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

[Carrack]

Glory, Fidelity, Honor

The harvest was ready. Not a mundane harvest of crops sowed into a ploughed field of soil, but a harvest of glory, ready to be collected from a blood drenched battlefield. Faraqua the Anti-Paladin was ready to reap the glory.

Faraqua marched out into the field shining brilliantly in the morning light. A clarion call sounded his arrival, a joyous sound of deliverance for his current employers, but a death knell to his foes. Let it not be said that fair warning was not given. Faraqua took aim as he strode across the floor of the ravine and fired his opening salvo into a platoon of chimera that had broken through the melee in the center to cut off his allies' salient. His allies of today, they were not his allies of yesteryear, and likely would not be his allies in years hence, but for now, they had paid for his allegiance, and he would honor the contract to the letter, even though they very well may betray him before the terms were expired. In that way, Faraqua was the same as he alway had been, faithful, and his masters likewise unchanging in their fidelity, whether they were the armies of the Imperium, as in decades past, or the petty warlords of the Black Maw Warband today.

The lead chimera, the one with the extra antennas indicating a command track, blew apart as Faraqua’s first cannon shell struck its glacis plate center mass, the strongest point on the infantry vehicle. It wasn't nearly strong enough, the chimera ripped apart down the middle, like a peeled na fruit. The second round struck between the two chimeras on the left wing, blowing the center most chimera onto its left track, and rocking the far left one to the side, but not enough to tip it over. A trickle of guardsmen poured out of the damaged and destroyed chimeras in a disorganized daze. The two chimera on the right wing traversed their tracks hard, spraying mud and jerking to a halt perpendicular to Faraqua, then dismounted their own infantry out the far side, protected by the cover of their vehicles. Faraqua fired again with his cannon as he marched forward to battle.

This was not the fight he desired, indeed, up until now, he had resisted the pleas of his current employer, the petty warlord Ramone the Degenerate, to enter the fray. Let the infantry fight the infantry, there was no honor in killing peasants, and his terms of service said as much. However, as he sipped an aged amasec from the throne of his knight, he saw the tide of battle turn to favor the Imperials. Faraqua held no special hatred for the Imperials, unlike the mortal fighters of the Black Maw who he had sworn oaths to, but he would not simply leave them to his fate, as he himself had been decades ago. His honor demanded his action.

It had been over 50 years ago, when Faraqua had been abandoned on the battlefield, on the world of Poe, in the Siliquastrum Subsector. In fact, he had been fighting the Astartes masters of the very Black Maw fighters he was currently employed with. He bore them no malice, they had been his sworn enemy, he expected no less. His allies at the time, the Imperial Guard forces of the Cardinal Weaver crusade, had been the ones to dishonorably abandon him. They had left him to hold the Trihorn Pass by himself, while they were to dig in. But instead of digging in, they fled before the enemy was even sighted. Alone Faraqua held the middle saddle, or horn, of the Trihorn Pass, until he was brought down by the legionaries of the Black Maw. Three days later, his erstwhile guard allies found their forgotten courage, and counter attacked through the pass, driving the Black Maw back to their remaining port. In shame, they passed by Faraqua as if he were not there, while he lay dying in his broken knight, only rendering aid after another three days had passed. To cover their shame, they had placed the blame for the pass’s temporary fall on Fuqua’s shoulders, while he was still unconscious, and unable to protest. He had been sent back to House Bavari, to return to his lords under a cloud of false dishonor.

Faraqua's cannon blasted apart the remaining chimera on the right, popping the turret off of the center most track like the cork off a shaken amasec, and penetrating into the far right vehicle's fuel and multilaser capacitor, turning the armored vehicle into exploding fragments that cut into the squads of infantry setting up behind them. Faraqua added to the mayhem with bursts of stubber fire into the wings of the infantry, walking the rounds towards the center simultaneously from both flanks, herding the infantry into the middle of the ravine, and back towards the swirling melee. Still striding forward with dust raising steps, he sent another pair of rounds from his cannon into the clumping infantry. He lumbered into a trot, eating up the ground with his knight’s giant strides as he charged towards the guardsmen. He was about to return to honorable combat once more. It was where he belonged.

When he had returned to the court of House Bavari after the disastrous battle of Trihorn Pass, he had been shown every dishonor the court could heap on his undeserving shoulders. They had shorn his hair, rent his clothes, and spat in his face. They had claimed his stained honor had tarnished the name of House Bavari with the worthies of the crusade command. They had tried to unknight him. Yet his knight would bond with no other. Many had tried, but it was as if the knight armor knew the truth of Faraqua's character, when his brothers, cousins, uncles, and even his father believed the lies of cowards.

The guardsmen were still unsettled from the stressed dismounting of their ruined chimera, but still managed to put out some defensive fires, little of it had any teeth, and less had any accuracy. Faraqua flashed his knight’s ion shield as fast as he could blink his eye through his connection with the throne mechanicum, and deflected the lone melta shot that was on target. His cannon shots, along with more burst of steel cored stubber rounds, wasted through the infantry. The few survivors turned about to run, but there was no safe harbor in the mass of bayonets, chainswords, and pistol fire in the center of the ravine. As he closed, Faraqua brought his reaper chainsword out to an open low guard, ready to cut through the chaff before him. It was hardly an honor duel, yet there was honor in breaking through the enveloping guardsmen, and winning the day.

Honor was all that mattered for House Bavari, in truth, it was all that mattered for their most despised scion, Faraqua as well. For the court of House Bavari, the only way they could see to remove the false stain on their honor, was to send Faraqua out on a redemptive quest. He was sent back to the turmoil of the Siliquastrum Subsector, in shambles following the recent destruction of its Seat, the Red Hive of Siliquastrum itself. Faraqua was not expected to survive.

The guardsmen didn't survive his charge. He leaned out wide like a cavalryman would lean out of his saddle, and swept his chainsword like a saber, at waist height, through the demoralized infantry. He followed the brutal bisecting sweep with kicks that hurled men into the melee by twos and threes. He didn't stop when he reached the hand to hand fighting in the middle of the ravine.

He hadn't stopped his quest when he reached the battlefields of the falling Siliquastrum Subsector. However, Faraqua's quest was not the quest of House Bavari. He was not going to die for a lie, and turned from the suicidal path his House had laid for him. At first he took employ with the beleaguered Imperial Governors of the subsector, fighting in their lost causes to save their worlds not only from the Black Maw, but from the pirates and mercenaries who were capitalizing on the unstable region. Time and time again, he was betrayed by the Imperial authorities that still clung to their falling worlds. His honorable service would go unrewarded and unpaid. It was no great moment when he switched sides. He didn't feel the loss of communion with his fellow man, he didn't feel his soul slipping into damnation. In fact, he felt more secure in his negotiations with the Arch-Enemy, they at least had the resources to pay him, and although he was inevitably betrayed by the Arch-Enemy as well, the Arch-Enemy didn't lie about their honor, they didn't know how to. They merely used Faraqua until he was no longer useful. They would pay him until he was no longer needed. There was truth to the might-makes-right ethos of the Arch-Enemy, a truth even told from lying lips.

Faraqua rushed the melee, indiscriminately killing all in his path, friend and foe. In spite of his blind charge, the Black Maw fighters rallied to Faraqua, and started to form up on his position. The guardsmen merely fled, fouling the shots from their back lines, and throwing their whole army into disarray. Faraqua led the rallied fighters into the lines and together they slaughtered the guardsmen who could not make it out of the ravine. The glory of the day belonged to Faraqua, and while he found no honor in slaughtering guardsmen, there was honor in living up to one's word, and honor in saving one's allies.

[Scourged]

Alas, no entry from me this week. A shame, too, as I've been waiting for this topic, heh. I'll just come up with something out-of-competition when I get back.

I'm off to Chicago for a week. Yes, that's right: I'm off to spend some time in a city known historically for being one of the most corrupt, conniving, backstabbing, and deceptive homes of political intrigue and scandal. Plus it's home to an ultimate sense of Hope that never pays off, ending in twisted disappointment: the Cubs. It's a dream come true for any loyal Tzeentchian aspirant.

[BitsHammer]

In the end, despite the length, I have to cast my vote to Scourged. I was held in rapt attention reading that, largely thanks to the rather varied characters and their personalities. Mind-rats was a nice touch too.

[Kierdale]

The Red Knight

Hidden Content

The planet Tsusny Delkhiin was colonized by the Imperium in the wake of its pacification by the V legion astartes during the Great Crusade. Little is said of the tribes which the Khan found upon the rugged, mountainous continents of the world which became Tsusny Delkhiin except that they had been a hardy people, well adapted to the harshness of their homeworld, with hearts as hard as the great peaks in whose shadows they dwelt. It is rumoured that the Scars found the natives (for natives shall we call them according to the level of development they had regressed to, evidently having colonized the planet back during Man’s great expansion) kindred spirits, reminiscent of the peoples of their own homeworld of Chogoris. The compliance of the planet appeared to be a mere familiarity, until the darker rituals at the core of the tribes’ culture became apparent. Though an honourable people they were also, either as a product of the hard life of their world or - as some of the stormseers attested - via the Warp’s corrupting influence, blood thirsty and vindictive when crossed. The merest slight gave birth to bloodfeuds and entire families were put to the axe or forced into slavery. It was the scrawling in the blood of the slain, the sigils which were painted upon those who exacted vengeance, which raised the ire of the V legion and saw the Khan unleash his forces upon the tribes with a heavy heart.

In the wake of conquest came colonists from more civilized worlds nearer Terra, for while Tsusny Delkhiin (as the Vth had named it) was grim it was also rich in minerals within its vast mountain ranges. These builders, bureaucrats and engineers -but for the miners- were soft in the eyes of the Khan’s warriors, constructing habitations under great domes, sealing out the elements, the wind and the sky. They sought to tame the wild planet and the Khan took his men from Tsusny Delkhiin gladly, eager to leave before he saw the death of a world so familiar.

The machines of the mechanicum and the colonist miners dug deep, deep into the ruddy iron-rich peaks and stole from them their treasures. And within the depths and the wildest reaches of Tsusny Delkhiin’s countryside, where the tribes had not roamed, they found great beasts. Vast wyrms, eyeless and pale yet fearsomely strong dwelt in the deepest chasms and caves. It was evident that these monstrosities are what had kept the planet’s earlier populace from taking shelter with the magnificent, labyrinthine caves, forcing them to build their villages in the valleys and flood plains, and which had kept them from advancing: kept them from learning the secrets of iron and steel.

It was the discovery of the beasts which brought men of honour to Tsusny Delkhiin, the first since the Khan’s astartes had departed years before. Knights. The Argent Shield household first deployed a number of its knights and, as the numbers of wyrms existent on Tsusny Delkhiin became realized more sought posts there, seeking glory.

 

It was not glory, nor duty, which brought sir Tuomas Moir, paladin of the Argent Shield, to Tsusny Delkhiin. There was, in part, a growing disgust with the decadence of the knight who had sired him. An aged warrior who now bathed in the glories of his past while his mount gathered dust and his girth expanded. But that was eclipsed with vengeance: for his younger brother, Gire had been slain by a great wyrm and when word had reached the Shield chapterhouse on their homeworld Toumas had immediately sworn an oath of vengeance and had his sacristans prepare his knight, sparing not a word for that wasteful old knight whose name he grudgingly bore like a yoke of gold which tarnished irreparably with every passing year.

The forges of Tsusny Delkhiin (which soon became renamed Ferrumont by the colonists, the tongue of the V legion being unfamiliar and difficult for them) spat a dark pall into the skies and dyed the land and rivers ochre. So too discoloured became the brilliant white of the Argent knights, with the ruddy regolith nigh impossible to remove completely. Yet this bothered not the knights for there was much sport to be had on Ferrumont: the wyrms and other beasts primarily, which became a source of trophies knights sought to outdo each other via. These were first displayed upon the walls of the small chapter houses which sprung up in Ferrumont settlements housing knights, but as the knights were forced to become nomadic, chasing down the last of the beasts as the years wore on, they displayed their trophies upon their knights: great tusks were strapped along cannon barrels, armoured carapaces became trimmed with wyrm fangs. Some even replaced the teeth of their great reaper chainswords with the chemically treated teeth of creatures they had hunted down and skulls adorned cannon muzzles. Soon they became as adorned with trophies and amulets as the natives of old had been.

And the natives were not entirely gone, for whilst the Vth legion had believed their work done, the last of the Tsusny Delkhiini incinerated or ridden down and put to the blade, some had managed to escape the pogroms. The colonists later found these remnants and while there were some who looked down upon them as barbarians, linking them to the artifacts colonists found scattered across the planet’s plains and made sport of them, when their discovery came to be known by the missionaries and preachers who had accompanied the colonists they took it upon themselves to convert these barbarians. To show them the Emperor’s light. To save their souls.

And in doing so likely they damned Ferrumont.

 

The surviving tribespeople overtly embraced enlightenment and the bleeding heart colonists, and spread their own thick blood amongst the colonists they found themselves living with. And within a generation, as they had adopted the ways of the Imperial cult, these insidious survivors had spread their old ways, subtly altering rites and prayers, etching the mark of the Lord of Blood into the back of the Aquilas they wore about their necks. Much celebration came with the naming of a half-breed as deacon of the Imperial Cult, proof that the barbarian could be converted to the Emperor’s Light.

 

Competition betwixt the fractured knights of the Argent Shield gave way to jousting over hunting grounds, which in turn devolved into rivalry, blood duels and soon open warfare. Knights became the protectors of settlements. Enclaves overseeing mines. And the mechanicus cared little for the bickering of their ants, so long as the ore continued to flow.

