, Lord Dhelmas. But you have Astropaths all of your own. Why was it necessary for Lord Sektoth to expend his entire collection? And, in so doing, cripple any form of communication amidst or between the fleets? Ever since our delivery of the Astropaths our fleet has been blind to the activities of yours. You and all of your properly attuned warriors have also refused to allow us a telepathic link, thus making matters worse.”

“Yes, I’d imagine all of those factors have made it quite difficult to oversee our every action. It would make it impossible to know our every movement and thus leaves him in the dark with our operations. That’s no doubt why Lord Sektoth sent you here in person, is it not?”

That silenced the petulant envoy very quickly. It was a very baited question, and the Thousand Son envoy needed to tread very carefully, if he did indeed have anything to hide as the Sorcerer Lord’s inflections implicated.

“You and your master can look down your noses at us all you want, Sefu. It’s no surprise how you and your kind view me and mine as inferiors, like little know-nothing children. By all means, continue to do so, at your own risk. I am not the weak and naive warlord Sektoth believes me to be. So do not pretend for an instant that your presence on my ship, your demands to be present at the preparation and firing of our prized weapon, and your incessant questions are anything but a failing attempt at covert reconnaissance.”

Oh now that’s interesting. There. Right there. Charos could see it now. Lord Dhelmas changed his tone, and the charade was over. Was Sektoth really trying to spy on them all, or manipulate them from afar? It didn’t seem unlikely. Having spent some time in the warlord’s presence, Charos wouldn’t be shocked if it was truth. No wonder the lord was playing the fool in this little gambit.

And there, coming from Sefu: a new set of reactions. Nervousness. Apprehension. Maybe even fear. Standing between two armed escorts in full Terminator plate could not scare Sefu. Walking deeper into the further and further corrupted battle barge did not impress. Standing in the heart of the Curse did nothing to faze him. But there, in that moment, hearing how his secret machinations were no secret at all? That is when Sefu was finally off his guard.

“What are you insinuating, Dhelmas?”

Lightning fast, a crimson gauntlet - so dark it was nearly black - struck out and hauled the unexpecting sorcerer up by his robe, off his feet, and raised him above the fleshmetal floor. Four ornate boltguns were simultaneously raised and trained on the Sorcerer Lord, the eyes of the Rubricae aiming them glowing a furious red. They did not fire, though. Sefu had not ordered that yet, it seems. And he would not do so: Lord Dhelmas was making sure to keep the conspirator’s body between himself and the automaton gunline. Palamur quickly cracked a crass joke over the private vox, and Charos agreed while they shared a laugh; this was definitely going to be good.

“That is Lord Dhelmas, you insignificant spitlick. Arrogance needs to be earned, and from what I can tell, you haven’t earned an ounce of it when left to stand outside of your master’s shadow. Your presence in the Warp is so minimal one of my mortal slaves would make a mockery of your so-called power. Your adherence to your lineage has made you weak, making you forget that might must be earned. Your master is no different. I don’t know what double-cross Sektoth is planning, or how he is masking it from our detection, but I will find out. But more than that, I will not tolerate a conspirator on my ship, Sefu. I’m ending your espionage before it begins. And without your master here to save you, I doubt there is a damned thing you can do to stop me.”

Yes, definitely fear. The Thousand Son was no longer able to make any efforts to hide it. His hands first struggled to loosen Dhelmas’ grip, but it was to no avail. Rapidly thereafter he was reaching for his weapons, but Charos and Palamur were quick to grab the man’s limbs and hold him still. He was held aloft by splayed limbs, flailing helplessly in the iron grip of the Maalik. And still he was held between the Rubricae and his captors, leaving their boltguns an impotent threat in the room, heading no second thoughts.

“It is ready, Lord Dhelmas, but I still don’t-”

“Good. Start it Xeras, now,” abruptly interrupted the Sorcerer Lord. He was in rare form in the moment, high on his confidence and invigorated with the delicious lust only revenge can provide. “You wanted to know why I needed all your Astropaths? The Djinn’s Curse is designed to affect a single city, maybe a small region, at the most. But Sektoth wanted all of Ophiuchi suffering the Curse. Power has to come with a sacrifice, and so he we are. He wanted a planetwide strike, and gave me the Astropaths to accomplish it.”

The wailing of the entombed Astropaths was growing louder. The various eyes dotting the walls of the room were opening wide, glowing with the same energies affecting the poor psychic souls stuck to the floor. Charos looked back and forth between his captive and Xeras on the dais. The Caretaker had himself plugged into the room, and the energies were beginning to cascade throughout all of the prisoners. Waves of psychic energy were already crashing, new crests forming before the previous could dissipate, creating an exponential resonance. This could not be good. He’d never actually seen the Curse up close before, but Charos could tell this wasn’t good.

“We’ve never attempted a Curse of this size before. But Lord Sektoth demands it, and so it shall be. We wouldn’t want to upset Lord Sektoth, would we? Prepare yourself, Sefu - you’re going to feel the wrath of the Djinn like none other before you.”

Sefu was screaming nearly as loud as the Astropaths now. And so was Palamur. And so was Charos. While the Rubricae stood there unphased, inadvertently mocking them all, the three Astartes with untouched minds fell to their knees as the psychic onslaught of the Curse continued to amplify, ripping through their minds. Dhelmas walked away, his mind already shielded from the Gift. But what about Charos, and Palamur? Did the lord not care that is own men were as unprotected as their captive? The two Maalik were untouched by the Gift, and always had been. They have no defenses for this. Is this why Lord Scindus demanded they stay in the chamber at all times? What had Charos done to deserve this? He didn’t want the Gift! Why, why, why?! No, he had to get out of here! He had to escape the chamber, get out before… before…

And that’s when the thoughts in Charos’ mind were no longer his own. His inner monologue may have still existed, but the weight of the Curse crushed it beyond recognition beneath the force of a galaxy’s sum total of lies, amplified astronomically. On and on the cascading ripples spread, filling the chamber and bombarding the tortured souls inside, then pouring through Deception’s Call and ravaging every deck and chamber contained within. The energies filled the ship, bouncing through the fleshmetal structures, the Warp-tainted hull amplifying the psychic resonance further still. More and more, the Call collected the energies, consolidated them, becoming one massive psychic capacitor.

Something wasn’t right. This was too much. Rahaund’ul looked to Xeras, seeing his every orifice spewing pure black light, his fingers clawing at the apparatus connecting him to the dais that would not release him. The lord thought to free him, but knew interrupting the Djinn’s Curse could be more catastrophic to them all then letting it run its course. Sefu and the two Maalik were silent heaps of flesh and ceramite on the floor, spasming with seizure; whether or not they would survive was a question for later. On and on the waves continued to build, so thick that the Sorcerer Lord’s vision was occluded by their strain on realspace.

Finally, in an eruption of pain and thought, the collected Astropaths cried out in their final bellow, their bodies no longer alive yet still living, their minds nothing but a gateway for the Gift. The culminating expulsion of psychic energy was catastrophic. For a moment, all those aboard Deception’s Call were forced to experience reality in all perceivable dimensions, which then subsequently lost all meaning. Every perceptible sense possessed by humans and Astartes alike was rendered null and void as their minds were forced into a momentary transcendence of existence. And as quickly as it came, it passed, leaving nearly all those aboard the battle barge limp on the decking.

Miraculously, the ship held together amidst the unmeasurable tidal force of the psychic blast. Keeping it channeled through the prow, the Djinn’s Curse propelled directly ahead in a massive beam, reaching Ophiuchi and wrapping it in a cocoon of psychic turbulence. Somehow, the Sorcerer Lord had the strength to stay conscious through the blast, letting him take stock of the damage. Looking to his left, he saw Xeras on his knees, sitting limp, but thankfully still breathing. If only the rest of the ship could be so lucky.

Even while isolated in this small chamber, he knew the Call was dead in the void. The ambient light of the eye-lamps was gone. No doubt the generators had all failed, though thankfully had not exploded. The miniscule vibrations and sounds of normal operations were absent in his heightened senses. That meant the various life support systems and relays throughout the ship had failed. A blinding collection of warning runs flashing in the HUD within the sealed environment of Rahaund’ul’s armor told him that, and much more. The mortals would be dead within the hour if they could not locate a cache of respirators. That, of course, was assuming they weren’t all dead already from the sheer force of the Curse. No doubt much of the warband was suffering as well.

But it worked. In just days, or even hours, Ophiuchi would be another victim of the Scourged.