In the knights the natives and their bastard descendants saw the embodiment of their gods. Towering warmongers like the neverborn their ancestors had conjured into being in years gone by. They became totems of worship, usurping a frail man upon a garish throne on a far off world none had ever seen. And Toumas Moir was the greatest of these knights. A reaper of beasts and killer of rival knights, the huge metal heads of his finest kills hanging by rune-inscribed chains from the carapace of his knight, Intrepid Strider. Long ago he had avenged Gire but the thrill of the hunt and the growing rivalry between the knights of the Argent Shield had aroused not only his sense of honour and his thirst for adventure, but also that of all those who had ridden Intrepid before him, the spirits of his ancestors imprinted upon the knight’s interface. These knights of old came to speak to Tuomas in the quiet, lonesome moments when he sallied forth from his protectorate enclave to hunt beasts or stalk rivals. They spoke of jousts of old on the house’s founding world, of the great beasts the knights were built to combat in ages past and how Tuomas’ bringing Intrepid to Ferrumont had been akin to reliving those old hunts, and they whispered of those who had hunted the lands he now strode over in the days before the weak men of the Imperium had come. They told tales of the bloodrites of the tribes, how they had sacrificed their fairest to appease the great wyrms. The spirits spat as they cursed the weakness of the tribes, the low-born bastards, descendants of once fine braves who had served the Skull Lord in centuries past. They praised Tuomas’ mastery of the beasts and his prowess in slaying not only the beasts but also his rivals. They heaped praise upon him, his honour, and urged him on to greater bloodshed.

In time Intrepid Strider and Tuomas Moir became recognized as the finest warrior of Ferrumont and there were none who would joust with him, for all knew it to be folly. None could defeat such a masterful warrior, and all knew of his wrath. No fallen foe had been spared in over a decade, all had been blasted and trampled for failing to satisfy his hunger for mortal combat.

He cast off the name Moir, declaring that he had surpassed the deeds of his father and became merely the Red Knight, vowing never to let his blade go idle, to always whet it upon the bones of foes.

When insults failed to arouse rival knights he ambushed a convoy of cargo haulers carrying ore across the silt flats from mountain mines to the Elias enclave; a settlement protected by two knights once his kinsmen of the Argent Shield. Like him, a change had come over the other knights posted to the planet. None had answered the recall from their household and all had turned barbaric, either willingly or from necessity. But none to such extent as the Red Knight.

He all but destroyed the convoy. Wasting no cannon rounds on the miners who were as filth to him, as ants, he ground them into the dust, their blood pumping into the red earth. Feeding the evil which had dwelt there for millennia, kindled by the old tribes. Only a handful was allowed to live. To scurry back to their enclave and its protectors.

The Elias knights, brothers Gerard and Sewal, could not stand the insult to their honour (and the cries for vengeance from those of their enclave, though in truth they could have given in to the whispers of their own knights’ spirits and ruled their enclave with a bloody fist as the Red Knight had come to do, yet a last sliver of chivalry stayed their arms) and so marched out. Little is known of what happened to the Elias twins, but their knights fell and by dawn their enclave was aflame. Guncams and the jibbered, half-mad accounts of survivors indicated that a great crimson knight tore the twin paladins apart, its superstructure seeming to crawl with unnatural flesh, horns and fire-filled eyes adorning its surface before devastating the city they had sworn to protect.

 

 

It was to this world held in the sway of a daemonic king amongst knights, that a renegade warband was drawn. Its fleet, comprising vessels both once-loyalist Astarte and also turncoat Guard, spread out to show its strength as it closed upon the planet. The gigantic Mechanicus barges in orbit hurried to recall their shuttles and their cargo before lighting their engines and redlining toward jump points. Rats deserting a sinking ship. Perhaps had the battleships of the priests of Mars stayed and fought alongside Ferrumont’s defence forces they might have stood the slimmest of chances of victory, but the changes which had come over the populace over the years had sat ill with the overseer Magos and only the boon of ore and his greed for it had allowed him to forgive the knights and their thralls their madness. But he was not willing to set his forces and his ships in their defence. There were countless worlds in the galaxy to exploit, and so he bid Ferrumont a swift farewell.

 

In his mind, Sophusar - former chapter master of the Stygian Guard and now lord of the Psychopomps - could smell the reek of blood wafting off the planet even as he beheld its hololithic image before him. He addressed but did not turn to the daemon behind him, the tempter’s musk thick in the air, fine chains tinkling as the beast moved closer, to stand at his shoulder.

“The one I seek...she is not here,” the fallen Astarte said, his eyes focused on the projected globe before him. Though not as formidable in the dark arts as the naga sorcerer Holusiax, Sophusar had considerable power, and more importantly a connection of sorts with his nemesis, born of countless years of battles both directly and by proxy. “You will tell me why you have brought us hither.”

The Keeper of Secrets, Ki’magur’eh, made no gestures of apology or supplication but sighed as if about to address an impatient child. It spoke with a voice far too soft and cultured for the bestial visage the words came out of.

“For two reasons, my lord. Firstly, we are here to settle an old score...”

Aye, an old score indeed. One which had seen the Stygian Guard become the prize in a game betwixt two of the Infernal Powers. Khorne had challenged the dark prince of Chaos. Which would succeed in corrupting an entire chapter of the Master of Mankind’s angels of death. Slaanesh had accepted provided that she could choose the warriors to fall, and Khorne had accepted in turn provided he could choose the stage upon which their game would play out. The former chose the ascetic Stygian Guard and the latter had grinned and chosen Cyprius III: a planet of cults swooning in worship of the dark prince. And so the Stygians had been torn betwixt the gods; the elite of their first chapter turned to butchers while the greater part were in time forced to adopt the ways of the foes they faced and became the Psychopomps: pawns of Slaanesh, at the expense of all the dark prince had started on that planet. A bauble had been lost irreplaceably, and Ki’magur’eh had been sent to take an eye for an eye, a planet for a planet.

Then of course, of more interest to lord Sophusar of the Psychopomps, there was the second reason.

 

Chaos was, by its very nature, divisive. The powers of Chaos fed on a great many emotions but one of their most choice viands was ambition. An ambitious individual would find fellow renegades flocking to their banner. Some in awe, some sycophants eager to share in their glory and rewards, some to learn, and indeed a good few seeking to usurp that individual’s power when the time was right. Such was the way with the Psychopomps: the cult of personality surrounding its commanders, and lord Sophusar himself in particular, ensured that while the various cults which comprised the warband saw each other as rivals, a measure of peace and cooperation was maintained so long as the warband reaved. So long as it fought. So long as it exceeded each excess.

But on Ferrumont stagnation had set in. Tuomas Moir, the Red Knight, had conquered all. His once-rivals kowtowed subserviently. Fearfully. And he despised them for it. He ruled through fear, over a force of survivors he had spared because he found them beneath himself. It was this he realized, this fact which cut through the madness, through the screams for blood, the call for more skulls, which constantly rang out in his mind...he realized that all the knights he had bested and slain, it was they whom he now needed at his side as the landing vessels of the Psychopomps breached the atmosphere of his world. His ancestors within the knight’s MIU, now not merely intermeshed with his mount’s machine spirit but also with the legion of daemons which possessed the warmachine, spat obscenities at the incoming vessels, naming them the steeds of low-born liars and devious corruptors, false warriors and debauched cowards. The pawns of a degenerate deity. Tuomas had sought to ignore them, to let his lessers deal with the intrusion, but the legion of voices had goaded him, chided him for letting these interlopers set foot upon the soil he had won. Would he allow this stain upon his honour?

The Red Knight would not.

The Red Knight could not.

And so the Red Knight marched once more, its great booming footfalls drowned out by the ululating of his peoples as the knight strode along the great avenue through his city, from the towering throne of skulls which had been constructed for it to sit upon when at rest and at court, out through the high gates and onto the silt plains beyond, the wind whipping at the banners of skin hanging from its weapons and betwixt its legs.

 

 

Meropias watched through the servo-skull tethered to his helm. At first there had been a lightening in the smoke rising continuously from the forges of the settlement on the horizon. Not the planet’s largest city - now capital only in name - for that was far to the north, but certainly the planet’s most important enclave: the seat of power of the Red Knight. Such information they Psychopomps had extracted with ease from other settlements. Once they had bombarded two cities, the third had willingly given up the Knight’s location. This had pleased lord Sophusar greatly for the populace had shewn its cowardice: a trait counter to the ways of the deity that held sway over this world. And surely they would suffer his wrath. To turn that most hated, that most base and barbaric of the Pantheon upon his own worshippers was exquisite. That the Lord of Rage cared not from whence the blood flowed, only that it flowed was true, but to lose this world settled a score between their rival patrons.

Not that such matters concerned Meropias. The former devastator, now havoc champion, watched as the column of smoke lightened. The footfalls of an engine kicking up enough dust to tint the smog pouring from the enclave’s foundries. It was evidently moving toward them at a considerable speed.

He turned to his men alongside him atop the high crag. The majority were, like him, former members of the Stygian Guard’s devastator company though some had flocked to the havoc cults as the warband’s company structure had fractured. It had drawn those with a love of the big guns. A love of destruction. There came the sound of cocking levers being pulled back, rounds slammed home into chambers, lasers powering up and prayers being said over weapons. He remembered the last time they had faced knights: xenos engines on craftworld Carth-Lar. A different breed from the one inbound: a former Imperial knight, corrupted to an unknown degree, but deadly. The warband had paid a heavy toll, and Meropias was not keen to see it repeated. Trial by combat and excess was his bread and butter, but one had to live in order to exceed it each time.

He signaled down to the camp the warband had set up, and saw that word was passed on to Holusiax. The naga sorcerer, first Stygian blessed by the Dark Prince, was an icon to the warband. While the dark apostle Angra had risen from the dead reforged with the flesh of one of the Q’tlahs’itsu’aksho, he was not the only of the Psychopomps to be blessed with the flesh of the neverborn. Indeed Meropias’ own left leg was that of a Debauched One. But Holusiax was truly an eidolon for all, wielding the Dark Prince’s power with ease. Even more so after the events of Carth-Lar...

 

The six-times-six sacrifices were brought forward, bound in chains of silver, the links of which pierced their flesh at the wrists and ankles. Flogged by muscle-bound brutes of the Exalted Fecund cult the shambled forth, processioned past the sorcerer. The armour covering his arms and torso - for no suit could cover the serpentine body he possessed from the waist down - was still the distinctive blue of a codex astartes epistolary: the rank he had possessed upon his capture and turning decades earlier, but it was now decorated with fell icons and sigils in the Dark Tongue. Hexes and wards to protect him from the sanctic, and aiding his conjuring of the powers of the empyrean. Beneath his strong Astarte arms a pair of slender, mauve-fleshed limbs sprouted. The hands of these rested upon the hilts of a matched pair of daggers, sheathed at his sides.

His amber eyes watched the prisoners. Survivors of Carth-Lar. A treasure of the Psychopomps. He could feel the hunger in his brethren, the desire to defile the xenos, to undo all the perfection their gods had woven into them and to tear their souls from their bodies and offer them up to Slaanesh. They were barely able to restrain themselves, and the warband’s daemonic contingent even more so. All but the Keeper of Secrets, Ki’magur’eh, which observed with an amused expression, as if watching a repeated performance of a dramatic play it particularly enjoyed.

Daemonettes paced back and forth like predators observing prey. They keened, they hissed and some called out in the aliens’ own tongue, telling of the foul acts they would do to the Eldar given half a chance, curses upon the alien pantheon, mocking that ancient race’s decadence which had led to Slaanesh’s birth and their own existence. Many of the daemons touched themselves and each other obscenely and gestured invitingly to the aliens, cackling as they did so. Some even called out to individual Eldar by name, professing to be the reincarnation of lost comrades and family. One Eldar, a male, reacted to this, raising his head at the voice of his lost daughter only to find the young, innocent child’s voice coming from a purple-skinned temptress, her mouth, eyes and other orifices peeled open by hooked chains. The daemon cackled and wailed in the child’s voice as its comrades assaulted it and the Eldar man broke down in tears only to be dragged on by his kinsmen.

The Eldar were held down by Slaangor, the great muscles of the beastmen bulging as the alien’s fought to the end, and screamed out as Holusiax carefully slid his daggers into the Eldar in the prescribed locations.

 

 

The boom of the Red Knight’s cannon signaled the beginning of the battle, if it could be described as such. The Psychopomps had dropped a portion of their forces, an insultingly small portion, in crags to the north of the seat of his power. Less than an hour’s march. They were baiting him. If they meant to conquer his world with such a paltry force he would show them the might of Kharneth. Little did he realise, blinded by rage as he was, that they were not here for his world. The cowardice he had installed in those he let live had already seen the populace of his world turn to less than maggots in the eyes of the Lord of Blood. They were now there for him.

The cannon shell punched into the stationary rhino at the mouth of the canyon, the second shell rapidly following the first and exploding the APC. His knight’s auspex hungry searched the wreck for bodyparts and found none, not even that of crew, eliciting a howl of anger from the daemonic forms which writhed across the knight’s brazen skeleton. It stomped onward toward the crags, only pausing when targets revealed themselves too soon atop cliffs to his left and right, the auspex highlighting the heavy weapons they bore. Autocannons, missile launchers and lascannons. A command routed at the speed of thought through the MIU directed his shield to cover fire from those to his port side while his cannon and stubbers fired upon those to starboard, forcing them back behind boulders and into caves before they could fire upon him. The shells and blasts from those to port impacted impotently upon his ion shield, only a single rocket making it through to hit his left hip joint. The feedback pain made Tuomas roar, an angered scream which was amplified by the knight’s own horn and chorused by the Bloodletter legion entwined within the machine. With barely a limp it turned to bombard the astartes on that side, forcing them back before it strode onward into the ravine, guided as much by the voices - the legion of his ancestors, the scent of the Dark Prince’s pawns thick in their nostrils - as by the auspex.

The ravine walls closed in rapidly and he swung his massive chainsword in devastating arcs, pulverizing rock from the walls to clear his path, unimpeded by further fire. Evidently he had scared off the astartes with heavy weapons. Devastators was it they were called? He laughed at their cowardice! These were astartes? The Emperor’s angels of death? He had heard so much over his years about these star warriors, yet now put them to the test and found them wanting.

This was soon proven hubris as the havocs appeared once more atop the cliffs, opening fire at near point blank range before the knight’s shield could be realigned. The knight’s carapace weapon exploded in a rain of debris and they walked their fire down its body and arm. Dozens of shells, rockets and blasts impacted the great curved pauldron, causing the daemonic faces embossed there to writhe and howl, but failing to penetrate the bewitched ceramite. More damage was wrought however when their fire reached that arm’s lower joints and with a scream of tortured metal the huge battlecannon fell away, severed from its mount.

Turning, enraged, the Red Knight smote at the crags with its chainblade. While a chainsword might eviscerate a marine, the havocs who were caught by the great reaper were bodily torn apart, their limbs tossed afar and one was eaten by the weapon itself, his meat trapped wickedly between its teeth.

The survivors, their work done, beat a hasty retreat.

And then he was all but through. The cliff walls began to recede and the legion shewed him the truth of it. He who had brought the astartes to his world. Before him upon the plain stood a lone figure, cloak whipping in the silty winds. A father drawn out of his gilt castle to rein in his wayward progeny.

 

Sophusar stood upon the plain, the great Falx Horrificus planted at his side, wind howling across the mouths of the organs atop his armour and tugging at the turquoise cape trailing from his roseate armour, and watched the knight stride toward him. He could feel its rage growing; that of the mortal all but entombed within and of the legion of daemons which vitalized and deceived him. Even now they clouded the warrior’s vision and drove him on. Such a wondrous, blasphemous amalgam of man, machine and neverborn. He would see it kneel before him.

 

The knight had taken barely half a dozen steps from the ravine before there came a deafening, keening lament. A chorus of anguished souls forbade release, which cut through armour and deep into the minds of all those with but the strongest of wills. The wail ended, echoing through the valley and crag tops only to be replaced by the chittering, skittering sound of hundreds of chitin-clad appendages scrabbling across rock.

At this signal Sophusar, huge in his ornate terminator armour, hefted his weapon and began his advance toward the towering knight.

Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! Slay him now! Trample the corruptor’s king!

Turn! Turn and slaughter the wailing filth before they are upon us!

A thousand voices called out to that which had once been Tuomas Moir. To slay the vision of his father, or that great armoured warrior whom he glimpsed through the apparition of his sire now like a mirage wavering upon the horizon...or to turn and fell the cursed host which closed upon him from across the clifftops, howling madly as they came.

There came then, upon renewed ululating far shriller than the blood-mad, hoarse-throated cultists of his enclave, an smell at once both an enticing perfume and a repugnant foetor! The musk was soporific and it cut through even the hold the daemons of Khorne had upon the knight, causing him to near-swoon.

The towering warmachine staggered then, turning desperately and raking the cliffs with its stubber. The rounds caught the first of the fiends as the arachnid-bodied monstrosity leapt from the crags, the clawed hands of its humanoid upper torso outstretched as if to give a deadly embrace. This first was swatted bloodily from the air but those which came after could not be felled before they were upon the Red Knight. Claws tearing frantically at its armour, a lucky few finding weaknesses, pistons and cabling they could rend their way through, while spindly legs carried them over the brass-trimmed crimson of its form, faces once fine of features now twisted into androgynous abomination. More and more swarmed over the knight until little could be seen but for a boiling cloud of black carapace marked with accursed sigils in sickly yellow, and the bruised flesh of the fiends’ upper torsos, shocks of vivid pink hair whipping about as they sang the Red Knight’s dirge.

He turned in desperation, urged on by the roar of the red legion. His time was nearing an end he knew, but he would see that man slain before he fell. Be it truly his father or the eminence and commander of these fell beasts which now tore at him, Tuomas meant to end him under the great taloned tread of his knight. Step after ponderous step.

A foot dragged, joints clogged with the fiends’ claws and the viscous ejaculations from their bloated abdomens.

Ichor spewed and limbs rained onto the red sands as the fiends were hewed at, but the reaper was not mounted for scraping enemies from one’s own superstructure and the Red Knight staggered, dropping to a knee. Steam and gasses vented from ruptured piping, oil leaked and blood spurted unnaturally in horrific quantities from punctures in its armour.

A great, manic roar was the last sound from the Red Knight, emitted from its war horn and the dozens of bloodletter faces which were entwined in its form, before the knight fell, scant meters before lord Sophusar.

 

 

The lord of the Psychopomps was joined by his chief warpsmith, Thenaros, who gazed at the fallen knight with both distain and hunger.

“I shall set about cleansing it of the daemonic taint immediately, master,” and he stepped forward only to find the haft of the Falx Horrificus barring his way, a chain adorned with severed ears wrapped about its length.

“You would strip it of all that made it great?” came his master’s voice from the brass grill of Sophusar’s mask.

The former tech marine bowed his head.

“Then I shall exorcise the neverborn of the Prince’s rival so that more malleable, pliable denizens who share our loyalty can be imprisoned within it.”

The former chapter master then shook his head.

“Can you do that, Thenaros? Really? I believe it beyond your ken. Your predecessor, Zenelaius, was weak, but ambitious. He understood the neverborn as you do not. Until you embrace them, you will never master them, and they will oppose you at every turn.”

He turned then to face the naga sorcerer at his other side.

“Make an example of it. Lash it to our will, Holusiax.”

 

 

 

Epilogue – Traxis IX

Ripples spread across the marsh water with the heavy tread of tanks grinding their way across the battlefield through the thick mists. The tanks of the Ryza 277th Armoured, the guardsmen told themselves. Better that than the beasts, both mechanical and daemonic, of the foe. The shield line had been breached hours earlier, armour clad quadrupedal monstrosities bounding out of the fog at speeds such large beasts should not naturally be capable of, to tear into the guard’s bunkers with claws, lashes and weapons which burned with the heat of stars. But that growing rumbling, surely it was the 277th. Their Baneblades and Stormswords, as expected. So the commissar told them as they made their tactical retreat toward Deepholme. The last bastion.

Ripples again shot out across the knee-deep filthy water and doubt seeped into the hearts of the good men of the Cadian 89th. No tank moved thus, stopping and starting.

Boom, boom. Again.

No, it was not the shaking of the treads of a superheavy tank.

These were footfalls.

And then it came, the mists parting as a baleful scream was rent from its dirgecasters. Rage-filled, long-horned daemons, crimson of skin, writhed upon its superstructure and great armoured plates as if in torment. Barbed chains of gleaming silver bound its limbs and weapons and blood ran where the spikes pierced its otherwise impenetrable fleshmetal hide. Its horned and tusked faceplate was haggard and bent, eyes glowing with fury at its slavery, for upon its carapace was fixed - chained in place - a great howdah bearing a fell icon and pastel-hued banners at odds with the colours of the Red Slave itself. Upon the howdah rode a coterie of jeering, howling daemons, purple of skin and clad in tight bodices of silver and gold, their vividly coloured locks whipping the air as they cackled and directed the subjugated knight, grinding guardsmen beneath their tread.

 

I'll have to save a fair few pennies before I can build that.

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Fallen Knight over the last week.

Well, there was only Carrack's and my own, which is a bit disappointing but I presume you're all busy painting for the ETL. In which case I'll excuse you ;)

Part of me is tempted to give more time during the ETL -2 week IFs- but we usually get mammoth entries in those cases which, while usually of excellent quality, do mean a lot of reading for the judge.

So, I'm not going to extend this one. But I will in the future set a Chaos Superheavies IF so we can get more knights in.

I hereby close that topic for the purposes of rewards (though, as always, if you have more tales to tell feel free to post them at any time. I would certainly like to read about more fallen knights!).

And here begins our seventeeth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

The Architect of Fate

The Changer of the Ways, the Master of Fortune, the Great Conspirator...Tzeentch goes by many names. Myriad are his schemes and plans. Tell us this week of a tale of Tzeentch: the god himself, his daemons or his pawns and those who willingly or unwillingly, knowingly or unknowingly dance upon strings held by him.

Inspirational Friday: Architect of Fate runs until the 10th of June.

Let us be inspired.

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

...unless Scourged wishes to call a No Contest, in which he would end up judging Architect of Fate...which might actually be quite fitting... :D

[Carrack]

I'd like to see Scourged judge this next one myself, going by his writing, I think he'll have a good eye for it. If not Kierdale should judge, his story is better than mine this week, in my own opinion, and I'm not overly critical of my own work. It's up to Scourged, of course.

 

I think the knight topic, which I found intriguing, ended up like the Titan topic a while back, more difficult to write about because of the lack of established background, and the topic screams out for writing epic enough to do knights and Titans justice.

[BitsHammer]

I had some ideas but starting a KDK army distracted me, and spending my time reading/working didn't leave much time for writing.

 

EDIT: I may write something for this Tzeentch week but I'm mentally on a Khorne kick so I may not get around to it (just as planned).

[Thedarkprincesnun]

All is lost

Cyrion stood there long had it been since he had joined the Black Legion. He of course remembered his past, he had been a sorceror of the Thousand Sons. He chuckled remembering how his legion believed that they were the Masters of the Warp when infact the great changer had been the master of them. He remembered when he had worn the Crimson plate of his legion before the rubicae and how afterwards it changed to blue and gold in honour of their new master, while the majority of the coven who had sided with Ahriman to do the rubicae had refused to submit to the great changer he had unknowingly to then accepted the Lord of Fate as his master.

 

It had not surprised him when the Rubicae went wrong and it certainly did not surprise him when they had been exiled from the planet of the sorcerors. He still remembered the fury which Magnus mustered at remembering what they had done to his legion, fury that while at the time scared him but now didn't. For Magnus was a fool still believing himself to be the master when he was nothing more than a servant.

 

He remembered how he and his rubicae had travelled around the eye for what felt like Millennia fighting wars which had no clear purpose , landing on worlds only to find after taking a few steps that he had never left his ship. For a man who had not willingly accepted the lord of magic as their master it would have been broken him mentally however he would not allow such a thing to break him . he would master powers that even Ahriman himself could not comprehend and he would have his revenge on the exiled renegade, but how to do it for while his Throng of Rubicae was powerful he knew Ahriman wouldn't be stupid enough to travel around the Eye without a force strong enough to withstand even his assault.

 

It was then that he found the Black Legion and almost immediately pledged his allegiance, he did not know just how much of his plan the war master knew but if he was honest he did not care for all was lost and he would get it back.

[Carrack]

Meeting

 

 

-sometime in the late 38th Millennium, on the bottom deck of the Black Maw flagship, Bitter Revenge

 

“So why are we only patch sealing this hatch, instead of repairing or replacing the Gellar Field projector?” Asked Samson as he turned off the compressor, satisfied that the hatch was airtight. Chief Cas signaled the specialist over the vox, and lit up a stogie before answering the stupid question, “Same reason we do anything numb skull, our masters told us to.” Unfortunately, the simple answer did nothing to satisfy Samson and his damned curiosity, and the specialist would likely take at least an hour to get down to this half-forgotten, bottom deck airlock. The young man paced the short airlock, Chief Cas could tell that he didn't want to appear insubordinate, but just couldn't let the matter rest. It didn't take long for his curiosity to compel him to ask, “But Chief, I was at the projector shop at the start of our shift, and we have tons of parts and replacements, and the Elect officers said we would be careening Bitter Revenge for days, so it's not like we are pressed for time. Why are we only patching it when we can fix it completely? I don't want any monsters breaking through next time we enter the warp.” Chief Cas lit a full cigar off the butt of the stogie he was smoking, then in an act of unexpected charity, passed the short nub to Samson, and slid his back down the airlock wall till he was seated on the floor, gesturing for Samson to do the same. He waited a minute, then said, “Look son, who told us to patch this airlock?” Samson quickly replied, “Well, Lieutenant Macar, well not really the legionary per se, but that little daemon that is always behind him.” The naive man acted like that was a distinction that mattered. Chief Cas, chuckling silently as the curious man burnt his fingers on the short cigar, and said, “Tell me Samson, can you find any reason in that overworked brain of yours, for us to do anything other than what a legionary of the Black Maw, and an officer at that, or his pet daemon have ordered us to do? Besides, we live above the starboard launch bays, any monsters that break through the patch, will have to contend with all the other monsters between here and there, before they trouble you.” With that, the young man was silent.

 

Finally, after two hours, the specialist arrived. He was creepy, but his kind always were, he was unnaturally tall and spindly, dressed in ill-fitting black robes that displayed his long, skinny, extra jointed arms, and hid his face in a deep cowl that had to severely limit his vision. Specialists. The freak gestured to Samson’s air compressor and the hatch. Instead, Chief Cas blew a cloud of smoke at the hatch, none of which left the airlock. Then the specialist pulled a tube from his robe and spread black wax over the hatch’s window. He smoothed out the wax with the empty tube, then started pressing a big gaudy ring into the wax at different points, all the while mumbling some words in a harsh language over and over. The words were more than words, Chief Cas grabbed Samson by the collar and stumbled for the far door as his gorge lurched up in his throat. He reached for the far door with his cigar still in his hand, and saw the cherry burning blue instead of red, and the smoke started to take the shape of his long dead grandmother’s face. He got out of there quick and didn't stop until they were three decks up. Samson was worse. Physically, he looked like Samson, but he was touched in the head, or maybe the soul. He still asked his questions, but they were questioned that made Chief Cas ill at ease, questions like, “Where will our souls go when we die, now that we have done the will of a daemon?”