Teetengee · March 4, 2016

Horoscopes

Hidden Content

The vast menace of Fragment slipped into the frame of the vidscreen as the Bitter Hope translated out of True-Warp, fading tendrils of the transition sliding wetly from its hull. It was the first time Calliah had been given permission to see it, having been but a little girl when last Escharon had assembled his forces here. It was a sight she would never forget.

Calliah remembered that some scholars believed that Fragment was born of a similar process as those that birthed space hulks. She simultaneously understood why they thought such a thing and that such a system could never have birthed the fell presence she saw before her. Hundreds if not thousands of masses floated amongst eddies of warpfire and void throughout the stratified layers of the “planet.” They ranged in size from as small as a podium to behemoths larger than a continent in all the different materials one could, and could not, find throughout the galaxy. The intricate dance of the swirling sections paid little heed to the laws of reality, sections phasing through each other as often as they twirled to avoid colliding.

Upon each moving section was a pillar of black so dark an observer would be forgiven for believing them to just be holes cut out of reality. Each of these pointed straight down towards the core of Fragment. Calliah stared through a fleeting gap in its shifting armour straight into the monster’s core; Insane Janus it was called, and it stared straight back. With a shout, of pain Calliah pulled her eyes from the hungry burning malevolence and flicked off the screen.

***

Calliah stood behind King Escharon in the council room as began to make preparations, her mind wandering along the path that had lead her there.

“Ptolm, take your Nightseers through Janus first. You will be our eyes and ears. Map the system and system defenses and report all you find to Myself and Ty Ranan. Once you have finished that, move on to reconnaissance on the planets beyond the second to let us know what resources and obstacles they represent. Do not engage with any enemies that you do not absolutely need to unless you can guarantee they will raise no alarms. If you come across enemy Astartes jam their signals and pick off isolated groups. I want you to run false flag operations once we hit the second planet, or the first if the Astartes do respond quickly.”

Ptolm stood hooded and cloaked at nine feet tall, a bright yellow beak jutting out from a star filled robe to respond “Yes your grace, as it was foretold.”

“Ty Ranan, let the Centaurii know they will follow the Nightseers through Janus. They are responsible for scouting out the planetary defenses of the closest two planets to the rift. Have them copy their reports on the first planet to the Dread Sky so that Ambulon and his Shamblers can make planetfall as quickly as possible. I want his festering boots to reach their hospitals as soon as possible. Once you finish the preliminaries, send half your men back to the first planet to bolster the Shamblers. The rest should separate amongst the other captains and support Mab’s blood rain operations.”

“My blade thirsts to do your bidding, King of Scars,” said the white armoured Ranan, resplendent in furs and filled with mirth.

“Balgo, you will take your Thrice Cursed to consolidate the gains on the first two planets. I have assigned three companies of auxiliaries to you for that purpose. Go organize them as you see fit.”

“Yes, Captain, right away.”

“Calliah, are the Iron Hounds and Black Wrath legios fit for service.”

Calliah spoke without hesitation as cogitators snapped her out of reverie, “The Iron Hounds are. The Black Wrath is at under strength after Incendus Filius malfunctioned and damaged his three neighboring warhounds and one reaver. We haven’t had time yet to repair the damage or fully diagnose the failure.”

“Very well, once we take the first two planets, I will make planetfall alongside the titan Legio and with two companies of the Tide into the closest major center. The remaining Captains are to coordinate with me to determine how best to take pressure off of my assault. Half the Spoils from each planet you take are to go to your warband alone.”

“Understood!” echoed out amongst the remaining lords.

“Now to your stations; I will relay more fine timing information once I consult the Prognosticum.”

***

Calliah stood aboard the bridge adjusting the holomap of Fragment. Servitors and ur-cogitators swirled around her and the attending psykers, a net of information flowing into her via dozens of her dataspikes.

“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.”

“Very well, send your updated estimates to the astropaths.”

***

Calliah looked out once more on the Janus, now shielded by a specially warded observation deck.

Escharon spoke, more to himself than his attendants, “Six hundred and twenty six years can never come soon enough.”

At that moment the final continents of Fragment came into alignment. A path opened directly into the Insanity Janus and a psionic scream issued forth from whatever hellspawn powers that infernal portal. A seam appeared in the Janus, splitting from one edge to another, like an eye slowly opening. Through it could be seen nothing, as the black of its center brooked no inspection. Something ancient and alien was at work, and all who looked upon it felt a primal urge to run.

“Luther, give the order. Send through the Tide to crash once more upon the coasts of humanity.”

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

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