 

-3 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the lift antechamber for conveyor 9, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

The antechamber was filled to capacity when Techna Drone Lott entered and closed the doorway. These were the Enlightened Ones, those who the Mysteries of the Conveyed Nine had been revealed. They were the chosen ones, yet they knew they were but servants of Lott, the true master of the Conveyed Nine. They struggled to kneel and press their heads down in supplication before Lott in the crowded room. He blessed them with allowing those in front to touch his robes, and snaking his mechandrils across the backs of those who could not reach his sacred person. His congregation started chanting the rites of elevation, to begin his mass. Their singing had improved. They must have been practicing, perhaps they were gaining new converts as well, not that that mattered, the only followers that he would bless were in attendance now. They were the ones who were assigned to work in his sacred conveyor at the appointed time.

 

Techna Drone Lott began his sermon, extolling the congregation’s virtues, and telling how they were not just more important than those who didn't worship the Conveyed Nine, but they were more important than all of his other followers. For in nine shifts, the appointed time would come, and they would make holy the Conveyed Nine, and prevent the unclean from profaning its hallowed machinery, by force if necessary. The Enlightened Ones became ecstatic at their special blessings, and anointed themselves in sacred lubricants before closing the worship with chanting the Rites of Descent, the most holy of prayers. Techna Drone Lott left the Enlightened Ones for his duty lectern, and wondered what his reward would be should his cult succeed.

 

-3 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the forward navigational observatory, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

“Ghannor, oh Ghannor. Ghannor!” A familiar, and unwelcome voice sounded in Ghannor the Warp

Seer’s head. The sorcerer sobbed out loud, “What, what do you want with me? Can't you just leave me alone?” The voice laughed maliciously, then said, “But Ghannor, I enjoy talking to you. I just need you to adjust the course ½ a degree in this direction Ghannor. You can do that for me right? It's only a half degree?“ The sorcerer grabbed his temples with both hands and tried to block out the voice with screaming, “No! I must guide the ship to the Garland system, Lord Carrack demands it.” The voice seductively whispered, “If you do this for me, I'll make the voices in your head stop, and we will still get to the Garland system, I will make an eddy in the warp to pull the ship back on course later. Do this and the voices will stop.”

 

“Ahhgg! You said the voices would stop. Please make them stop. Oh please.” Laughter drowned out the crowded head of the warp seer, and the one voice spoke again, “I did make them stop Ghannor, for three whole seconds the voices were silent.”

 

-2 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the suites of Lythane the Black, Equerry to Lord Carrack, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

 

Licklespit watched his master’s eyes roll back in his head and collapse back into his huge, overstuffed chair. It appeared that Lythane the Black had read to long from the dread Liber Apocal. It had happened before, the ancient grimoire had a way of overwhelming a reader with its powerful symbols. Still, Lythane had resisted the book better than any of its previous possessors, so Licklespit watched the unconscious sorcerer for another minute, checking his breathing rate and the frequency his eyes shook. It didn't appear that his master was bluffing, that had happened before as well. For a brief moment, Licklespit considered placing the grimoire under the hand of his master, and let the pages that could not be touched by man, suck in his black soul, to be forever bound in the margins of the pages, like so many sorcerers before, but instead, he placed the book on the lectern, unconcerned of the curse himself, because he was no man. Licklespit was a daemon, but a lowly one, one with many masters, and it was time to leave his mortal master to meet with his daemonic one. Before he left though, he flipped the Liber Apocal open, he wasn't in a position where he could get away with defying Lythane's most explicit commands, but if the sorcerer succumbed to his own temptation after gazing at the enthralling pages, Licklespit could not be blamed. The arrogant bastard deserved it with the way he treated Licklespit, like some flunky. All of the possessors of the Liber Apocal had always bullied Licklespit the Page Turner, but he usually got his revenge in the end. He left Lythane's suite to head below decks skulking and with furtive glances all about. He had to make a circular route to reach the number 9 conveyor, in order to avoid the territory frequented by Lord Carrack, and his own viscous familiar, Kneecapper, that feral daemon had no manners, and bit.

 

Traveling the Bitter Revenge, without Lythane was a little risky. Lythane the Black, equerry to Lord Carrack, was not well liked by the legionaries of the warband, he was seen as a plant from the Warmaster, a meddler from the Despoiler's court that threatened the autonomy of the Black Maw Warband. While no fool would dare raise a hand directly against Lythane, Licklespit was fair game if he was caught on his own. Yet as he entered conveyer 9, the quickest route to the meeting place, the normally busy conveyer was completely devoid of life, and strangely, symbols had been drawn across the conveyor in oil. Licklespit breathed a sigh of relief, getting to the meeting could have been dangerous.

 

On his way to his master, he met Dife Lespri, the other familiar daemon summoned to meet with Licklespit’s daemonic master. Dife Lespri’s mortal master was Captain Macar, the most powerful legionary in the warband to patron both Licklespit’s and Dife Lespri’s ultimate master, the Master of Fates. But that was no great claim, Captain Macar's faction was weak and waning. Licklespit continued on towards their rendezvous, Dife Lespri in tow. Licklespit both envied and looked down on his fellow familiar daemon. He envied Dife Lespri for being respected by not only his master, but by his master's warriors as well. Maybe not respected, but at least treated decently. At the same time, the social standing of familiar daemons was closely tied to that of their mortal masters, and Lythane was far more influential than Macar. Licklespit reminded Dife Lespri of that every chance he got. He did so now by ignoring Dife Lespri's questions about why they were meeting their daemonic master. He didn't know himself, but he acted like he did, only he couldn't be bothered to enlighten the likes of Dife Lespri.

 

Licklespit slid open the manual override for the service hatch and the two daemons entered the short airlock. Flickers of shadows danced just outside the corners of his vision in the short chamber before the hatch. There was something in the airlock with the Licklespit and Dife Lespri, something ominous and threatening, something vastly more dangerous than the two familiars. Licklespit swallowed a gulp of the stale air and went to the next hatch. It was sealed in black wax with sigils stamped into five equidistant points, but the wax was old, and the sigils blurred with age. Still, Licklespit felt the slight prickle of energy and his mouth tasted like it was full of aluminum foil as he reached for the hatch’s crank. The wards still held a small charge, in spite of the manifestation of the warp in the airlock. He thought better of it, these wards were made for beings like him, and commanded Dife Lespri to open the hatch. The lesser familiar opened the door with a gasp as the last of the wards sparked into his hand. The other daemon shoved his singed hand in his mouth to cool the burn and adroitly stepped behind Licklespit, so he would be the first to enter the observatory.

 

It was a navigational observatory, the kind used by navigators and sorcerers to view the tides of the warp. A clear dome extended down from the belly of the ship, the artificial gravity having been reversed in the exterior room. The floor was one flawless piece of obsidian, not cut for the dimensions of the observatory, but formed naturally, but such details were trivial compared to what was beyond the dome. It was the warp, the reflection of emotion, the impossible dimension, the realm of the gods, Licklespit's and Dife Lespri's home, and the home of their master. The master sent his emissary, and the dome shattered into a million snowflakes, all identical, as the emissary landed on the floor of the observatory.

 

Licklespit could see little of the emissary, as he groveled on the obsidian floor, not just showing deference, but hiding behind his master from the dangers that swirled around the ship. All he saw were two taloned feet, one blue and one green, each bigger than his entire body. The emissary spoke, not with words, but directly into his mind, “Tzeentch will take control of the Black Maw Warband. He will use your mortal master as his puppet. You will ensure that his will is done, and see that Lythane is not led astray. This will happen in the next battle the warband faces.” Licklespit smiled, his future was looking bright, then glanced over at Dife Lespri to gloat over his advancement, and saw the other familiar smiling and gloating in turn. Not a good sign.

 

 

[Scourged]

Hello. I'm back. Well, I would have been back yesterday, but a tropical storm decided to rip through my part of Florida at the exact time my plane landed and I had to drive home. But on to more pressing matters...

 

I think I'll take the suggestion from our fearless leader and call it a No Contest ruling, rather than a win by default. I'll still read through them both and give some feedback, though. Besides, I am hardly about to turn down a chance to judge a week of Tzeentchy stories. Bring 'em on, folks.

[Kierdale]

Three Parts

Hidden Content

One

“It was three bells after midnight that the thieves stole into the chapel, your excellence,” father Edwin reported, his voice deferent, yet while contrite there seemed a hint of confusion at why he now sat opposite no less than a visiting deacon of the faith, within the tiny quarters Edwin called home, a level beneath the ground floor of the House of the Master’s Judgement. He nursed the bruise upon the back of his head, a product of his being rendered unconscious by the thieves.

The deacon intimidated him both professionally and psychologically - the man could easily, for no more an offense than a poor choice of words, have him stripped of his vestments and cast out into the streets, branded a heretic or rendered a servitor – the other individual in the room was scarcely noticeable: the deacon’s assistant stood off to one side, observing all. A savant, perhaps. Or a truthsayer. This latter option then filled Edwin with irrational fear. He had naught to hide, but then was it not said that innocence proved nothing?

Clad in a rough white habit as Edwin and the deacon were (thought the latter’s was ornately embroidered), the assistant had not lowered his hood upon entering the chapel, instead keeping his visage cloaked in shadows. Here was Edwin being interrogated for the theft of an ornament while a senior brother went unpunished for such a rude breach of the sect’s code! Such were the advantages of position, no doubt. Edwin scowled then forced his face to return to a more blank expression, fearing he might implicate himself.

“You feel you are being treated unfairly,” the deacon stated. The man was evidently in his sixties if not older - rejuvenat treatment was another perk of status, no doubt. The Master of Mankind could not let one so long schooled in his ways and their preaching die after a mere century of life, oh no. But a lowly preacher in an out of the way parish on a remote agri-world...oh, the life of such a minister could be forfeit easily. The unfortunate theft of a mere rod of wood, for example.

“I- I am forever sorry and beg your forgiveness for allowing the theft-“

“BEG NOT MY FORGIVENESS!” roared the deacon, “WAS THE ROD NOT HELD BY THE MASTER OF MANKIND, BROTHER EDWIN?”

By the hand of a roughly hewn statue of the Emperor, so ill-carved it could have been the likeness of any man, Edwin did not say, though at the steel gaze of the deacon he almost wondered if the older man rather than the assistant had the Gift, the Wych Sight or Wych Ear and could hear his every thought.

He pressed his forehead to the stone desk.

“My apologies for my blasphemy, master. And my deepest apologies to our Lord upon the Golden Throne!”

He heard the assistant step closer. He was but a slight man, no larger than Edwin himself, for the monks of the faith had no need of physical exertion. Thus he felt no threat from the observer. Only irritation as the deacon’s man began to circle the table. Though he could not see the man’s eyes within his cowl, Edwin could feel the man’s unswerving gaze upon him.

The pacing stopped and he looked up to find the assistant looking down at him. Only now he had for the first time a good look at the man’s face. Sallow, cold features which seemed immobile, as if that face never shifted and the wrinkles and lines upon it were merely carved there. A far better carving and more lifelike that than of the statue within the chapel above. The man did not smile, nor frown. Did his mouth even open to voice hymns to their Lord? Perhaps he was a mute, for Edwin was now sure he had not heard the man speak once since the two had arrived only an hour earlier. At such a dark hour of the night, in an unmarked speeder rather than the usual Order cavalcade. And only hours after the theft! How had his superiors known so quickly? They had dispatched another of their party as soon as he had mentioned the theft, so perhaps he would be lucky and the trifling piece of wood could be soon returned and all this forgotten. He hoped.

It then struck him: the theft of the rod must have been a scheme by a rival in the sect! Aye, a gambit to make Edwin look bad and end him! The thieves – perhaps father Jaq from the lowlands, aye, no doubt him! – would have arranged for the theft and notified the senior priests in the city about Edwin’s lack of vigilance. That the deacon had been visiting was but the foulest of luck! His head would roll and his rival would no doubt claim glory in recovering the bloody stick in a few days’ time.

 

And indeed the life of brother Edwin did end that night. The assistant reached down, taking an uncommonly strong grip upon the chain which held a small gold Aquila about the priest’s neck, and with it strangled him to death. Edwin, in his panic, clawed at the man’s face, tearing away that which proved to be naught more than a mask upon a mask: beneath the cold dead face lay that of a skull cast in ceramite, its fury-red eyes boring into his as his life was throttled from him.

 

The chain and its deadweight affixed to a wall-mounted candleholder, the scene of father Edwin’s suicide was set. The assassin then turned back to face the inquisitor still clad in the robes of a deacon.

“Need he have died?”

Inquisitor Gamia gave the assassin a sidelong glance. Phes, while a killer supreme and possessed of remarkable control, had of late taken to talking more. It bordered on being out of turn, and perhaps it was Gamia’s fault, for he had encouraged the man to exercise is opinion. Yet those of the assassin temples needed their kills and for too long Phes had been as a bodyguard and a second pair of eyes for the inquisitor. The inquisitor’s subtle, non-violent use of the assassin was no doubt grating upon Phes’s training.

Gamia held up his hand to forestall any further questions.

“He allowed an artefact of the Imperial Cult to be stolen. He was not killed by the thieves, which suggests he was complicit. Ergo reasonable doubt. Add to that the blasphemies I read in his mind,” Gamia tapped his temple with the index finger of his raised hand.

“Your powers scare me, master.”

Gamia smiled then, “I can only penetrate the minds of the weak. Not one whose mind is as iron as yours. As pure of purpose as yours.”

Phes clenched his hands restlessly and began to pace the small, dark stone chamber. That was it then, Gamia thought, the assassin needed a release. The execution of brother Edwin had but whet his appetite. Well, hopefully soon he could grant it.

“Phes. What was stolen from here?”

This stopped the killer’s pacing. “The half-meter long beam of a balance - a set of scales - once held within the hand of an effigy of our lord in the chapel above.” Phes made the sign of the Aquila over his chest as he spoke of the Emperor. “One half bare wood, the other bearing gilt ornamentation and tipped with a ring of jewels.”

“And such a petty theft should concern one such as myself, of the Ordo Malleus?” Gamia queried.

Phes was incapable of standing still so soon after a kill and so simply shrugged as he checked the set-up of the room once more and gathered his now discarded robes, preparing to leave.

“Six month previously on the planet Camb a staff was stolen from a museum. It appeared to be no more than the crook of a shepherd, carved of common wood. That and the rod stolen this night are two thirds of a most dangerous artefact.”

This got the assassin’s attention once more. After decades of service under Gamia the assassin had, at the inquisitor’s urging, come to ask questions of their mission and had become more than a simple weapon to be deployed and later reined in. “A dangerous artefact on display in a museum and a common church?”

“Where better than to hide them in plain sight?” Gamia explained, “such was the wisdom of my predecessors. The pieces were disseminated, to the citizenry and to the priesthood, on worlds far, far apart. All those who had known of the staff, those who had wielded it and their thralls, had been slain.”

“Questionable wisdom.” The assassin went about preparing his arms now; sliding blades into sheathes in his boots, under armoured plates upon his forearms, and loaded his combi-needler, the red glow from his helmet’s eyes bathing each item in sanguine light.

“Yet the third and final piece was hidden,” Gamia went on, brushing lint from the deacon’s robes he still wore. “Their thinking being that whoever might seek to reunite the three sections of the staff once more would alert us to their activities by taking those two parts most easily obtained.” He extended his hands to the sides in explanation.

“Then where is the third piece?” Phes asked, approaching the inquisitor. Even after decades of loyal service, Gamia was terrified of the assassin at such close proximity. He exuded an aura of barely contained violence.

“It is safe.”

Phes cocked his head to one side. “Can any but His Holy Orders been entrusted with its safekeeping?”

“An Astarte fortress monastery.”

Phes did not straighten his angled head but cocked it to the other side.

Gamia took a deep breath before giving a wry smile and nodding. “I’ll have the ship prepped and the navigator awoken.”

After all, they had been following this newly arisen cult since before the theft on Camb. Why hand it off to the astartes now?

Within his skull-faced helm, Phes grinned.

 

Two

Gamia held his hand tight to his side. The mesh armour had turned the bolt aside before it had detonated, but he could feel broken ribs grating upon one another and his flesh beginning to swell.  At Phes’s touch on his shoulder he clambered to his feet once more, biting back a scream of pain, and ran. The assassin’s weapon barked but Gamia only ran, one hand to his side, the other cradling the artefact.

A most incongruous piece it was. A sculpted fish of tarnished gold with fins of lapis lazuli, a silver cord coming from its mouth and winding about its own body as if binding it, trussing it grotesquely. In its belly was a hole for the completed staff to slot. Enroute, inquisitor Gamia had been able to discover that the chapter’s parent chapter had been gifted the item as a reward, a trophy for crushing the Chaotic cult whose master had wielded the staff in millennia past.

And now he and Phes had stolen it.

He muttered prayers for forgiveness as he heard the assassin’s firearm answered by the clatter of a ceramite-armoured body hitting the stone floor. Another angel of the Emperor slain in the course of the inquisitor’s duty. A hefty price yet a small price to pay in the greater scheme, he told himself, to keep the staff and its power from those who would misuse it. The cult which now sought the staff, he had learned, was rapidly growing. It was a nebulous, mutating beast, hard for his spies and myriad agents to pin down. But still, yes, as Phes had said, was it not best that the final piece be kept safe by Gamia himself? Aye, he would keep it safe and more, for with it now held within his hand he felt in his mind the headpiece calling to the other pieces. This vindicated him, for no doubt whoever now held the staff felt that call too and would have found their way here sooner or later. He would follow that call, that thread of fate and perhaps then he might undo the errors of his predecessors...

 

 

Three

Mu, Lemuria, Gondwana, Pangaea, Kalaharia...lands and continents had risen and fallen throughout the millions of years of Terra’s lifespan, but here on an unnamed planet upon the very lid of the Eye of Terror they rose and fell before one’s eyes like the chest of a great slumbering beast. Such was the touch of the architect of fate. Nine detours upon nine worlds had led them hither, the inquisitor and the assassin. They had been forced to render their navigator unconscious in order to save his soul as soon as the ship had decanted from the Warp, and brought the ship down upon one of the most stable, highest landmasses they could find upon the mutable surface of the hellspawned planet. And now they stood, under a rainbow sky to their left blackest night and to their right the brilliance of a new dawn, upon a plain which within seconds sprouted new vegetation, evolving before their very eyes.

Before them stood, extremely still, a mere man of some advanced years. He was clad in robes from a bygone era and but for his apparent age appeared untouched by the ravishes of the continuous wars which endlessly consumed the galaxy nor enfeebled by his age or disease, as if some divine power had granted him the foresight to weave his way safely through life. But how many others’ lives had he spent in his pursuits, Gamia wondered, for had the inquisitor not faced this man’s pawns for years now? How long had it been since Camb? Since the execution of father Edwin? The inquisitor’s own theft of the gilt fish? Since their arrival upon this changeling world? Phes stood at his side, one hand upon his firearm holstered at his hip, a toxin-coated blade in the other hand. Gamia’s own eyes were upon the staff, held like a cane, in the elder’s hand.

Was it meant as an allegory of the quest for power? For knowledge? From its crook-end of cheap wood - the tool of a common laborer, up its length the finery of its material and ornamentation increased, hooks and twists of gold increasing in density until they swirled about the finest gemstones at its incomplete top, for the top awaited that hideous gilt fish which weighed so heavily in the inquisitor’s satchel.

 

 

He could feel the pull of the staff, its desire to be reunited. No...not the staff’s, for but a mere spawn of a greater power was entombed within it...no, it was the desire of that greater Power which had orchestrated their coming together. Fickle though that Power was, he could feel the weight of the moment. The promise of power, of freedom from the laws of the galaxy, from everything. Knowledge of all and the power to exercise one’s will without compunction.

All he had to do was to slay the other two.

 

Kierdale’s note

Hidden Content

I thought I’d write up an old RPG plot as this week’s entry. The baddies hunting down pieces of a magical staff - classic RPG stuff - but not knowing where the final piece is, they let the goodies know what they’re after, and follow the goodies to the final piece. I did originally intend to have the baddies show up when the =][= stole the fish but, having chosen to have it kept by marines, shifted the final confrontation to a Tzeentchian planet in the Eye.

Had I had more time I would have liked to have fleshed out the old gent seeking the staff, and perhaps give Phes some flashbacks, to make it truly a story of `Three Parts`. As it is, it’ll do. :)

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in The Architect of Fate over the last week.

There were only three, but some nice pieces.

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

And here begins our eighteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Chaos Flyers

Heldrakes, Hell Blades, Hell Talons, Harbinger super heavy bombers, Thunderhawk gunships...Storm Talons, Hawks, Eagles, Ravens and Birds...Fire Raptors, Storm Ravens...many are the aerospace craft used by renegade and traitor astartes. Then there are the Valkyries and Vendettas, the Vultures of the traitor guard regiments and the Lightnings, Thunderbolts, Marauders and more of fallen Navy units.

This week tell us about a heldrake (or counts-as) or a Chaos pilot/crew and their flyer.

Inspirational Friday: Chaos Flyers runs until the 24th of June.

Let us be inspired.

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

[Teetengee]

No FMC this time around right?

[Kierdale]

FMCs would be...daemon princes, Bloodthirsters and Lords of Change?

Not this time :)

We did DPs, and eventually I plan to do each greater daemon in turn.

[Teetengee]

FMCs would be...daemon princes, Bloodthirsters and Lords of Change?

Not this time

We did DPs, and eventually I plan to do each greater daemon in turn.

I was thinking of a daemonprince/dragon counts as helldrake, actually, but fluffwise it is most certainly not a vehicle.

[Kierdale]

 

FMCs would be...daemon princes, Bloodthirsters and Lords of Change?

Not this time :)

We did DPs, and eventually I plan to do each greater daemon in turn.

 

I was thinking of a daemonprince/dragon counts as helldrake, actually, but fluffwise it is most certainly not a vehicle.

If it counts as a heldrake then it's fine :tu:

Sounds very interesting in fact.

[Scourged]

Gather 'round, my devoted children, and heed the judgments that come from the True Master. I, Scourged, shall be the emissary of his words. Each of you three presented your offerings to the divine incantations blessing the Weaver of Fate. His will poured through your minds and hands, granting life to symbols and words upon the page. It is through your actions that the cogs powering the Great Game continue, and for this the Architect of Fate thanks you.

 

Three submissions came forward, and each delivered in their own way. The Changer of Ways is not, nor has ever been, a static entity; he shifts and twists Himself as is necessary for His elaborate machinations. But though He is so nebulous to us all, there are always common threads within the galactic tapestry that weave through His most loyal of servants. Between you three, these threads have shown themselves to those with the eyes to see them. Lucky for you all, I have just those very eyes.

 

HUBRIS: Knowledge and confidence oft grow part in parcel. The more one knows, the stronger one becomes. All those who serve (knowingly or otherwise) the Lord of Entropy are swollen with a self-confidence that quickly bleeds into excessive pride. The offering presented by Thedarkprincesnun gifted us all with a lesson in such hubris. The Sorcerer Cyrion, despite having endured countless setbacks and failures since the days loyally serving the Cyclops, still effervessed with the hubris to know he would usurp any whom dared believe they held power over the sorcerer. Well done.

 

SORCERY: The lessons of the first offering carried into that of the second, and added so much more. I would have felt so very disappointed had no one dipped their quill into the rainbow ink that is magicks and sorceries, but thankfully Carrack provided. Is there anything more befitting the God of Sorcery than forbidden rites and ceremonies, cast by occult figures in obfuscating robes, casting sigils and symbols of ancient and archaic tongues known by no innocent mortals? None have a greater connection to the mystical attributes of the Immaterium than the servants of the Weaver of Destiny, and we saw that connection in this particular offering. Special points are awarded for the unnatural physiology of the Specialist, and adherence to the Sacred Number.

 

SCHEMING: As before, the lessons of the prior helped construct the third and final offering. Kierdale presented an oft taken perspective: the unwilling servant. And that is quite a favorite perspective for a good reasons, as there is little else that encapsulates the endlessly scheming nature of the Great Conspirator. A man or woman meticulously works and plans, circumventing all failures with endless contingencies, to achieve their goal. Yet, as they arrive they find that they were not the champion but instead another pawn. Your plans were never your own, mortal. Once more, adherence to the Sacred Number is always a delight to read.

 

But finally, there was the quintessential tenet found within all of your offerings: HOPE. Each of you explored, in subtle ways, the ultimate motivation for us all. Cyrion hoped that he would finally rise above Ahriman and all others with his Rubricae. Licklespit hoped to properly serve his real, daemonic master while undetected by Lythane. And Gamia hoped he would have the resolve to collect the three pieces of the artefact to protect others, or to help himself...

 

Only one of you may win, however. So a decision must be made. So, on behalf of the Changer of Ways, the God of Intrigue, the Architect of Fate, and the True Master I have selected Carrack as our victor. The choice was not easy, however. Not at all. But from the three offerings presented, Meeting was the story that I felt contained the richest depth of material reflecting our topic. All the Threads of Tzeentch that constantly pour through my mind and flow through my fingers could be found within Meeting. Enjoy your prize while you can, Lord Carrack, because it will not be long before the Winds of the Warp change their direction and seek to take from you that which you've earned.

[Scourged]

And now, allow me to kick off this week's topic. Enjoy Superiority.

 

 

 

Superiority

“We need immediate aerial support! I repeat, we are under heavy fire from the enemy and require Vendetta support immediately! Position is charlie alpha rico fifty-four point oh-seven-three-niner. Over!”

Still no answer. Sergeant Tempus had been calling for air support for the last twenty minutes with absolutely no reply from the officers waiting on the other end. Absolutely typical, ya know? They’re off somewhere safe behind the battle lines, running calculations and consulting charts while Tempus and his men suffer the pulverizing blows of battle cannons again and again. It’d sure be a damned blessing if they’d get off their gilded tuffets and send in some Vendettas, ya know?

“I say again, we are in - gah!”

The explosion to his left shook Tempus to the core, silencing his latest radio request quickly. That was was damn close! The enemy was advancing, sending the shelling of their tanks deeper into his ranks. By Tempus’ estimate three more soldiers were outright dead while another was bleeding out from shrapnel, and quite loudly. Annoyingly loud. Just die with dignity and shut up! Better to have the thundering explosion of tank shells as a deathly melody than the pitiful moans of a dying spitlick be the soundtrack, ya know? Where was a Commissar and a bolt pistol when you needed one?

Hang on, though… that new sound wasn’t coming from the tanks. Nor was it the death wails of a coward. It was too high pitched for that. Too fast. It wasn’t gears and treads he heard anymore, but twin turbine engines. No, no, he was not that lucky, ya know? No way that HQ had actually heard him and sent the Vendettas to his position. Just now way. Still, though, he should probably check. Carefully, Tempus found the closest set of discarded binoculars and carefully scanned the skies within his trench.

There! On the western flank, straight to the side of the enemy’s armored line. Two Vendettas, coming in hot, twin lasguns trained on the line of corrupted Leman Russ tanks keeping his squad and others pinched in the trenches. About damn time the brass got off their asses and helped them out! Finally there was something worth celebrating on this dank hellhole of a planet. Now those Warp-tainted heretics will find out why you never, ever mess with the Brontian Longknives!

“Chauston, you see that? They sent us our Throne-loving reinforcements! We’re saved, ya know?”

Chauston wanted to answer his overexcited sergeant. He did. But the man’s grip on his collar was a bit too strong, too tight, making it hard to breath while Tempus shook him back and forth. The sergeant was very excited about the aerial support, apparently.

But he had good reason to be, as did they all. The damned heretics, these so-called Changemongers, had been routing their position all day long, slowly feeding them to the grinder beneath the barrels and treads of their armored line. It wouldn’t be long before they were all pushed into a single bottleneck and obliterated by the barrage of artillery. But not now! The Vendettas would turn the tanks to slag and a real offensive could begin anew to turn the flow of the tide. Nothing would stop the Longknives now!

That’s when they all heard the shriek. It was loud, louder than anything they had all heard in their collective lifetimes. It was the piercing howl of supersonic aircraft. It was the animal cry of a foul warpbeast in the night. It was the terrified scream of a dismembered clergyman. It was the mournful wailing of a war widow. It was the pain-filled cry of a gutted boar held aloft by its feet. It was the shiver-inducing squeal of bare metal scraping along bare metal. It was the sound of nightmares made manifest. It was pure horror, and it was coming from the southwest. The pain of the noise bore into their skulls and rattled their consciousness around, tormenting them. What was it? What was screaming at their souls?

Sergeant Tempus turned his binocular gaze toward the southwest and saw the source of their anguish. It was an aircraft, but unlike any other he had seen. It was a knife in the sky, splaying out into twin blades as it shot through the air as easily as if within the Void. It danced and bobbed in the sky with a grace that should be impossible at such racing speeds. Never before had Tempus - or any within his squad - seen such an aircraft.

But he had heard stories. It was not an Imperial craft turned traitor. This was a vessel spawned within the Eye of Terror itself. This was the project of lunatic artisans of the fabled Dark Mechanicum, the evil twin of the Scions of Mars. It was birthed of evil and metal, and was the scourge of the skies in which it flew. Though those on the ground had nothing to fear, anything in the skies was sure to die as soon as they heard its deathly screech. They called it a Hell Blade.

Tempus watched through the lenses of the binoculars as the gap between the Hell Blade and the dual Vendettas closed rapidly. Thankfully both loyal aircraft in the sky knew they were under attack, but what little that helped their situation became quickly apparent. They dual attackers veered from their firing line, peeling away in an attempt to shake their interceptor. The maneuver was well practiced and effective in the hands of skilled pilots. It was pointless.

The Hell Blade twisted and spun in its path, quick to re-establish a lock onto the secondary Vendetta. The twin autocannons mounted on the Chaotic flyer released their fusilade as the fighter spiraled, sending a twirling stream of heated ammunition into the turbines of the Imperial plane. It was chugging smoke and flame immediately, already plummeting to the battlefield below. The downed aircraft bounced along the rockrete streets before colliding into a four-story building.

Now without a wingman, the primary Vendetta had completed its escape arc and was working to circle upon its attacker, but that was a fruitless effort. The Hell Blade was faster and nimbler than the clunky Imperial vessels in every way and it was quick to let the soldiers on the battlefield below know that. Tempus watched as the traitor ace flew their craft in literal circles around the remaining Vendetta. The pilot was toying with their target. Playing with them. Letting every loyalist know their hopes were dead.

Wait, no, it was more than that. The Hell Blade was banking its turns harder on the port side, pushing the Vendetta out of risk of collision. That flying bastard was herding the Imperial fighter! Tempus now saw the Chaotic fighter pushing the Imperial one exactly where it wanted it. Both flyers were now on a direct course to fly directly above his squad’s position in the trenches. Only then did the Hell Blade end its game and let itself fall behind its target and open fire once more.

By then, it was all too clear to Tempus what the traitor ace had planned all along. Buzzing around the Vendetta and altering its course was not just a twisted game. Redirecting the aircraft had been planned, just as the exact location of the autocannon fire had been planned. The trajectory had been mapped. Every facet of what was about to happen had gone exactly as the pilot wanted. In a terrible way, Tempus could appreciate the skill of the Chaotic ace. The guilt of that begrudging respect tormented him for all of three and half seconds, before the spiralling Vendetta crashed and exploded upon him and his squad.

***

Once her ally in the Hell Talon was upon the scene and stripping the land of all life with its bombardments, Tekla urged her vessel to peel off into the horizon and blast the skies with its victorious screams. This particular encounter had been quite boring. These loyalist dogs seemed to get less and less skilled as time went on. How unfortunate. Still, it was yet another victory and she would gladly accept it.

Well out of danger range, Tekla willed her craft to take over on auto-pilot that she may reflect on her victory. Within her cramped cockpit, she reached back and pulled her ceremonial kris from its sheath in the top of the seat. She stared at it: the wavy blade, the near-white of the polished silver, the single stone of turquoise in the gilded handle. For her victory on this day, she need pay her reverence.

Bowing her head to rest it on the flat of the kris, she spoke her prayer. Tekla never knew the language she spoke when she did this. One of her pilot comrades had said it was the ancient tongue of Tachylite, the sacred language of the days before Imperial rule. It sounded good enough to satisfy her curiousity. But it mattered little. She knew the words to be spoken, and she knew the rites to enact.

Finished, she held the blade firmly in her human hand. Where would it be today? What part of her would be cast aside to be reborn in her true image? What gift would she get this day? Long and hard she pondered, unable to decide. There was no telling when she would once again fly and establish her dominance in the skies, earning her reward. She could only have one change, so it needed to count.

Her first change from long ago had been her left hand. With the kris she had cut it away, sucking down the pain of the amputation. But it was worth it, as she had the touch of the Zephyr within her and its touch was divine. She had watched as the Zephyr manifested from the bloody stump of her left wrist that day. The bone and tendons stretched out, twisting and multiplying into over a dozen new digits composed of endless bends and knuckles. Her flesh spiraled out and regrew over her new impossible fingers, the nerves within keyed to respond to the electromagnetic signals of her vessel.

From that first victory and her first claim of reward her transformation continued within the cockpit of her Hell Blade, callously cutting away at pieces of her flesh again and again to be reborn. Each new change gifted her with unnatural skill and ease with which to pilot her ship. When she sliced away her ears she could hear the will of her Hell Blade speaking to her through the new horned protrusions on her head. The collection of taloned tendrils that had replaced her right leg below the knee hooked into the consoles, giving her immediate feedback from the various sensors. On a particularly bold day she cut open her bowel and tore the intestines away in a violent splatter of entrails. She knew by then, though, that the Zephyr would not let her die. The gaping hole sealed itself as new organs grew within her, ending her mortal needs for nourishment and hydration and even oxygen.

Finally Tekla knew exactly what to do. Her prey had been twins, and thus she would cut away another mortal weaknesses but in a pair. With no thought spared for the pain she thrust the twisted kris into her eye. She spun and arced the blade, completely shredding the ocular orb and letting the various resulting liquids drain down her face. She was lapping up the spilled fluids while repeating the same operation on her other eye, leaving it just as decimated.

The Zephyr within her was quick to reward her sacrifice. All along the flesh of her face and head the skin began to bubble. The miasma of her corrupted facial skin rolled with bubbles beneath the surface, growing out in little domes before fading away. Soon enough the bubbles began to pop, all along the surface, revealing a new eye in its place. Over and over the eyes appeared, bursting forth from every spare speck of skin on Tekla’s face. Some were round while others oval, some were small while others large, some simian and some avian and some reptilian and some daemonic. Her face was not a collection of eyes, with not one of them possessing a twin.

Tekla looked into the skies with her new collection of organs. The view amazed her. Every spectrum of light and motion that could exist was now seen to her. All forms of light were visible, as well as the motions of sound and air currents. The veins of the Warp could be seen flowing through realspace, and even shadows of timelines yet to occur hovered like afterimages. It was beautiful. She sheathed her ceremonial blade once more and took control back into her own hands, flying off into a world she had never truly seen before.

Change be praised.

 

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

Here is my entry for Chaos flyers, for my counts-as Heldrakes. I'll link a picture of the model later because I'm at work and have already goofed off too long writing this...

 

Hidden Content

The silence of space.

 

The Iron Warriors space marine let it envelope him. It unnerved others, but accepting the silence was part of his pre-battle ritual; it was how he got his head in the game. A quick glance upward told him that the three other Hellstorm attack craft of his flight had released from their cradles and were free-falling in formation with him.

 

He liked to watch the carrier float away, this was part of his ritual too. The lights and windows became indistinct as the carrier became smaller. It felt slow and lazy to him, though he well understood the breakneck speed at which his craft was approaching the atmosphere.

 

There.

 

The gravity well had a hold of Skull flight. He saw it in the subtle movements of his squadron mates' craft, and he felt it in his own Hellstorm. It was foolhardy to indulge in his reverie much longer, but he focused on the flashes and sparkles that glittered around the attack flotilla far above. Soon there would be mud, blood, and fire, all of which he felt at a deep, visceral level and enjoyed immensely, but for mesmerising beauty he felt that battles in space had no equal.

 

But it was time to concentrate. He could already hear the characteristic hum and whisper of the outer exosphere. He turned his attention to his console and began flipping switches. He was momentarily startled by a bright flash, but did not need to search the surrounding skies for an explanation. Another thick beam of light cut across his vision, and again he ignored it. He pulled telemetry information from the dataflow of his neural connexions to his craft, and shunted the rest of the information into his subconscious after a quick confirmation of his flight's position. Another futile beam shot, this time many thousands of kilometers away instead of hundreds. His habit of high-speed free-fall insertions had kept him alive for many, many planet-falls, and he smiled as he imagined the frustration of the desperate gunnery officer who had undoubtedly risked an entire vessel to come low enough to try and prevent the Grand Company's landing.

 

The quiet of space was quickly replaced with the steady thunder of reentry. The view from the cockpit became obscured by the bright glow of compressed atmosphere burning. His flight of Hellstorms was just one set of fiery streaks lacerating the sky, heralding doom to the hapless defenders below, and despair for the citizens they could not protect.

 

The sky faded from painful orange to brilliant blue, the buffeting thunder or reentry calming to the more familiar rushing wind and screaming turbines, and he spared a glance around to confirm what the dataflow was telling him. His own Skull flight was in a wide diamond formation with himself at the lead, and the sky between the black above and the fluffy white cloud layers below was full of hundreds of the Grand Company's aircraft. He breathed deeply the glory of a well orchestrated atmospheric entry, and closed his eyes.

 

But only for a moment.

 

+Multiple returns inbound+

 

He reached over and manually switched off the warning vox to keep the auspex-servitor from panicking and overriding his neural blocking of it. The machine-spirit of his Hellstorm was fearless and aggressive, but whomever had donated a brain to its early warning systems had been jittery in life and always needed time to calm down after the initial contacts were made.

 

"Skull Flight, this is Leader: we're powering into it." He announced over the flight vox, not bothering to listen for their acknowledgements. If they couldn't keep up, they weren't fit to fly in Skull Squadron.

 

As the four Hellstorm attack-fighters lit their afterburners and nosed into the thick upper cloud layers, several objects streaked by them on their way upward. Too fast and too small to be high flying interceptors, he guessed that they were fast moving missiles aimed at the slower Stormbirds and Thunderhawks that trailed behind the first wave of small craft. No danger to him, and it wasn't his job to shoot them down.

 

But he had danced to this tune before.

 

"Prepare to break and burn, zero-five-eight," He intoned into the vox, counted to three, and pushed his control stick over and stomped on a vector control pedal.

 

The flight of Hellstorms, previously angled steeply toward the ground, rolled and spun away on a new flight path as they broke out from under the cloud cover. Lights on his console flashes, and he dismissed them with an irritated thought. The damned servitor was getting clever in its paranoia, but he pushed it from his mind. He had known that fast interceptor would be waiting for them in the mid-troposphere.

 

The interceptors that had angled for his flight overshot them by a comfortable margin. They were too fast and too sleek, they did not have enough maneuverability to make a second pass at Skull flight and he knew it. He ignored them in the full confidence that air-superiority fighters from the Grand Company would already be moving to intercept the enemy interceptors and hash it out.

 

"Bandits!" One of his squadron mates called out, and an alert icon appeared in his vision to his 9 o'clock. A second flight of enemy interceptors and been positioned just right to target Skull flight after their evasive maneuver away from the first flight.

 

"Turn to." He calmly ordered, pushing his stick over again and releasing access to his small supply of air-to-air missiles to his servitor. The disembodied brain seized the missile controls with relief and quickly let fly a pair.

 

The exchange was brief, for the two flights were flying toward one another too fast. Skull 7 broke up and burned, though none of the enemy had been splashed.

 

He cursed. One of his own missiles had hit the target, but the shrapnel of the airburst had failed to damage the cockpit, control surfaces, or engines of the enemy. He cursed again, and silenced the auspex-servitor as it craved his praise for the hit.

 

Another light began pulsing on his console, and new icons began filling his augmented reality vision.

 

"Skull flight, we have a beacon." He growled, dismissing all the icons but the target area boundaries. "Follow me in."

 

The greens and browns of the planetary surface began resolving into recognizable scenery. The continent below was thick with jungle, and the jungle was dotted with reinforced fire-bases of the enemy. He knew that the big ones protected entrances to the deep arcologies of this planet, and that his target beacon would lead Skull Flight right to one of these. The three Hellstorms leveled out at 300 meters and reformed into an echelon left formation.

 

Dirty black bursts of flakk began filling the skies around them. He heard the occasional clatter of the jagged bits of metal against the skin of his Hellstorm, but it wasn't thick enough or accurate enough to concern him.

 

"Skull 4, do a pop-up." He ordered.

 

The trailing Hellstorm nosed into the air and ignited its afterburners. Skull 4 described a sharp bell curve, streaking back into formation as a column of smoke grew on the horizon in the direction of the target zone. The vision overlay identified it as a servitor-assisted anti-air missile and relayed its estimated point of origin to the fire coordinator in orbit. An dazzling beam of light lanced down from the heavens and played across the horizon. He did not know if the Navy had done anything more than frighten the locals and burn vegetation, but no more missiles launched to threaten Skull Flight or the elements he knew were following close behind. Still, one missile was more than enough to worry about.

 

"Hit the deck." He ordered, eyeing the fast approaching threat.

 

The three Hellstorms remained in their echelon left formation but spread out and dropped to nape of the earth flying. He gave a secondary level of control to his paranoid servitor, pushing the Hellstorm low to the ground and forcing the panicked disembodied brain to jink and roll the aircraft to avoid taller obstructions. His Hellstorm shimmied and pulled to the left and down as the large missile passed mere metres overhead, its hot exhaust washing over them. The vox filled with colourful curses as Skull 9, in the rear of their formation, was peppered with shrapnel from the delayed explosion, but no significant damage was taken.

 

Green and red tracers from sporadic heavy stubber fire lofted lazily into the sky out of the thick carpet of jungle below, but he ignored it. A few stray strikes pinged off his undercarriage, causing the servitor to whine. The pleading of the servitor was overpowered by the mental roar of the machine-spirit. It could feel that victims were close, and he heard the thump and whine of the rotary cannon going through a functions check as the Hellstorm's AI eagerly anticipated the inflicting of violence.

 

Good.

 

He loved to fight when his ship was in a good mood.

 

+Ten seconds+

 

The servitor had finally calmed a bit. Giving it something active to do usually did the trick.

 

"One pass in formation, hit your assigned targets, then it's guns free for five minutes." He informed the flight. "Ruin something pretty in memory of Skull 7."

 

Skull flight burst over a tree line and released all of their remaining missiles. The missiles were guided by an uplink to an orbiting observer, one of the smaller escort-class vessels. He did not see what he had hit, but he grinned as he flew directly through the rising fireball of the target. He mentally switched off the orbital guidance and released the safety on his rotary cannon.

 

Skull 3 and Skull 9 set up a dog track over the Imperial firebase, taking turns wheeling over the the network of trenches and bunkers as he circled higher to provide them with cover. His rotary cannon chattered, breaking apart a Valkyrie that had struggled to rise and meet them. Skull 3 and Skull 9 were armed with napalm cannons, and the two gleefully lined up over trenches and doused the hapless Guardsmen sheltering within.

 

An alarm went off and he looked to the sky.

 

"Break left and out, position to support." He ordered. Skull 3 and Skull 9 cleared the AO just moments before the group of drop pods slammed into the earth. Within seconds they had disgorged their space marine cargo and his squadron mates were running trails of white hot fire along their flanks as they charged into the bunker complex below. Follow-on transports signaled their approach, and the Iron Warriors soon had mortal auxiliaries of light infantry cleaning up the LZ, with heavy transports en route to land armoured elements.

 

+Time+

 

"That's it, we're out." He ordered. "Skull flight head to beacon IW-1 at 600 meters."

 

Turning over the burning battlefield he caught sight of the ground commander stalking among his subordinates as they moved to coordinate the assault on the tunnels below. They looked up at his Hellstorm just at the moment he noticed them, and on impulse he did a lazy aileron roll in salute.

 

+HIT HIT Port engine out+

 

As the Hellstorm was struggling to right itself he saw the Guardsman, a ragged PDF conscript sheltered in a shallow ditch along the treeline, lowering the lasrifle that had done the damage.

 

"You lucky bastard."

 

+++++++++++++

 

"Are you alright, sir?" The Iron Warriors space marine bore 3rd company markings, which meant he had crashed in the immediate AO. He didn't remember going down, only the second that he realized that it was unavoidable. He could see the sky through the jungle canopy, thanks to the row of trees his Hellstorm had bowled over and settled among.

 

"Yes." He accepted the offered hand and was pulled through the shattered glass canopy of his cockpit. "Just a little disoriented."

 

He hopped down from the crumpled fuselage and looked over the wreckage. Mortal soldiers were swarming over the Hellstorm attempting to suppress the fire. He called out to the one who wore sergeant stripes.

 

"Have them get my auspex-servitor out when they get the AI core, won't you?" Then he turned to the space marine infantryman who had helped him out of the wreckage. "He's a bit of a coward, you know, but I'm used to him."

 

"As you say, sir."

 

He started to look for a transport to ferry him to a rally point, because he damn well wasn't going to walk to beacon IW-1.

[EesiOh]

Cernunos raised its head to the sky and bellowed it's rage. All around it members of its 17th wild hunt were being gunned down by the irritating wasps the man-things called Vendettas. While Cernunos itself shrugged off the majority of the firepower sent its way it found the loss of it's faithful, those who had served Cernunos ever since it's first wild hunt, to be particularly rage inducing. Bellowing a cry that pushed the nearby man things to their feet Cernunos gave the cry for it's own aerial support to engage the battlefield. 

 

A scaly eyelid slowly blinked once, twice, three times, before snapping open. Feargahl felt the summons of the daemon prince Cernunos, calling it to honour it's ancient pact. Feargahl shook himself slowly, his long sinuous scaled body whiplashing in anticipation before unfolding his wings and with a lazy beat, taking to the skies. 

 

Leading Aircraftman Johnson swore into his vox, the expletive venting the frustration his Vendetta wing was feeling as the daemon prince, looking like a man with a stag’s head, continued its pace, un-slowed by the munitions being rained upon it. The wing after extensive efforts were now certain they couldn’t hurt the beast, which continued to move across the open plains with the gait of an experienced hunter. Instead the wing began to fire upon it’s minions. Some daemon, capering about with animalistic glee, some human running forward, primitive blue woad dyed to their exposed flesh, some were some kind of throne-forsaken hybrid of the two, with the appearance of satyrs and fauns. The only joy Johnson experienced was that cutting down the foul daemons minions seemed to anger it greatly. However his joy was short-lived as a shape rapidly approached on the Vendetta’s radar

 

Feargahl roared a battle cry in a tongue so ancient even the Eldar would not recognise it. He swooped upon the backmost Vendetta and released a spurt of flames from his stomach, liquefying the engines and sending it crashing to the ground. The two other Vendettas quickly banked and rolled, spinning and peeling off in opposite directions, attempting to break contact with the ancient beast their presence had angered. Feargahl decided to toy with his prey and let them have their fun. Seemingly oblivious to the second Vendetta Feargahl chased the first one until he felt the second one lining up behind him. Just as it opened fire he snapped his wings to his body and dropped through the air, as the Vendetta in front of him was destroyed by a burst of friendly fire from behind Feargahl felt a deep satisfaction.

 

Leading Aircraftman Johnson finished his minute long tirade of swearwords as the wreckage of the other Vendetta hit the ground below. He watched in helpless rage as the beast, describable only as a dragon from Terran tales of old pulled out of its rapid decent and rose to face the Vendetta head on. The creature seemed to be mocking him. “Pour all your fire onto that sonovabitch RIGHT NOW” Johnson yelled, yet as the gunners began to open fire the dragon had flown straight upwards, spiralling as it did so. Johnson gripped the controls hard, pushing the Vendetta into a vertical climb in an attempt to catch up to the beast and make it pay. In his fury though Johnson was too late to realise the creature had arced and was now flying directly towards the Vendetta. Flames licked at its mouth as it prepared to incinerate it’s vulnerable target. “FIRE!” Yelled Johnson, his last command before his Vendetta was utterly incinerated. However even as the crew met their fate, one of the gunners managed to line up and fire off a shot, hitting Feargahl in the eye and causing him to roar in pain, losing control of its flight and crashing to the ground below

 

Cernunos approached the fallen dragon. “The debt is paid” it rumbled. Feargahl just lifted it’s head too stare with it’s good eye at the prince. The prince walked closer and whispered to Feargahl before it drifted into unconsciousness “If you join me, I’ll see you healed, I’ll see you made better” 

 

 

Not sure what I think about this but I guess it's not bad after a long break.
Inspiration was a High elf dragon I have lying on my workbench, a present from a friend who stopped playing Warhammer

 

[Carrack]

Fires

The daemons were stirring. They were finally coming out of their screaming rage to face reality. This was my moment to strike back at the daemons that possessed both me and my fighter, Avem. Before long they would fully come to their senses, or what approximated senses for daemons, and return to tormenting me. Such windows were brief, the daemons always lost themselves in the rage of the warp, whenever the ship the fighter was attached to, the Bitter Revenge, dived into the Sea of Souls, and it always took them some time to find themselves, when the ship washed up into the empty reality of the void. This time had the promise of a greater opportunity than ever before, for at some point during the voyage through the warp, an enemy of the rage daemons had approached the ship nearby. I could see the effects of its visit through Avem's forward auspex. The enemy of my tormentors had struck an old, forgotten observatory further towards the bow from our position clutched to the ventral hull. The enemy daemon had shattered the plasteel dome, and scarred the obsidian floor of the observatory with its talons. I remembered their impotent anger, they had tried to rouse me from my own plunge into insanity, caused by exposure to the turbulent warp, but I was lost beyond even their most violent attempts to arouse me, and without me, even after all this time, my fighter would not fire its weapon, launch, or do anything other than what I commanded.

There were three major and five minor daemons that had inhabited the fighter with me since the Chain Maker had twisted me and Avem with fell rituals and forbidden technology. The minor daemons, I could ignore. They were little spites bound to support systems of my fighter, my vox had one, as did my targeter, and others were chained to different avionics. They could hurt me, and they would soon, but the pain they inflicted, and the blood they shed, was of little consequence compared to what the three major daemons inflicted. Vagon, Sangre, and Keen, they were the three that caused my true suffering, and cut into me with tooth and claw, spilling my hot, oily, blood throughout my fighter, and igniting it in flames when it suited them. Yet they never killed me, they bled me, they burned me, but they never ended me. I think my death would would somehow cause their existence to end, but I'm not certain. There are times when I feel that they simply wish to prolong my suffering, or perhaps they simply have no concept of time, it is alien to the warp from which they were formed. Vagon is in my engines, Sangre my weapon, and Keen is in my power core, but so am I. I and Avem are one, we are intertwined, along with the daemons, the conduits are my blood vessels, the power that runs through them stems from my heart, the power core. My eyes are the auspex, my larynx the vox, and my breath, that of flames, is my weapon. I am so far removed from the Cithonian boy who once roamed Ur Hive, stealing and fighting just to survive. My earliest memories are not just hazy, but utterly incomprehensible. My memories as an Astartes pilot are better, but they are painful, for I long for those distant days that will never again be repeated. I long for the control I once had over my fate, that I must now, at best, share with the daemons bound to my fighter.

I force my will on Keen now, focusing my thoughts and on the ignition sequence I had performed so many times, back when we were an ordinary fighter and pilot. Avem responds to my will, she to remembers the familiar routine, and the engines flare as power is released from the core. Keen cries out as his dominion over the power core is bypassed, and he is left helpless to control his fate. I redline the core briefly, and sear the daemon within. I know his pain and predicament, it is something I usually suffer, but I know no pity for the daemon. I burn him again and again as I fluctuate the flow of power through us. The other daemons scream in rage at my rebellion. They cut and bite, opening veins and fluid lines to make me bleed in offerings to their god, and to remind me of my place. In spite of the pain, I laugh at them with the sweet joy of a rare victory over my possessors. However, regardless of the civil war that is our internal existence, we are united in our external purpose. I, we, are Igneus Avem Draco, the Heldrake of the Black Maw Warband, and battle is commencing.

The assault bays of our flagship are launching their attack craft and dreadclaws. Boarding torpedoes are shot in salvos at the enemy. The launch bays are releasing squadrons of hell blades and hell talons. Lighters are slowly making their way out of the cargo bays. Across the fleet, other ships are doing the same. Igneus Avem Draco will not sit idle when the Black Maw is at war, and we release our claws from the hull of Bitter Revenge. Vagon, the daemon in my engines demands power from me with threats and curses. I give him more than he can handle and burn him like I did Keen, but Avem is growing angry with me, my attacks on the daemons are hurting her too, so I relent as we lurch forwards with the overpowered burn. We approach the enemy flagship and it is formidable. A loyalist battle barge, clad in red and orange armor like flames, is on a head to head coarse with our own flag. Squadrons of fast moving frigates and raiders flank the main assault force. They make quick work of the pair of Gladius escorts guarding the battle barge with lance and cannon, and pepper the enemy flagship with torpedoes.

The enemy does what it can to stop the assault, its own attack craft briefly fighting, but ultimately are overwhelmed by the hell blades at the vanguard of the assault force. The point defense weapons of the battle barge take a heavier toll on the vanguard, but one by one, the port turret guns are extinguished by our escorts and bombing runs from the hell talons. The first of the dreadclaws and boarding torpedoes strike the battle barge in the vast hole in the ship's point defense net we have unraveled. We are right behind them.

A single interceptor launches from the battle barge as we approach. It is a storm hawk, a void supremacy fighter. I guess that it had a delay in launching, and was unable to join its squadron where it would have made a greater impact, but it's pilot wished to sacrifice himself in a futile void war, rather than have his fighter destroyed in its bay. The loyalist fighter dodges and dances around the hell blades, staying in their midst to limit the angles of attack from the hell blades by using them as shields. This wouldn't last long, some hell blade pilot would cast aside concern for his brothers and fire anyway. Brotherhood has lost its meaning to many in the warband, the tolerance of my suffering by my brothers is a testament to the state we have sunken to. We don't give the hell blades a chance to shoot themselves. We dive into the battle and scatter our allies. The storm hawk tries to scatter with them, but chooses a predictable path. We don't bother firing our weapon, but slam into the loyalist voidcraft with our docking talons, and rip its starboard wing off. Not satisfied, Sangre directs our weapon head to bite, not fire on the storm hawk's fuselage and the loyalist fighter is further ripped apart, exposing the space marine pilot within. We grasp him with our talons, and rip him in two, then fling both halves out into the void. Drops of the pilot's spilt blood freeze and shatter against other drops and the flotsam accumulating around the battle.

We break away from the fight and skim the surface of the port side of the battle barge. We read its name, Ember, and our rage heightens to a heart racing pitch. These loyalist know nothing of flames and have no right to name their ship such. We will teach them the error of their ways. A thunderhawk, the Consulia in Melius, has dropped its troops onto the hull of the enemy ship. They are following their captain, who has ranged ahead on some daemonic contraption. These troops are followers of a different god than the daemons in my fighter. Sangre wants to burn them, but I give him no power to do so. He burns me instead, with the heat from his fiery sword. I endure the pain for the sake of warriors who have ignored my entrapment. Once, they were my brothers.

A sally port opens behind the Black Legionnaires walking the hull. Out of the port fly ten loyalists with jump packs. They fire their packs and chase after my brothers, preparing to harry their rear and slow their advance. We will have none of that, and race in behind them. We want the slaves of the False Emperor to burn. Avem and I can try to fire our flames, and Sangre is eager to do so, but to get the most out of our weapon, I must release the power core to Keen, and allow him to imbue the power for the weapon with daemonic energy. I bluff, I tell Keen that I can now take control of the core anytime, and I will punish him should he displease me. He calls me a liar, he knows I was lucky to usurp his control. Still, the enemies must burn, so I release the control. Keen does not retaliate against me, and honors my request for power to our weapon. I sense that I have won a level of respect from the daemon. It is not mutual. Sangre belches forth gouts of green hellfire upon the loyalist marines, burning and burning them, as we make passes on the assault marines. It is not just their armor and flesh that burn. The daemonic flames sear their very souls. We circle the boarding zone on the enemy ship, and wait for the next defenders to burn. We are Igneus Avem Draco, and we will set the Imperium aflame.

[Castigator]

Absolutely fantastic story Carrack

[Carrack]

Thanks! I wasn't sure if the first person narrative would be too confusing.

[Castigator]

It works perfectly!

The interaction between the pilot, the daemons and the fighter is sublime, it captures exactly how I imagined it would be for an unfortunate pilot trapped within a Heldrake.

 

This sums it up perfectly:

 

"These troops are followers of a different god than the daemons in my fighter. Sangre wants to burn them, but I give him no power to do so. He burns me instead, with the heat from his fiery sword. I endure the pain for the sake of warriors who have ignored my entrapment. Once, they were my brothers. "

 

I've enjoyed all of the stories from this thread, but this is my favourite by far. 

I salute you brother!

[Evil Eye]

Blight.

 

Sister superior Gerden tracked her boltgun back and forth as she advanced through the seemingly deserted street with her squad, her eyes darting between every alley and archway. Bitter experience had taught her that even the narrowest defile could be hiding a band of cultists, potentially armed with heavy weaponry, and a lack of vigilance when proceeding through such environments was death. They had already lost their Rhino transport to a surprise attack from what appeared to be an abandoned house, by a group of rebels wearing krak grenade vests. Two good sisters had died in the explosion, and she did not intend to lose any more.

The rebels, calling themselves the “Clergy of the True Faith” had been carrying out the assault against the Camillan monastery for almost a month now. What had started as a small, hedonistic group of malcontents had evolved into a full-on death cult. The uprising had started with fairly minor acts of rebellion; vandalism, fights, the rantings of mad preachers and the like. However, despite the best efforts of the Ecclesiarchy to stamp out the fledgling cult, it had grown in both size and power, performing heretical demonstrations, disseminating blasphemy, and even lynching those who stood against them. The Arbites and even the Sororitas themselves had stepped in to try and put an end to the madness, but as one cell was stamped out, ten more took its place. The cult had eventually forsaken all notions of subtlety and launched a full-on insurrection against the Ecclesiarchal government, storming the monastery at the heart of the city with everything from improvised weaponry to stolen PDF vehicles.

Two weeks into the attack, the real nightmare had begun.

There had been reports of strange, rumbling noises beneath the ground, emanating from the ancient catacombs beneath the city, and shortly after these reports the attacks on the monastery had become far more vicious. Mutants and abhumans had been spotted in the forces of the cult, along with weapons that no mere uprising should feasibly have access to. Worst of all, however, were unverified sightings of traitor Astartes amongst their ranks, belonging to the Emperor's Children traitor legion and the renegades known as the Congregation of Filth.

The street took a sharp bend, and Gerden took point, edging her way around the corner. Seeing no sign of any foe, she gave the all clear to her squad before advancing. If the information she had been given was correct- and she had no reason to believe it was not- then one of the main ringleaders of the cult was holed up in a building not too far from their current location.

She felt strangely uncertain as she advanced, even with her trusted sisters at her back. Something just wasn't quite right. There had been scarcely any resistance as they had made their way to the suspected cult strongpoint, aside from the suicide bombers that had destroyed their Rhino. Surely such an important location would have been more heavily guarded?

“Is everything alright, sister superior?” asked sister Myrtle, a newer member of the squad. “You seem uneasy.”

Gerden nodded, forcing a faint smile. “Everything is fine, sister.” she replied. “I'm just a little on edge is all.”

“Understandable.” chimed in Ruth, holding her heavy flamer to attention. “The Emperor-forsaken wretches could be everywhere.”

The sister superior shook her head. “Well, that's what's worrying me,” she said. “They could be everywhere, but we've barely seen them. I can't help but shake the feeling-”

A burst of autogun fire broke out, a stray bullet whizzing scant centimetres past Gerden's head.
“Drok!” she swore, ducking to the ground as the bullets struck the wall behind her. “Sisters, take cover and return fire!”

The squad broke into two smaller groups, one hiding behind a burnt-out autobus and the other taking up position in a looted shop. Gerden joined the second, crouching behind the counter.

Looking over the top, she saw their assailants. There were twelve of them on the ground level,clad in various brightly coloured rags, mostly in hues of pink, teal and purple. Ten of them clutched autoguns, whilst one of them bore a heavy stubber, and what was clearly the ringleader, a practically naked, somewhat overweight woman, held a corroded power maul in her hands. In the window of a red-bricked house across the street, there were a further three of them, manning what looked like an archaic heavy bolter.

“Myrtle, Harriet, Donna, get upstairs and use grenades!” she shouted into her vox-bead over the gunfire. “The rest of you except Ruth, open fire!”

The three sisters with her nodded and dashed for the stairs, barely avoiding being peppered with heavy stubber fire. The guns of the other six sisters spoke, and four cultists were torn to shreds by explosive bolts.

The heavy bolter ensconced in the upper level of the adjacent building opened up, and Gerden heard Donna cry out in pain. In response, a handful of frag grenades were hurled into the building the cultists were occupying, and all three of their number were reduced to a red mist by the explosion. Seemingly realising they were pitted against superior odds, the cultists' leader barked a command to her underlings and they began to retreat down a side-road.

“All sisters, report.” said Gerden.

“Sister Donna is injured, but not critically.” came Harriet's response. “Aside from that, no casualties.”

Gerden sighed with relief. She had feared the worst when she had heard Donna cry out. Thank the Emperor she was alright.

“Shall we pursue?” queried Ruth.

“I'm not sure.” the sister superior replied. “Myrtle, Harriet, can you see any activity from your vantage point?”

“I can't see anything unusual, but...” Myrtle began before trailing off.

“But?”

“God-Emperor...Traitor Astartes incoming.”

Gerden got up from her hiding spot and sidled to the broken window. She peered around the corner, and to her horror saw that the initiate was correct.

There were six of them, marching out from the side-alley the cultists had retreated into. They were enormous, hulking figures, nearly twice Gerden's height. Three of them were clad in garish pink, black and gold, with all sorts of gaudy patterns across their armour, and in their hands were brazen, tubular weapons, wrapped in chromed cables and pipes and terminating in speaker-grilles shaped like gaping daemonic maws. The other three were corpulent, bloated monstrosities, sheathed in pitted, faded red armour with a greenish brass trim. Foul yellowish oils seeped from the cracks in their plate, and a cloud of flies swarmed around them.

“Everyone, get inside, now!” Gerden hissed into her vox-bead. She prayed that they would be able to evade the attention of the monstrous traitors.

Alas, her prayers were in vain. As the five sisters hidden behind the bus scurried towards the building, one of the pink-armoured chaos marines pointed in their direction, and the others opened fire immediately. The brass weapons of the noise marines hummed for a second, before releasing a pulse of sonic force. Two sisters- Farya and Janine- were caught in the blast, and Gerden could only look on in horror as their armour crumpled in on itself, blood spraying from every crack in the blessed suits.

The plague marines then opened fire, rusted bolters spitting death. Whilst most of the rounds fortunately missed their mark or hit solid armour, one struck another sister in her neck joint, and she fell to the ground, frothing blood at the mouth.

“Sisters, fall back! Ruth, Harriet, provide covering fire!” the superior yelled, barging through the back door of the shop with her sisters behind her. Ruth unleashed a torrent of fire from her heavy flamer, and one of the plague marines dropped to the ground in the inferno.

The surviving battle sisters filed through the narrow alley, before escaping into a clearing. It seemed they had escaped the traitors, at least for now. Gerden knew they wouldn't be safe for long; the chaos space marines were not untrained cultists, and unless they kept moving they
would be as good as dead.

“We need to meet up with the other Sororitas in the area.” Gerden said, panting. “Squad Kalith should be somewhere nearby.”

Too late, they heard the terrible drone of engines, like the buzzing of huge insects, and before they even saw what was happening, a gout of stinking oily fluid spurted over three of the sisters. The disgusting liquid melted through armour and flesh alike, and within a matter of seconds all that was left were rapidly-dissolving bones.

Gerden, Myrtle, Harriet and Ruth were all that were left of the squad. The survivors looked up and saw the cause of their comrades' deaths. Hanging in the air were two bloated, festering insect-like creatures, pulsing masses of daemon-flesh protected by a carapace of corroded red metal. Twin turbine engines held them aloft, and a cluster of bizarre guns sat beneath the malevolently glowing eye-lenses of the daemon engines.

The battle sisters immediately opened fire on the repulsive mechanisms, but to no avail. Bolts pinged harmlessly off the armoured carapaces of the machines, and even the holy promethium of Ruth's heavy flamer had no effect on them. In response, the fiends belched out a hail of bullets from their autocannons, and Harriet and Ruth were ripped apart.

Myrtle and Gerden ran for their lives, with the daemon engines in hot pursuit. They loosed off the occasional burst of bolter fire in a vain attempt to at least injure the monsters, but to no avail. The droning of their engines was unbearably loud, and the stench they gave off was awful. They ran down another alley, hoping that they would be able to evade the somewhat ponderous creatures, but they found themselves against a dead end.

Running out of ideas, and with her back to the wall, Gerden unclipped a grenade from her belt, yanked out the pin and hurled it at one of the creatures. The grenade landed in a turbine and detonated, tearing the engine apart. Shards of rusted metal went everywhere, and the body of the daemon engine ruptured like a rotten fruit, spilling mouldering entrails and putrescent fluids onto the ground as it crashed to the earth. Gerden felt hope rising inside her. They could be killed after all!

Before she could ready another grenade, however, a massive hand slammed her to the ground, knocking the breath out of her and breaking something in her back. Somehow, she painfully rolled onto her back to see the enormous form of one of the plague marines from earlier, accompanied by two noise marines. One of the Slaaneshi Astartes was clutching Myrtle, who was flailing and screaming uselessly.

“The others are all dead, I think.” boomed the noise marine, his voice distorted and painful to listen to. “I killed two of them myself.”

“Indeed.” croaked the red-clad giant, the sound wet and clogged, like a drowned man. “This one managed to slay one of the blight drones. Impressive, for a mortal.”

Gerden glared at the traitors. She raised her boltgun at the plague marine, and with trembling fingers pulled the trigger.

To her horror, the weapon simply clicked, refusing to fire. She realized with despair that the magazine had run dry, and she cursed, dropping the gun.

“I'll be taking this one with me.” growled the noise marine, still holding Myrtle. “Do what you want with the other one. It appears you have broken it.” With that, he and the other noise marine stomped off, with Myrtle in tow, wailing in despair.

The plague marine leaned in close to Gerden's face, ropes of spittle dripping from the grille of his rusted helmet. Gerden recoiled from the monstrous traitor, and attempted to crawl away.

“Under any other circumstances I would simply kill you here and now, mortal.” gurgled the plague marine. “But seeing as you have demonstrated your strength by banishing one of our daemon engines, I offer you a choice. Either come with us and live, accepting the hospitality of grandfather Nurgle as a serf...or die here and now in agonizing pain.”

Gerden simply spat in the creature's face.

“You will have to kill me then, traitor.” she spluttered, her voice dripping with hatred. “The Emperor protects my soul.”

The plague marine laughed, a raucous, terrible noise that rang in Gerden's ears.

“Oh, so unwise.” it chuckled, stepping away from her. “Marrowgnaw, it is time to feast.”

The surviving blight drone hovered over her, droning and chittering menacingly. Before Gerden had a chance to even make a last prayer, the intestine-like vent on its abdomen spewed forth a torrent of caustic yellow sludge, coating Gerden in the burning substance. She tried to scream, but the stuff simply flowed down her throat, clogging her lungs. For a few excruciating seconds she felt nothing but pain as the liquid ate away at her armour, flesh and bone. Then everything went black, and sweet oblivion claimed her.